Summary: It was supposed to be a simple operation. In and out. That was the only reason Frank agreed to having you join. But things never go as planned…NOT PROOFREAD
Warnings: typical Punisher violence, angst, angst, more angst, two idiots in love
a/n: not sure if this is going to have a pt. 2…it’s drafted (in my head) but decisions decisions decisions
WC: 1.4k
You were going to kill Dinah if the men shooting at you didn’t take you out first.
You thought as you shot more rounds, each bullet piercing its intended target.
When your gun finally clicked empty, you silently cursed and you crouched even lower behind the cargo you were using as a shield.
“Frank,” you yelled over the sound of bullets hitting the crates, wood splintering everywhere. You hoped he could hear the sound of your voice in his earpiece. “I’m empty.”
You saw him to the right of you, inching closer to you, but with your gun empty, he was taking on the entire crew of illegal gun runners.
His voice was rough and breathless when he said your name. “We gotta get to upper deck. ‘S the only shot we got at gettin’ out of here alive.”
You knew he was right but the realization that you were on the lowest deck of the cargo ship had your hopes plummeting by the second.
Madani's intel had been incomplete. While there had been a large shipment of illegal guns about to dock at the New York harbor, her insider had failed to inform her that there were dozens of men playing security.
This missing piece of information could mean the difference between walking out alive and being carried out.
“Head t’ the door on our left. It’s a stairwell,” Frank instructed. “I’ll cover. Go.”
You couldn't resist the urge to look at him one last time. His eyes were already on you. They were pleading. They were firm. They were safe.
He would never let anything happen to you.
So you listen. Forcing your eyes to look towards the door, you wait for Frank's confirmation before you book it.
Bullets fly past you hitting the metal walls of the ship and other wooden crates. But you couldn't hesitate or flinch an inch.
Once you reach the stairs, you allow yourself to look back, Frank already at the doorway.
"Go. Go. Go," he ushered, pulling a handgun from his waistband before offering it to you. You cleared the path up and he checked to make sure no one was behind.
The stairwell was thankfully empty but you couldn't afford to let your guard down at any moment. Both you and Frank stood at the door that led directly to the helicopter pad.
You suddenly realized just how small the space you were in was. Frank's chest rose and fell against yours, both of you struggling to catch your breath in the brief lull between the chaos.
His gaze was fierce as he looked down at you. Eyes holding every feel and word he wouldn't say. You were sure your eyes held the same weight.
Frank raised his eyebrows, dipping his chin in a silent question. Ready?
You followed close behind, angling yourself so your back met Frank's. A shadow darted into your three o'clock. You reacted first, squeezing the trigger. A body hit the floor with a thud quickly after.
Another gunshot cracked through the ocean night air.
Frank didn't so much as flinch, his attention locked ahead as he returned fire at the men in front of him.
Then you saw it.
High above the stacks of steel containers, a man crouched atop the highest one. His rifle rested against his shoulder, the barrel pointed directly on Frank.
A perfect shot.
Your finger tightened around your own gun's trigger, but he already had you beat.
There wasn't enough time.
You lunged.
You heard the sound of the shot crack through the air before the searing pain bloomed across your abdomen.
A strangled grunt tore from your throat as the force of the impact drove you forward, your body crashing into Frank's. The impact shoved him sideways, carrying him safely out of the shooter's line of fire.
"Fuck!" Frank whipped around, one hand catching you before you hit the deck. His eyes swept over you, confused for only a fraction of a second before they landed on your bloodied hand trying to stop the actively bleeding wound.
His expression hardened. It turned murderous.
His head snapped toward the container stack. Frank didn't hesitate. He brought his rifle up and fired.
Once.
The shooter's body jerked with the impact before pitching off the top of the container stack. A sickening crash followed.
Frank returned his attention to you. "I'm fine. Let's keep moving," was all you managed to grit out before forcing yourself up, a hand braced on his forearm for support.
Frank looked like he wanted to argue and in a different scenario or time, maybe you wanted indulge in a bit of petty banter.
Though the two of you combined have killed over a dozen of their men, you knew there were still more. More than what you two could handle in this moment.
You knew if Frank had taken this mission on solo, he could take the entire crew out easily. But now he had extra baggage to worry about — you. The pit of guilt was hard to carrry.
Every step sent another bolt of agony through abdomen. You pressed your hand harder on the wound, warm blood spilling between your fingers faster than you could hold it back.
"Keep moving," Frank barked, his arm hooked around your waist. "Don't you quit on me."
The edge of the deck came into view. You looked over it.
The water below was a dark abyss.
You swallowed, "Frank..."
His grip tightened as you noticed his jaw clenching. "I know."
Behind you, the thundering of boots grew louder. There was no time.
You could tell Frank was reading all the fear written on your face. His jaw flexed harder. "On three."
You nodded weakly. "One..."
Shouts could be heard. "Two..."
"Three." You jumped.
—
The ocean swallowed you whole,
The cold stole the breath from your lungs as you fought to reach the surface. Every kick sending a wave of agony through you.
Your limbs grew heavier. Slower.
You realized two things in this moment.
You were dying.
The last thing you saw was Frank.
—
Darkness.
Then a voice. It sounded murky. Far away. Desperate.
"C'mon, baby..." That voice. You know that voice. You would recognize it anywhere.
You felt something firmed pressed against your chest.
"Please."
The same pressure again.
"Don't do this. Please. Don't make me do this alone."
Air suddenly tore into your lungs in a violent gasp, followed by a fit of coughing that sent seawater spilling from your mouth.
"Attagirl," Frank breathed, dropping his forehead against yours for the briefest second.
Your voice was harsh. "...Frank?"
"Stay with me." His voice was steady. His hands weren't as they continued to apply pressure on your wound.
You fought hard to stay conscious but exhaustion and the blood loss threatened to drag you under once more. You said his name again.
Maybe it was how soft you said it. Or how weak your voice sounded. Or maybe it was how pale and ghostly you looked that had Frank shaking his head, eyes becoming glassy.
"No. You keep your eyes on me, yeah? Madani's almost here."
It took everything you had to lift your hand to his face, your trembling fingertips brushing his cheeks, leaving behind a streak of blood. Your blood.
He leaned into it
Your voice barely audible as you whispered, "I need to tell you..."
"Save it" Frank cut in immediately, shaking his head. "You tell me later. when this is over."
Time.
Time was something you thought you had more of.
More time to tell your partner in crime that somewhere between all the stakeouts, bruises, and near-death encounters, you'd started craving his company outside of the job. Outside of the fight.
In life.
But as you begin to lose feeling in your limbs and shivers took over your body, you realized that you may have run out of time quicker than you expected.
"Frank." Tears finally overflowing from his eyes, streaking down his cheek.
"Sweetheart. Please."
His face was consumed by desperation. Fear. Love.
You needed him to know. You needed him to hear it from you before it was too late.
He held you like you were something precious, one hand never leaving the wound as he desperately tried to keep the blood where it belonged.
You managed to muster of the faintest smile. Your thumb rubbing against his stubbled cheek gently. "I kept waiting for the time to tell you."
Your breath hitched. Your eyelids suddenly felt like the heaviest thing in the world.
He shook you ever so slightly, pleading. Begging you to keep your eyes open.
"I love you." The three words left your lips along with your last breath.
yk a lot of people write jack abbot as being very distant going into relationships. bordering on commitment issues depending on the fics. and i think a lot of that comes from people trying to play into him being a widow or even just age gap dynamics. which honestly is an entirely valid take.
but why are we not leaning into the fact that we KNOW jack does not like to be alone. we know he needs to keep moving and stay busy to function. that he comes in early and stays late to keep from being alone. that he has an entire second job to fill the gaps between shifts. that he fills the silence in his house with the noise of a police scanner in case he’s needed.
what about jack who’s the one to be all in first? and comes on too strong. and has a tendency to be too much. what about jack who has to teach himself to slow down to remind himself that his relationship isn’t an escape from himself?
summary : for you, it's been five years. for him, only a few seconds.
warnings : ANGST. ANGST. ANGST. hurt/comfort, with about 30 % comfort and only like at the very end (oops), this is an alt AU where both frank and reader were part of the avengers (bare with me i swear it makes sense), mentions of depression, mentions of unaliving one's self, oh and did i mention angst
word count : 6.1 k
a/n : not proofread ! blame them. they made me do this. i'm sorry.
The air is so unbelievably thin.
Your chest feels like it's constricting every time you move, your limbs aching and groaning with every sudden movement.
Everything hurts.
The battlefield stretches for miles, painted in smoke and fire and broken metal. The sky itself seems wounded, split apart by ships burning as they fall back toward the earth.
Around you—
Screams.
Orders.
The crackle of energy weapons.
Someone is crying. Someone else is begging.
You can't tell who anymore.
Your sword hangs limp at your side, suddenly far too heavy to lift.
Across the ruined plain, you see Steve drop to one knee. Thor is staring at his empty hands. Natasha's face has gone completely white.
"…What…" The word barely leaves your lips. Thanos stands in the distance. Motionless. The Infinity Gauntlet hangs scorched and smoking from his arm. The stones are dim. His fingers are still spread from the snap.
"No…" The wind changes. You don't understand it at first. A strange current sweeps across the battlefield, carrying gray ash into the air. Then someone screams. You turn. Bucky Barnes looks down at his own hand. It flakes away beneath his fingertips. Like burnt paper. Steve lunges toward him.
"Bucky—" But he can't hold onto smoke. Within seconds… He's gone. Nothing remains but drifting ash.
"No…" Another scream. Sam. Gone.
Someone shouts Wanda's name.
Someone else yells for T'Challa.
The battlefield erupts into chaos.
"No, no, no…" You stumble forward. This isn't happening. This can't—
Movement catches your eye.
Peter. He's running toward you. Your heart leaps.
"Peter!" His mask is already off.His eyes are huge. Terrified. He runs and runs and runs- trying to reach you - until he can't anymore.
Until his legs fade to dust beneath him and he falls, face first onto the ground.
"No !" You screech, your heart jumping into your throat. you reach him just as his face starts to come apart like ash.
"No, no, no, Peter, please." You choke on a sob, looking up. "Tony ! Tony, help !" Your own tears start immediately.
"I don't wanna go." He starts crying. "I don't know what's happening." You pull him tighter.
"I've got you." His body trembles against yours. He looks at his hands. Ash drifts from his fingertips.
You grip him harder.
His fingers clutch desperately at your shoulders.
"I don't wanna go."
"I know."
"I don't wanna go."
"I know."
"I'm sorry." His body begins to come apart in your arms. Not all at once. Slowly. Cruelly. His shoulder dissolves first. Then his arm. You desperately try to hold together someone turning into dust. It doesn't work.
"No!" He looks at you one last time. Eyes wet. Terrified.
"…I'm scared."
Then— He is gone. Your arms close around nothing. Ash slips through your fingers. Silence. You stare at your empty hands.
"No…" Your voice cracks. "No." The tears come all at once. Violent. Uncontrollable. You sink onto your knees in the dirt, clutching the handful of gray ash that slips through your trembling fingers.
"No…" It blows away on the wind. "Peter…" Your entire body folds forward. You sob so hard you can't breathe. Around you, more people disappear. More screams. More ash. The battlefield is ending. The world is ending.
And there is nothing— Nothing— You can do.
A voice comes from behind you.
Soft.
Almost lost beneath the chaos.
"…Baby?" You know that voice. Your heart stops.
Slowly— Too slowly— You turn.
Your husband stands twenty feet away.
His rifle hangs forgotten at his side. He's staring at his own hand. Confused.
"…Frank?" He looks up. Your stomach drops.
Gray ash drifts from the tips of his fingers.
"No." He frowns.
"…Huh." Another piece of him crumbles away. He watches it almost curiously. "…Guess…" His voice catches. "…Guess that ain't good."
"No." You scramble toward him, tripping over broken concrete. "No, no, no, no—" He reaches for you. His hand is already disappearing.
"…Hey."
"No!"
"It's alright."
"It is not alright!" You throw yourself into him. Your arms wrap around his waist. He hugs you back. As tightly as he can. But already… You can feel him becoming lighter. Less solid.
"No." His chin rests on top of your head.
"I'm here."
"You are not allowed to leave me." A sad little smile touches his lips.
"Wasn't plannin' on it." His shoulder begins to dissolve beneath your cheek. You clutch harder. As though you can hold him together by sheer force.
"You promised."
"I know."
"You promised you'd always come home."
"I know." Your tears soak into his shirt.
"I can't do this without you." His remaining hand cups your cheek.
Warm. Familiar. The touch you've known a thousand times.
His eyes glisten.
"I wish…" He swallows. "…God… I wish I had more time."
"Frank, stop it."
"I wanted…" Another piece of him drifts away. "…one more mornin'."
"Stop."
"One more coffee."
"No."
"One more kiss." You kiss him before he can finish. Desperate. Shaking. He kisses you back with everything he has left. When you pull away, half his face is already becoming ash.
"I love you."
"No, no- Frankie."
"I love you."
"Frank—"
"You hear me?"
"Stop!"
"I love you." His voice is fading. "So damn much." His arms weaken around you. You try to hold him up. Instead… He slips through your embrace. Like smoke. Like dust. His fingertips brush yours one last time.
Then— Nothing.
The wind catches him. Carries him away. You collapse forward into empty air. Your hands slam into the dirt where he'd been standing only seconds before.
"No…" The battlefield doesn't stop. The explosions continue. People keep shouting. But for you… Everything has gone silent. You curl around the place where he'd vanished, clutching a handful of ash to your chest as it slips, grain by grain, through your fingers. And for the first time since this war began… You scream.
You don't remember making it back to earth. Back to New York.
Back to the apartment that smells like him, the bed that's still ruffled from when he slept in it last.
You vaguely remember Tony being there.
He's talking to Matt.
At least you think he is.
Their voices reach you like they're underwater.
"…can't leave her alone."
"…she hasn't slept."
"…she hasn't eaten."
"…Tony."
"…I know."
You don't look at either of them. You just stand in the middle of your apartment. Frank's boots are still by the door. One of them tipped over. You stare at it for almost five minutes.
Finally— You kneel. You set it upright.
Then you burst into tears. The funeral never comes. There are no bodies to bury. No caskets. No gravestones. Just photographs. Just names. Just empty chairs. Someone gives you a folded flag anyway. You don't remember who. It sits untouched on the kitchen table for almost a year. The first night, you sleep on Frank's side of the bed.
The second night too. By the third… You stop sleeping altogether. You lie awake listening for the sound of his keys in the lock. For boots in the hallway. For the familiar grunt he'd always make as he shrugged out of his jacket.
Sometimes— For half a second— You swear you hear him.
Your heart leaps. You run to the front door. It's never him. Three weeks after the Snap, Karen brings groceries. You don't answer. She lets herself in with the spare key Frank insisted someone keep. She finds you sitting on the kitchen floor. Still wearing the same sweatshirt you'd worn the day the world ended.
The coffee mug in your hands is empty. Cold.
"…Honey?" You look up.
"…I forgot how to make coffee." Karen kneels beside you. The coffee maker is already full. Ready. You'd just… Forgotten to press the button. She cries harder than you do.
Matt visits every Thursday. He never announces himself. He simply knocks twice. Lets himself in. Makes dinner. Leaves. Some Thursdays, you don't speak. He doesn't mind. He just sits across from you while the apartment echoes with a silence that used to belong to Frank.
Month three.
Steve asks if you'll come back.
"We need everybody." You shake your head.
"No."
"They need you."
"They're dead." His face falls.
"So are we." You close the door. You stop answering your phone. Natasha leaves voicemails anyway. Tony sends texts. Bruce stops by. Rhodey too. Eventually… They stop asking. Not because they've given up. Because they know. Some wounds don't close because someone tells you to keep living. The apartment becomes a museum. Frank's jacket remains hanging by the door. His shaving razor stays beside the sink. His coffee mug never gets washed. The indentation on his side of the mattress slowly fades.
That one hurts the most. You start sleeping there. Not because you want to. Because you can't bear watching it disappear.
Six months.
The nightmares begin. Sometimes Peter is reaching for you. Sometimes Frank. Sometimes both. Every dream ends the same way. Ash slipping through your fingers. You wake up grabbing empty sheets.
One year.
The city has learned to be quiet. There are fewer cars. Fewer lights. Too many empty apartments. The grocery store closes two aisles permanently because there aren't enough customers anymore. Children stop asking where their parents went. They already know. That hurts worse.
You stop being an Avenger. Not officially. You simply… Never come back. Your armor gathers dust. Your communicator dies in a drawer somewhere. The world keeps spinning.
Without you.
Some days… You don't get dressed.
Some days… You forget what day it is.
Some days… You stand in front of the bathroom mirror and think—
It would've been easier if I'd gone too.
The thought frightens you. Not because you want to die. Because you don't care very much whether you wake up tomorrow. There's a difference. It doesn't feel like one.
Year two.
Karen convinces you to walk outside. Just once. The coffee shop on the corner still remembers Frank's order.
"Large."
"Black." The barista starts making it automatically. Then freezes.
"…I'm sorry." You smile. The first genuine smile in nearly two years.
"It's okay." You buy it anyway. You carry it all the way home. You set it on his side of the kitchen table. It goes cold.
Year three.
Steve comes again. This time… He looks hopeful.
"We found something." You don't answer. "There might be a way." Silence. "Time travel." You laugh. Not because it's funny. Because it's cruel.
"You think you can outrun this?"
"We have to try." You shake your head.
"I already watched him die once."
"This would undo that."
"Or I'll watch him die twice." Steve has no answer. When he leaves… The apartment feels even emptier than before.
Year four.
The panic attacks become quieter. More dangerous. They don't make you cry anymore.
Instead… You simply stop. Standing in grocery aisles. At crosswalks. In the shower. You stare into nothing until someone says your name. You forget entire afternoons. Matt notices. He starts staying longer. Neither of you mentions it.
Year five.
The calendar still has Frank's handwriting on it. Dentist - Tuesday. Pick up dry cleaning. Movie night. You never change it. Then… One rainy afternoon…
Tony Stark knocks on your door himself. Not in armor. Just Tony. Older.
More tired. He looks at you for a long moment.
"You look awful."
"So do you."
"Fair." Silence. He doesn't smile.
"I think…" He rubs a hand across his beard. "I think we figured it out." You stare at him blankly.
"What?"
"A way."
"No."
"A real one."
"No."
"We can bring them back."
"No." Tony's brow furrows.
"You don't even know what I'm going to say."
"I know enough."
"You don't believe me."
"I don't believe in miracles anymore." He flinches.
"I don't need you to."
"I watched him turn to dust in my arms." His eyes soften.
"I know."
"I held Peter while he begged me not to let him die."
"I know."
"I buried people who didn't even leave bodies."
"I know."
"My husband disappeared."
"I know."
"My kid disappeared."
"I know."
"My world ended."
"I know." You look away. Voice barely above a whisper.
"I'm tired of hoping." Because hope… Hope is what made you listen for Frank's footsteps every night for months.
Hope is what made you leave his side of the closet untouched.
Hope is what convinced you, for just one impossible second, that every knock at the door might be him.
Hope had become another way to lose him.
Tony doesn't argue. He simply walks farther into the apartment. His eyes land on Frank's boots. Still by the door. Five years later. Exactly where he'd left them. Tony closes his eyes. Then quietly says,
"…I'll bring him home to you, kid." You don't answer. Not because you don't hear him. Because somewhere deep inside yourself- In a place grief buried years ago— A tiny, terrified part of you is suddenly more frightened of hope than it ever was of despair.
Tony leaves.
The apartment falls silent again. You don't call him back. You don't even watch him walk away. The front door clicks shut. And you stand there…
Staring at Frank's boots. Exactly where he'd left them.
You don't join the mission. You don't help build the machine. You don't suit up. You don't answer another phone call. If they truly can change time… You decide you'll find out afterward. You can't survive another promise.
The nightmares get worse. Not louder. Quieter. Some nights Frank doesn't disappear. Instead… He comes home. He drops his keys in the bowl. Calls your name. Wraps his arms around your waist while you're making coffee. You laugh.You kiss him. He asks how your day was. You tell him about Peter. About Karen. About Matt. About absolutely nothing.
It feels…Perfect.
Then— Ash begins falling from his hair. You scream before he even notices.
"Frank—" He looks confused.
"What?" His hand disappears.
"No." His smile falters.
"Baby?"
"No, please—" His face crumbles apart. This time… He isn't even afraid. He simply watches you.
"I'm sorry." Then he's gone.
Every.
Single.
Night.
You stop sleeping in the bed. The dreams are waiting there. Instead you sleep on the living-room floor. Sometimes in the bathtub. Sometimes sitting upright against the wall with a pistol in your lap. If you never really sleep… The dreams can't catch you.
One night… You hear a woman scream.
Real. Not imagined. Outside. Three blocks away. You don't think. You move.
The mugger never sees you coming. One punch. His jaw breaks. He reaches for a knife. You take it away. Break three fingers. Leave him crying in an alley until the police arrive.
When you get home… Your hands are shaking. Not from fear.
For the first time in years… Your mind is quiet. You sleep six straight hours. The next week… It's another scream. Another alley. Another gang. Another fight. Another night without dreams. You begin to understand. Violence doesn't make you happy.
It makes you… Empty.
And empty is infinitely better than drowning. It becomes routine. The city sleeps. You don't. You patrol rooftops. Subway stations. Construction sites. The neighborhoods Frank always insisted on checking twice. You wear no colors. No Avengers insignia. No shield. No emblem.
Just black. Just blades. Just bruises.
The newspapers invent names.
"The Ghost."
"The Widow."
"The Wraith of Hell's Kitchen."
You never read them. Criminals begin whispering. Not because you're theatrical. Because you're efficient. You don't make speeches. You don't threaten. You simply appear. And when it's over… You disappear again.
Matt finds out first. Of course he does. He hears your heartbeat from two rooftops away. Hears the broken ribs. The knife entering someone else's shoulder. The way you stop breathing entirely before you strike.
One night- He lands beside you.
"You need to stop." You keep cleaning blood from your knuckles.
"So stop me." He says nothing. Because he knows. He probably can't. Karen sees you six weeks later. You answer the door with a split lip. Bruised cheek. Fresh stitches across your ribs. She doesn't ask. She already knows.
"You look like him." You freeze.
"What?" She swallows.
"From years ago." Silence. "You look exactly like Frank did." You close the door. You don't speak to her again for three months. The bruises become familiar. The cuts. The broken fingers. The cracked ribs. You patch yourself up the same way Frank used to. Needle. Thread. Whiskey.
Silence.
Sometimes… While sewing your own shoulder closed… You laugh. A small, humorless sound.
"So this is what it felt like." You stop fearing death. Not because you want it. Because it stops feeling important. If someone finally gets lucky… Fine. Maybe you'll see him again.
If they don't… Tomorrow is another rooftop. Another gang. Another night your head stays blessedly quiet. Steve comes looking for you once.
He finds three unconscious traffickers zip-tied to a lamppost. A fourth is coughing blood. You're wiping your knife clean.
"You've changed."
"So has the world."
"This isn't you." You finally look at him. Eyes hollow.
"You don't know who I am anymore."
"I know who Frank would've wanted you to be." That one lands. Hard. You don't answer. You simply walk away. Tony sends Happy. Bruce sends Natasha. Natasha sends Clint. Nobody reaches you.
Not really. You're always somewhere else. Always chasing the next emergency. Because if you're fighting… You're not remembering. If your fists hurt… Your chest doesn't. If your lungs are burning… You're not hearing Peter say,
"I'm scared." You're not feeling Frank dissolve in your arms. Pain has become medicine.
Violence… Anesthesia.
By the time Tony finally calls to say,
"We're ready." Your apartment is almost empty. Frank's boots are still by the door. Everything else… Has been packed away. Not because you've moved on. Because looking at it all finally became impossible. You stand in the doorway for a long time before leaving. Your hand brushes the leather of one boot.
Still dusty. Still waiting. Just like you. You whisper into the silence—
"I hope you're wrong, Tony." Not because you want him to fail. Because you've spent five years teaching yourself how to survive a world without Frank. And somewhere deep down… The idea that he might actually come home feels more terrifying than believing he never could.
-----
The night is quiet. Too quiet.
Hell's Kitchen always sounds different after midnight. Distant sirens. Traffic. Arguments drifting up from the sidewalks. Tonight… Nothing. You stand on the edge of an abandoned warehouse roof, the city spread beneath you in a sea of yellow lights.
Five years. Five years of fighting. Five years of bleeding. Five years of waking up disappointed that you hadn't died in your sleep.
Your suit is torn.
Your knuckles are split open. There's dried blood under every fingernail. Some of it's yours. Most of it isn't. You look down. It's a long way to the pavement. High enough. Probably.
Maybe not.
You don't particularly care. Your fingers loosen around the edge of the rooftop.
"…Frank." The name disappears into the wind. "I'm tired." No answer. Of course not. You laugh. Small. Empty. "You won." Not Thanos. Grief. It won. You close your eyes. One step. That's all it takes. Just—
"Don't." The voice hits you like a gunshot. You spin. Impossible. A man stands in the doorway leading to the roof. Long hair. Metal arm. Blue eyes.
"…Bucky?" He stares at you. Not with confusion. Recognition. Pain. Relief.
"You remember me." You blink.
"…No." He takes one careful step forward. "You…" Your voice catches. "No." His expression crumples.
"I know."
"No." You shake your head harder. "I watched you."
"I know."
"You disappeared."
"I know."
"I watched you turn into dust."
"I know."
"So you're not…" You take another stumbling step backward. "You're not real." His jaw tightens.
"I am."
"No."
"You are."
"No!" Your heel reaches the edge of the building. You don't notice. Bucky does. His entire body goes rigid.
"Don't move."
"I already buried you." His eyes fill.
"You didn't bury anybody."
"I watched you die."
"I know."
"You can't be here." Another careful step.
"I am."
"No!" Another.
"You gotta breathe."
"I'm dreaming."
"No."
"I'm dead."
"No."
"I'm finally dead."
"No." He moves. Fast. Faster than your exhausted body can react. The metal arm hooks around your waist just as your foot slips backward into empty air. You gasp. Suddenly you're no longer falling. You're pinned against a solid chest. Held. Hard. The way someone holds another person when they're terrified of letting go.
"Let me go!" you scream, struggling weakly against him.
"No."
"Let me go!"
"No."
"I have to—I have to be with him- I have to join him-"
"No!" The shout echoes across the rooftops. For a second… Everything stops. His breathing is uneven against your temple. His arms are shaking. Not from effort. From fear. "You don't get to do this."
"I have nothing left! Let me go ! I want to be with my husband!"
"You've got me."
"You were dead!"
"I was."
"You disappeared!"
"I did."
"You—"
"I came back." Silence. You stop fighting. Very slowly… You look up at him. Really look. There's new stubble. A fresh scar near his eyebrow. His heartbeat. You can hear it. Strong. Steady. Real.
"…How?" His throat works.
"Tony." You frown.
"What?"
"He figured it out." Your brows knit together.
"…No."
"He did."
"No."
"We went back."
"No."
"We got the Stones."
"No."
"He snapped." Your stomach drops.
"…Tony?" Bucky closes his eyes.
"He saved everybody." Silence. "But…" His voice breaks. "It killed him." The words don't register. You simply stare.
"He…" You swallow. "…Tony's…" Bucky nods once.
"He saved us.We don't... remember anything. It feels like five minutes ago Thanos did his snap but... it's been five years." The rooftop tilts beneath your feet. You grip the front of his jacket.
"…Peter?"
"Alive." Your breathing catches.
"…Sam?"
"Alive."
"…Wanda?"
"Alive."
"…T'Challa?"
"Alive." Each answer lands like another impossible heartbeat.
"…Frank?" Bucky doesn't answer immediately. Instead… He reaches up with his flesh hand. Very gently… He brushes a tear off your cheek.
"Yeah." One word. That's all it takes. The dam breaks. You fold. Not gracefully. Not dramatically. Your knees simply give out beneath you. A sound tears out of your chest that you've been holding in for five years. You sob. Violently. Your whole body convulses.
"I couldn't—" The words dissolve. "I tried—" Another sob. "I couldn't save them." Bucky lowers himself to the rooftop with you still in his arms. He doesn't try to stop the crying. He just holds on. The way Steve held him after HYDRA. The way someone holds another human being who's forgotten how.
"I know."
"I wasn't there."
"I know."
"I didn't believe Tony."
"I know."
"I wanted…" You choke on the confession. "…I wanted to die." Bucky's grip tightens.
"I know."
"I almost—"
"I know."
"I couldn't do it anymore."
"I know." His own voice starts shaking.
"None of us blamed you."
"I blamed me."
"I know." You cry until there are no tears left. Until you're just shaking. Breathing in broken little gasps against his shoulder. Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Eventually… Bucky speaks again. Very quietly.
"He's been looking for you." You don't respond. "The first thing he asked was where his wife was." Your breath catches. "He thought…" Bucky smiles sadly. "He thought maybe Thanos had gotten to you. He has no idea how long it's been."
It hurts.
God… It hurts.
You stare out across the city. The sunrise is beginning to stain the horizon gold.
"I don't…" Your voice is tiny. "I don't know how to see him." Bucky looks at you.
"What?"
"I spent five years learning how to survive without him. He thinks it's only been a few seconds." Another tear slips free. "What if…" You can't finish. "What if he looks at me and doesn't recognize me anymore?" Bucky's expression breaks.
"He'll recognize you."
"I've changed."
"So has he."
"I became…" You look down at your blood-covered hands."…something awful." Bucky reaches over. Without hesitation… He takes one of those stained hands in both of his.
"I know exactly what it's like…" He squeezes gently. "…to think the person you love will only see the monster." Your eyes lift to his.
"And?" A small smile.
"The people who love us…" His gaze drifts toward the rising sun. "…they usually see the parts we forgot were still there." He stands first. Then offers you his hand. Not pulling. Just waiting.
"You wanna go see your husband?" Your lips part. For the first time in five years… Hope doesn't feel like a knife. It feels terrifying. Fragile. Beautiful. With trembling fingers… You place your hand in his.
"…Yeah." Your voice cracks around the word. "So bad." Bucky helps you to your feet. The way to the compound feels surreal. Almost like a sick version of deja vu.
Five years since you stepped foot in this building.
Five years since everything fell apart.
You half expect Tony to greet you, arms wide open. But he doesn't.
The halls are brighter than you remember.
Cleaner.
Someone rebuilt this place while you were busy trying to survive. You don't recognize half the faces that pass you. Some of them smile. Some of them stop dead when they see you. They've heard stories.
The Ghost. The woman who refused to stop fighting after half the world disappeared. None of them say a word. Bucky stays beside you. Never touching. Just close enough that if your knees give out again…
He'll catch you.
"You alright?" he asks quietly. You almost laugh.
"No." He nods.
"I figured." The elevator doors slide open. The medical wing.
Clint is already waiting.
He looks older. More gray at his temples. More tired around the eyes. But he smiles the second he sees Bucky. Then he sees you. The smile disappears.
"…Oh." His eyes travel over the old scars. The fresh ones. The bruises blooming across your knuckles. The exhaustion carved permanently into your face. He doesn't ask. He doesn't have to.
"You found her." Bucky nods. "Almost too late."
Clint closes his eyes for one long second. Then—
"He's in here. Peter and the others already went home." Your heart stops. Clint reaches for the door handle.
"You don't have to—"
"I'm ready." You're lying. He knows it. Still… He opens the door. Frank is sitting on an examination table. Bruce has electrodes stuck to his chest. A blood pressure cuff squeezes one arm. Someone has clipped a pulse oximeter to his finger. He's arguing.
"I told ya, I'm fine."
"You were dead for five years."
"I was dead for five seconds."
"You don't actually know that."
"I feel fine." Bruce sighs.
"Frank—" Then… Frank looks toward the door. His entire world stops.
"…Baby?" You freeze. He's… Exactly the same..
Same hair.
Same eyes.
The same tiny scar above his eyebrow from years ago. He looks like he walked out of your apartment yesterday. He looks… Home.
Frank doesn't even think. He rips the pulse oximeter off his finger. The heart monitor leads come away with it. Bruce opens his mouth.
"Fra—" Too late. Frank is already moving. He crosses the room in three long strides. Then he's there. His hands cup your face.
Warm. Solid. Real.
"Oh, thank God." He laughs. Actually laughs.
"I thought—" His voice breaks. "I thought maybe he got you." His forehead presses against yours. "I've been askin' everybody where my wife is." He smiles through wet eyes. "There you are." He pulls you into him. Hard. Like he always does. Like he's terrified you'll disappear too. His arms wrap around your back. He buries his face against your neck. "I gotcha."
Silence.
He waits for you to hug him back. You don't. Not because you don't want to. Because… You can't. Your arms hang uselessly at your sides. Your body refuses to believe he's real. Frank notices almost immediately. He leans back just enough to see your face. The smile slips.
"…Baby?" You stare at him. Studying every line. Every freckle. The way his beard hasn't grown in. The warmth coming off his skin. Your fingers rise slowly. Almost fearfully. You touch his cheek. Your hand trembles violently.
"…You're warm." He gives a confused little laugh.
"Yeah…"
"You…" Your thumb traces the scar over his eyebrow. "…You're really here."
"I'm here." Your breathing begins to shake.
"No…" His smile falters.
"What?"
"You can't…" You shake your head. "This isn't…" Your chest caves inward. "I buried you." Frank's brow furrows.
"What?"
"I buried you." His confusion deepens.
"What're you talkin' about?"
"You were gone." His eyes flick toward Bucky. Then Bruce. Neither of them says anything. Understanding begins to dawn. Slowly. Painfully. He looks back at you.
"…How long?" You can't answer. Bucky does.
"Five years." Frank goes completely still.
"…What?"
"To them…" Bucky says quietly. "It was five years." Frank looks back at you. Really looks. Notices the scars. The weight you've lost. The dark circles beneath your eyes. The way your hands won't stop shaking.
"…Baby." His voice is barely there. "What happened?" That question— That stupid, innocent question— Breaks the last thing holding you together. You throw yourself against him. This time your arms wrap around him so tightly he actually stumbles backward a step. A sob tears out of you.
Violent. Animal.
"I tried." Your fists bunch in the back of his shirt. "I tried so hard." Frank's arms lock around you immediately.
"Hey." He stares at you. Not speaking. Just … Looking. Looking at the woman who used to steal fries off his plate. Who laughed too loudly. Who danced barefoot in the kitchen while making coffee. Who kissed him every morning before work.
She's still here.
But she's buried under five years of grief.
Five years… That, to him… Never happened.
"Hey, mama, c'mere." he whispers, pulling you in, lips pressed to your temple as you sob. You hear the door close softly behind you, telling you Bruce and Bucky have left the room- and your whole body just gives up.
You go crashing to the floor, sobbing hard as Frank follows, tucking you against his chest.
"I'm sorry." You cry. "I'm so sorry." Frank shushes you, rocking you back and forth.
"Shh..Shh.. what are you sorry for , pretty girl ?"
"I-I was gonna-" You hiccup."I was gonna try to join you."
Frank stills. Not physically. Physically, he keeps rocking you, one broad hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. But inside…
Everything stops.
"…What?" Your face disappears deeper into his chest.
"I couldn't…" You can't catch your breath. Every word is ripped apart by sobs. "I couldn't do it anymore." His arms tighten instinctively.
"Hey…"
"I tried so hard. I fought." Your fingers clutch at the front of his shirt like you're afraid he'll disappear again. "God, Frankie, I fought so hard." His chin rests on top of your head.
"I have no doubt you did."
"No…" You shake your head violently. "You don't." Because he can't. How could he? To him, he'd kissed you goodbye. Then Thanos snapped. Now you're here. Three heartbeats later. He never lived the years in between.
"I waited," you whisper. His brow furrows.
"What?"
"I waited for months." Your voice has gone distant now. Like you're watching someone else's memories. "I kept your coffee mug by the sink." Frank's throat tightens. "I washed your clothes because…" A broken laugh escapes you. "…because they smelled like you." His eyes close. "I couldn't let the smell go." Your shoulders shake harder. "I slept on your side of the bed."
"You…"
"I thought…" Another hiccupping breath. "Maybe if I slept where you slept…" You squeeze your eyes shut. "…I'd dream about you." Frank's vision blurs.
"…Baby."
"I talked to you." Every word lands like another knife. "Every morning." His hand cups the back of your head. "I'd make coffee." Another sob. "And I'd tell you about my day." He can't speak. "I'd leave your boots by the door." Your voice cracks completely. "…In case you came home." Frank lets out the smallest, most broken sound. "I never stopped waiting." Silence. Then— "It got harder." You stare somewhere past him. Past the room. Past today. " God, Frank, it got so hard. I stopped hearing your voice." His heart splinters. "I couldn't remember your laugh exactly."
"Baby…"
"So I started listening to old recordings." Your breathing catches. "Over." A swallow. "And over." Another. "And over. I was scared…" Your lips tremble. "…that I'd forget you." Frank buries his face in your hair.
"You never would've."
"I almost did."
"No."
"I remembered pieces." You smile through tears. "The way you'd steal my fries." A watery laugh. "The way you snored."
"I do not snore."
"You absolutely snore."
"I breathe aggressively." Despite everything… You laugh. It's tiny. Broken. But it's there. Frank almost cries harder hearing it. Then your smile disappears.
"And then…" Your voice empties. "People stopped saying your name." His chest aches. "They stopped asking how I was. They thought…They thought I was better." He shakes his head. "They were wrong."
"Sweetheart-"
"I smiled." You shrug helplessly. "I went grocery shopping. I paid bills. I washed dishes. I even laughed sometimes." Your eyes meet his. "But every single day…" A tear slips free. "…I wanted to come home to you." Frank's face crumples. Your hand reaches up, cupping his cheek. "So I started fighting." He notices your knuckles again. The scars. The old fractures that healed crooked.
"You see these?" He nods slowly. "I stopped caring if I got hurt." His stomach twists. "I hoped somebody would eventually be faster."
"No…"
"I hoped I'd lose."
"No."
"I wanted somebody to kill me." His entire body jerks.
"No."
"So I wouldn't have to do it myself." The room goes deathly quiet. Frank just… Looks at you. At the woman he loves more than breathing. Who'd spent five years slowly disappearing. Because he'd disappeared first. His eyes overflow.
"Oh, my love…" His voice is shattered.
"Tonight.. I found the tallest building. I was going to-"
"I'm so sorry." You blink.
"What?"
"I'm sorry."
"You didn't—"
"I left you."
"You couldn't help it."
"I know." His thumb wipes away another tear. "But I still left you."
"You didn't choose—"
"I know." His forehead presses against yours. "I know." He takes a shaky breath.
"But while I was gone…" His voice breaks completely. "…you carried all of me by yourself."
You start crying again.
"I was so tired. I didn't want to be brave anymore."
"I know."
"I didn't want to wake up anymore. I missed you."
"I know." The words come out almost like prayers now. Small. Fragile. You curl closer, until you're practically folded into him.
"I kept thinking…" You sniff hard. "…if I could just hold you one more time…" Frank wraps both arms around you so tightly that you can barely breathe.
"I'm here."
"I know."
"I'm not going anywhere." Another nod.
"I know."
"I mean it." His hand slides into your hair. "You hear me?" You close your eyes.
"I hear you."
"I ain't leavin' again." His voice shakes. "I don't care if I gotta haunt God himself." A tiny, watery laugh escapes you. "I'll find my way back." Another laugh. Smaller. Realer.
"I believe you." He kisses your forehead. Then your temple. Then the corner of your eye where tears keep collecting.
"So listen to me now." He waits until you look at him. Really look. "If you ever get that tired again…" His thumb strokes your cheek. "If you ever think about doing that again…" His own tears spill freely now. "You tell me." You swallow.
"I couldn't."
"You do."
"I don't wanna burden you." His expression twists.
"You are never a burden."
"I—"
"Never." He says it with such certainty that it steals the next apology from your mouth. "I carried guns." He brushes your hair behind your ear. "You carried grief. I think yours was heavier." You shake your head.
"No." He smiles sadly.
"We're done carrying things alone." Your lips tremble.
"…Promise?" He doesn't hesitate.
"Promise." He hooks his little finger around yours, the way he'd done years ago over stupid things like remembering milk from the grocery store. It almost makes you laugh.
"You still do that?"
"Always worked before." You curl your pinky around his. The gesture feels impossibly small. Impossibly normal. After five years of surviving. It feels like the first piece of home you've touched. Frank presses one last kiss to your knuckles. Then gathers you back into his arms. This time, neither of you says anything. You simply sit together on the medical room floor, holding each other while the impossible truth slowly settles between you.
SUMMARY: Why was everything going wrong today? And why the hell was it making you SO angry?? It's okay, husband Frank is coming to the rescue with the big hugs and chocolate.
Ingredients: 18+ MDNI, no use of y/n, established relationship (husband and wife), reader is experiencing pms this entire fic, mentions of a small cut (nothing major), pet names used (gorgeous, wifey, sweetheart, gremlin), the reader also swears like a sailor, there is a lot of yelling (but not in an argument way), starts with angst, ends with all the fluff in the world dumped onto you like glitter from a bucket. Not proof read!!!
Calories: 1.8k
Chef's Note: Written for the wonderful @ih34rtunicorns ! Thank you sm for the request, I hope this is too your liking!!! <3 I will however like to mention this is the last Frank Castle fic I will be doing for a while. So, requests are open! Just not for him.
Frank Masterlist (For the main masterlist, check out my intro post!)
FIND THE REQUEST HERE!
The first issue was you waking up...
Covered in sweat that could become your own personal ocean.
It stuck to your body like a thick glue ripping at your skin, and you could already feel it making every body part of yours stick together as well.
But then it turned into the shower. No. Hot. Water. All of it as cold as if Antarctica literally entered your bathroom as soon as you stepped one toe onto the cold tile. The long list of profanities that left your lips as soon as the icy water hit you was enough to most likely make a protective mother faint in the hall or on the street below.
Then next was you stubbing your toe on the leg of the dining table. It made you drop all of the folded laundry right onto the dirty floor by just the force of the knock. You swear, your snapping point was inching closer and closer as the day went on. Especially since now you had to double check each piece of clothing in case it needed to be rewashed.
When Frank called, you held back all the tears that had been sitting there for the past hour. Just have a normal, perfect and okay conversation with him. It'll fix your day. It has too.
"Heya sweetheart. Just wonderin' if we need anythin' from th' supermarket?"
"No... No we don't need anything." But just as he was about to respond, you quickly spoke up again. "Oh uh, actually... could you get some chocolate? Preferably dark. I've... I've had a bad day."
"Yeah, yeah I can do tha' f'you wifey. Nothin' goin' right f'you? Huh?" You then proceeded to ramble about everything that has happened. The shower, the sweat, the table leg. It was only 10 am for gods sakes. And you had felt like you'd gone through a week of pain and suffering. "Aw, it's alright. I'll bring th' chocolate. You just relax, 'kay? I love you."
"I love you too Frankie... And thank you." As soon as the phone hung up however, your eyes immediately went over to the pile of dishes stacked up next to the sink. And, just the look of them... Your blood boiled. How the hell did you leave a mess like that out from last night? You never leave dishes out.
(You fell asleep on the couch, more specifically on Frank, very early in the night. He carried you to bed and made sure to get you fully tucked in. That's why.)
You practically stormed into the kitchen and started to fill up the sink with water and also get the dishwasher ready. These will be done before Frank gets home for the afternoon before he leaves again. The smell and look of leftover food crumbs was just too much for your head to handle.
Soon enough the dishwasher was filled and had already started rumbling to life as it cleansed everything you could possibly fit in there. Your hands were hidden behind the bubbles of dishwashing detergent as they scrubbed the plates away from their mess. But, only to add to the pains of your day, as you lifted a plate to put into the drying rack, it slipped.
It slipped from your fingers, and you swear it fell in slow-fucking-motion. Because you watched it somehow bounce off the edge of the counter, fly forward then proceed to shatter on the tile next to your feet. Which were thankfully covered.
"FUCKING HELL! CAN'T ONE THING JUST FUCKING WORK TODAY?!" Your breath became heavy, you could feel your chest start to hurt as each heave came out of you.
Your nails dug into your palms so hard you're shocked that no blood had come spilling already. And then it was the tears, they were brimmed to the edge, they were ready to start flowing. But the front door opening made them stay in your eyes.
"'m home sweetheart. Chocolate an' all. Also did ya' yellin' just before? Loud as 'ell—" Frank paused when he got to the doorway of the kitchen. Then the yelling made sense. He thought it sounded familiar in the hall. "Hey... Wifey... A really bad day, yeah?"
You nodded slowly before the tears then finally burst from your eyes. You seriously need to sit down and just cry right now. Punch something. Anything. The next thing you felt was two large warm arms wrapped around you tightly.
Frank just squeezed. Not in a harmful way, but in a way to bring you some sort of comfort. By just your behaviour he could already tell that your period was rolling around for the month, which means he's got to be on top of his game for the next week or two.
And he was not angry about that.
"You're gonna go take a hot shower an' get back into your pajamas, 'kay? I'll finish everything here and also make us some lunch. You rest."
"But all that came out of the shower was cold water this morning..."
"Then you go get your pajamas ready while I fix the shower. Then we go right back to the plan. You 'ill shower and rest. I 'ill finish the kitchen and make lunch f' us. Then for the rest of today and tonight, you 'ill not raise one finger."
It only took him 15 minutes to fix the shower, which you were so happy to find the bathroom filled with the warm comforting steam as soon as you stepped into the bathroom.
"All fixed and put jus' t' th' right temperature—" He was cut off as you practically ran at him and wrapped him in a tight, grateful hug. He felt all of the tension leave your body as he returned it, like everything that had been sitting on your shoulders the entire time he was gone had left you within seconds. "You're alright now, yeah? None a' tha' sadness no more. 'Cause I'll keep it away from ya'."
"Promise?"
"I promise sweetheart. Fuck I promise..."
After you hopped into the shower, Frank immediately got to work. The dishes were done within 3 minutes, he got everything prepared for lunch on the counter and then started putting the laundry away. When he was folding up one of his many hoodies, you stepped out of the bathroom with your pajamas on and a towel around your neck. Somehow after your shower you looked even more disheveled. But no less beautiful. He always had to mention that part in his head, even if he already, unconsciously, knew that.
"Good shower?" You nodded, waddling over to him and dropping your head face-first right into his shoulder.
Why did he always have to feel so... soft? You were already slowly falling asleep just from the smell and feeling of him. This has gotta be paradise? Right?
However that was all broken when a large, sharp pain shot across your lower abdomen. It made you stumble and nearly collapse, if it wasn't for Frank who was on extreme watch mode, caught you instantly.
"Woah, 'kay. Couch with you." You groaned quietly as he picked you up and walked you both into the living room.
He wrapped you up in blankets, he got your heat pad prepared and lunch was made. But he wasn't nearly done with getting the apartment cleaned, not yet anyways.
"Here we are. One chicken sandwich. You're gonna eat that all, yeah? Then ya' not gonna get up from this couch. Understood?" You could only respond with a sleepy nod before digging into the large sandwich.
That was all Frank needed before going back to work.
6:30pm
The house was completely clean. Literally, Frank could see his reflection in the surface of the counter. And you?
You were still wrapped up in a blanket tucked into the corner of the couch where it made an a L shape. Frank had to dip his hand within the blanket a few times to check on your heating pad while you slept. He made sure to reheat it whenever needed.
But now he was gently nudging you awake with the tip of his foot against your leg. Both his hands occupied with plates of steaming hot food.
"Time to wake up. C'mon gorgeous." You stirred and slowly woke up with a smushed, crumpled face. "Don't give me the gremlin face. You gotta eat. Keeps you well."
"Don't call me a gremlin..."
"'F 'course... I forgot the important word before it. My gremlin. That better?" You gave him a small glare as you finally sat up and pulled the blanket down slightly to allow your arms free.
"It smells delicious." You took the plate from him as he collapsed next to you with a grunt.
"I hope it tastes as delicious as it smells. If it doesn't you let me know. I'll make you something else."
"No need for that Frankie... I'm sure it's great." Frank turned the TV on, his eyes immediately recognising a game is on.
"Mind if I watch this?" You shook your head and went right back to eating. You'd had the TV all afternoon so far, so you didn't mind sharing.
You both sat in silence and ate. Besides Franks little curses and 'Oh c'mon, what was that?' under his breath. You were glad nothing was going wrong, finally, the day seemed like it was over-
The apartment went dark.
"Guess th' power is out..."
"And I just said in my mind that all the problems were over! DAMN IT!" Frank chuckled quietly as he felt around on the coffee table for the random, but emergency use flashlight. As soon as he felt the cylinder shape, he turned it on and held it up to the ceiling.
"Problem solved. No need to be angry sweetheart."
After putting the two plates into the sink, Frank picked you up from the couch and walked you both to bed. He made sure to double check all the locks before he finally decided to get changed out of his jeans and tight shirt.
"Alrigh', all yours now." He got under the blankets with you before stopping, he knew during these times you either want him far away, or super close. But before he could even ask where you wanted him, you yanked him down by his shoulder.
He was now positioned laying on top of you like a massive weighted and heated blanket.
"Don't move."
"I won't move gorgeous. Promise." He tucked his head into the crook of your neck and held you with one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, the other laying to the side of you. Legs now tangled, and as close as ever, you fell asleep almost instantly.
Frank stayed awake for around an hour, just watching you, listening to your tiny breaths. But the little whimpers here and there told Frank that tomorrow morning he needed to be on his a-game.
And that morning, you woke up in a puddle of blood at your legs. And safe to say, Frank was around the entire time to keep you comfortable.
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Summary: Time has passed since your not-so-happy reunion with Frank. You thought that you would find peace after that...so why does the wound still ache?
a/n: Still in disbelief that so many people found my account, read pt. 1 of this oneshot and enjoyed it. Here's part 2. I hope I do frank and this little idea justice...also listened to less by Olivia Rodrigo whilst writing this. NOT PROOFREAD
Warnings: angst, angsty but there is light at the end of the tunnel. prob ooc? (let me know how i can write him better)
WC: 2.4k
part 1 | part 2
If loving me means letting go
And wishing me the best
Well, then I guess
I wish, I wish, I wish you loved me less
Frank was a man of little words. People usually chalked it up to the damages of war or his upbringing. The truth was, Frank found it unnecessary to speak more than needed to most people.
You weren't most people.
With you, Frank's reasoning for not speaking was because he was too busy hanging onto every word you said. He stored every one to memory as if it would be the last one you would ever give him.
Each conversation was permanently looped in his mind. The one that burned in particular was how softly you used to say his name. At any time. Any moment.
The way you would always want to be near him. Holding him. Basking in his presence like it was something safe. You just wanted to be around him but he couldn't let you.
He knew of all the red that bled from his past. The skeletons in his closet that only continue to pile up. Frank knew what that meant that meant for anyone who got too close. He'd seen it right in front of him. His whole family wiped. Slaughtered because of what he knew.
But God help him. His desire for you surmounted any desires of a rich man chasing more wealth. He wanted it—wanted you—with a hunger that caused fear to strike through every fiber of his being. The time you spent together gave him a glimpse of what life could be. What it would be if he wasn't him.
So Frank held onto every word. Every late night talks. Dances in the kitchen. The soft, delicate kisses shared after you both came down from your highs. He held onto your words and the few he gave back.
No, Frank wasn't a man of many words. He was someone who showed he cared through his actions. He held your hair as you threw up the morning after a night out with your friends. He fixed any appliances in your apartment. You never walked on the outside of the sidewalk closest to the cars. But you knew of these things that he did.
You didn't know that he walked with you every night on the way back to your apartment from work. From Karen's. From Josie's. You didn't know because you thought he was dead.
You didn't know because he was a ghost in the shadows, paced back far enough that you wouldn't notice but close enough that you were safe.
You didn't know that he always asked Karen for updates on you. How you were feeling. If you ate. If you were seeing someone new. He faced the brunt of Karen's anger at him being a coward for not reaching out. For making her keep this from you. But how could he? If he admitted the truth to you, you'd forever have a target on your back.
—
Frank sat in the dark of the safehouse, elbows on his knees, the whiskey in front of him untouched. He didn't drink much these days. Didn't trust himself not to go looking for you if he did.
Karen's words were still working through him like shrapnel finding new muscle to lodge in.
She knows that I knew, Frank. She sounded devastated.
He'd made Karen carry that. Made her lie as she comforted your sobbing frame because he didn't have the spine to do it himself. He told himself it was to protect you.
He replayed your conversation over and over. Your tear-streaked face looked crushed. And he swore his heart broke at the sight.
"You decided that you didn't want me as a constant in your life anymore." Your words couldn't be more untrue. He thought as he finally reached for the glass in front of him, drinking the whole thing in one go before pouring another one, ignoring Micro's warnings.
He should go to you. Say it to your face — I was protecting you. I was trying t'keep you alive.
But he knew how that sounded. Knew it wouldn't matter that his reasons were good if the result was the same: you mourning a man for months that was walking the same streets, looking through the same window from different sides.
Frank knew that he owed you the truth. He knew that you deserved it and more. But owing something and being able to pay it were two different debts, and Frank Castle had never been good at collecting on the ones that cost him something to give.
So he stayed in the safehouse and drank and waited and hoped that one day, you'd forgive him enough to let him try.
—
Two weeks. A short amount of time in hindsight but felt like eternity for you.
Two weeks of tossing and turning, unable to silence your mind enough to rest. The pain so raw, unadultered that it consumed your entire body.
You had tried to go through routines normally. You woke up, made breakfast, and did everything else in your daily routine. But you didn’t call Karen like you usually did. Or walk to hers on Fridays to eat Chinese takeout and drink one too many glasses of wine.
And you stopped reaching over to Frank’s side of the bed. You stopped because you no longer had a reason to. Frank was alive. You no longer needed to chase the ghost of him.
So why were you grieving still?
You stared at the potted plant that sat on an end table next to the window of your living room. Its leaves had begun to spill over the pot.
Closing your eyes as you recalled the day Frank walked in with it. Just the night before, you’d mention wanting to start making your living space livelier, to remind yourself Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t all dark and rugged.
Frank sheepish expression as he awaited your reaction flashed in your mind, a sharp pang in your heart at the memory from simpler times. You remembered how awkwardly he stood in the middle of your living room with the plant in his hand.
Y’mentioned you wanted more green around the place. Was all he said. Like it hadn't just melted your heart at how simple it was to him. You closed the distance between the two of you, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him in for a kiss of gratitude. For the plant. For listening. A kiss with so many understones.
Finally, you moved your head back, opening your eyes, noticing Frank's were still closed. His head moved to follow yours, chasing your lips for more. Giggling at the antics, you held his face in your hands which caused him to finally open his eyes.
The look in his eyes was filled with pure adoration.
Who could blame you for then pulling his face down slightly and peppering his face with kisses. And he let you. You were suddenly encased in his strong arms, him having placed the potted plant on the table beside you.
Your voice echoed in your head as you replayed the conversation. Thank you, Frankie. It's perfect.
It's nothin'. Was his only response as his hold on you tightened.
You shook in head in disagreement. No, it's everything. It means the world to me.
His eyes moved across your face and studied every feature that was uniquely yours. Put it in the window if you ever need me, yeah? He'd half joke but fully meant.
You remember laughing but promising him you would anyway.
Now, as you gripped the pot tighter, you lifted the plant from its place on the table. Your knuckles were white as you gripped onto the plant like it was your lifeline. Or maybe you knew that if you held onto with less pressure, it would slip right through your hands like he had.
You hadn't placed the plant at the windowsill in over a year. You hadn't had a reason to. He was always just around. There was no need to try and reach him in this way when the farthest he used to be was just down the hallway in the bedroom or another part of your apartment.
You stood in front of the window, the plant hovering millimeters above the sill. Your hand shook. Not from the weight of it — the pot was nothing, a couple pounds of ceramic and soil — but from the weight of everything it meant to finally let it go.
Put it in the window if you ever need me, yeah?
You needed him. That was the humiliating, infuriating truth of it. Two weeks of being angrier than you'd ever been at another human being, and still, underneath all of it, the need hadn't moved an inch. It just sat there, stubborn, the way it always had.
You set the plant down.
—
Three soft, careful knocks announced the very presence you weren't sure if you wanted to welcome.
You didn't move from your spot on the couch. Your eyes stayed fixated on the door. Every part of you was caught between two currents pulling in opposite directions.
If you opened it, you'd have to look at him. Really look at him. Not the fleeting glances you allowed yourself those weeks ago. You'd have to deal with whatever came after that, regardless of the fact that you hadn't even healed from everything that came before this.
If you didn't, if you let the knock go unanswered then the wound stayed exactly the shape it was now. Not healed. But familiar. Something you'd learned, however badly, to carry.
"Sweetheart?" was all you needed to hear through the door before you moved as if you were on autopilot. Your hand on the door knob deciding to twist it open before your mind had caught up to the decision.
Your grip on the door tightened at the sight of him, knees weakening. Because there he was. His face illuminated by the fluorescent lights hung in the hallway and lit by the warm light flooding from your apartment.
Then, you stepped back. Not an invitation but not deciding to completely shut him out.
Slowly, he stepped in to your apartment. The place he once called home because you were in it. He noticed nothing had changed except for a few key details he swore caused him to stop breathing entirely.
Over the course of some time, you had moved his things that once took permanent residency in respected areas of your apartment. Like the place he used to put his boots every night. The hangar his jacket would always be on.
It wasn't the fact that they weren't there anymore that pulled at his heart.
It was the fact that even though you thought he was dead, you still held space for him. In your apartment. In your life. In your heart.
Like there was always room for him.
You looked at him as he continued to analyze your space. Then, his eyes locked onto yours.
He hadn't changed much physically. You know it's Frank. His thick eyebrows, his full lips, his brown puppy eyes that used to always find you in any room.
But internally you struggled. Because if this was Frank—your Frank—the one who promised to never cause you harm then why had he twisted the knife?
"Well?" you began, crossing your arms across your chest like a shield of armor, "Are you going to say something?"
His jaw briefly clenched. His voice came out gruff, "'m not gonna say sorry."
You scoffed. But before you could reply he continued, "Let me finish."
So you waited.
"I'm not gonna say sorry. Not 'cause I'm not." His voice dipped. "'Cause sorry don't cover it."
"There wasn't a funeral." Your hands rubbing your arms in an attempt to bring comfort. "There wasn't even a body. Just a call. No place to go when I wanted to talk to you. Yell at you for leaving me. Not even a goodbye."
Frank's face did something you'd only seen for a brief moment a couple times in the past. It broke open, showing behind the emotionless mask he had placed the moment his family died and had never fully taken off til now.
"Thought maybe Matt or Curtis would put somethin' together. Thought maybe there'd at least be somethin' for you—"
You cut him off as your tears rolled down your cheeks. His hands twitched. "I didn't want a fucking headstone to talk to. Or a grave to get drunk and pass out laying on top of."
"I wanted you. I-". If you said it, there was no backtracking. The wound would be fully vulnerably from him to deliver the final blow.
You stared at him and noticed the tears filling up in his eyes. His entire body rigidly still.
"I love you." It was like all his self-control had snapped. The chains freeing him and he crossed the distance between you in three strides.
You folded into him, hands braced on his chest as one of his wrapped around your waist tightly, the other one cradling the back of your head tightly.
He was the only thing holding you upright as you completely shattered in his arms. His arm on your waist tightening with every sob.
Frank thought punishment was forcing himself to stay away from you. But hearing your cries in this moment. Knowing he's the cause of your pain.
It had him completely undone.
He said your name. Whispered it so gently in your ear you almost didn't hear it. But you did. And it caused another wave of tears to leave your eyes.
"I'm here, baby," Frank said. "I'm here. Not goin' nowhere unless y'want me to, you hear that?".
His hold barely loosened as you moved back so you could tilt your head up to meet his eyes.
Maybe you should have put up a bigger fight.
Maybe you should have demanded all the answers he owed.
Instead, you peered into his eyes as your hands slowly made their way to the back of his neck. One of them beginning to play with his hair. "Promise?"
He pressed a searing kiss on your forehead before pressing his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. "I promise, sweetheart."
You knew you weren't ready to forgive him in this moment. And you wouldn't forgive him tomorrow.
There were too many questions. Too much hurt sitting between the two of you.
But they could wait.
He was alive.
And for the first time in what felt like a million years, you didn't have to wait for dreams to find you to be in his arms again.
I am so surprised and touched by the support I received on "the one left behind". thank you to everyone giving my baby (literally my first ever public work here) I'm happy to share that pt. 2 is currently in the works! I hope to publish it by Saturday at the latest (sry I'm a slow writer) For now, though, enjoy this little snippet of pt 2 as well as the banner reveal:
He knew of all the red that bled from his past. The skeletons in his closet that only continue to pile up. Frank knew what that meant that meant for anyone who got too close. He'd seen it right in front of him. His whole family wiped. Slaughtered because of what he knew.
But God help him. His desire for you surmounted any desires of a rich man chasing more wealth. He wanted it—wanted you—with a hunger that caused fear to strike through every fiber of his being. The time you spent together gave him a glimpse of what life could be. What it would be if he wasn't him.
So Frank held onto every word. Every late night talks. Dances in the kitchen. The soft, delicate kisses shared after you both came down from your highs. He held onto your words and the few he gave back.
Summary: You find it hard to differentiate between love and anger as you stand face to face with the man you’ve been mourning for months
a/n: this is my first time ever writing one shots so apologies if it’s not the best!! Def not following the plot whatsoever (Maybe a part 2?) NOT PROOFREAD
Warnings: angst/no comfort?, prob ooc bc this is my first time ever writing for Frank. Frank just doesn’t believe he deserves to be loved
WC: 1.2k
part 1 | part 2
“HOMEGROWN TERRORISTS” you read the words over and over again. Though they weren’t what you were fixated on. Instead, your eyes were glued on the image of Fra—him. A couple of cuts littered his face in the picture showcased on the news but he was undoubtedly alive.
Every emotion on the spectrum slammed into you at once. Grief. Anger. Happiness. Hurt and confusion being the most prominent. He’d been alive this entire time. All the months and nights you’d cried yourself to sleep. Sobbing on Karen’s shoulder. There was no body. There was no funeral or headstone for you to talk to when the grief was a load you couldn’t carry alone.
You don’t remember picking up your phone and calling Karen. But her voice on the other end as she answered broke you out of your trance. “Hello?”
Your grip on your phone tightened, “Karen. He’s-he’s alive.” You couldn’t stop your voice from breaking.
The silence on the other end was defeating. “Karen?”
More silence. Suddenly it clicked. Why wasn’t she saying anything? A gasp? A voice of disbelief?
“Did you know?” The question accusatory. You braced for an answer you weren’t sure you were ready to hear.
“Yes.” Her voice firm for a second before it was covered in guilt. “Yes. I knew I’m sorry—“
Whatever words of reasoning she spoke were unbeknownst to you as a ringing sound began echoing in your ear. She knew. This entire time. She had the privilege of knowing. Not you. Karen. He had picked Karen.
Cutting her off with a tone so vicious, so broken, you said, “You tell Frank to meet me at our spot. You and him owe me that at the very least.”
Not waiting to hear her reply, you ended the call and headed out the door. Forgetting that it was a cold day in New York City as the anger made you boil from the inside.
The anger lost its battle to the chilly winds but you refused to go back home. You wouldn’t go back until you had your answers.
Thoughts began to intrude your mind, you being helpless to stop them.
Did he even want to see you?
Why didn’t he call?
Or knock and disappear before you opened the door?
Why did he rip himself from your life before you could tell him just how much you felt for him? How much you loved him.
Why did he tell her?
Your mind went quiet as you heard gravel crack under pressure. You froze. It was as if your body knew who was behind you before your mind could process it.
Your fingernails dug into the palms of your hand like you were bracing for impact. And maybe you were. Reality being a punch to the gut.
He was really here.
And so you finally turned, your eyes glued onto his large frame.
Frank was dressed in his usual all black attire. Beanie covering his hair while the hood of his jacket covered the rest of his face. He was here.
Neither of you spoke. In the time between your phone call with Karen and now, you had rehearsed over and over what you would say to him. Maybe even make him feel a fraction of what you felt when you thought he was dead.
“S’cold. You got no jacket on.”
“Are you serious?” You didn’t bother hiding your disbelief as you scoffed. “All this time and all you have to say is that I didn’t wear a jacket?”
Silence consumed you both. Everything you had practiced in your head was thrown out the window as you could no longer compose yourself.
“You died.”
You shoved him. He didn’t move an inch which made you angrier. “You died.”
Another shove.
“I thought lost you.” Your voice splintered. “Ive been stuck with words I thought I would never be able to say to you because you were gone.”
This time you pounded on his chest. He let you. His brown eyes filled with emotions you couldn’t decipher as he watched the tears pour out of your eyes. “You let me mourn you.”
“You let me think your body was just gone. Somewhere that I couldn’t go. There wasn’t even a damn grave I could visit and talk to you.”
Frank took every shove, every word you used as weapons. “I know.”
“No.” You countered. “No, you don’t know.”
You fisted the collar of his hoodie, gripping onto him like he was your vice. As if your hold was any looser, he would disappear in the wind.
“You don’t know how it was getting that phone call from Matt. You don’t know how it was waking up every day thinking for the briefest moment you were asleep right next to me. And the cold harsh reality slapping me when your side of the bed was empty.”
He said nothing.
You laughed humorlessly. “Karen knew.”
His jaw clenched so tightly you swore you could hear his teeth grind together.
“She knew and I didn’t.” Your voice barely a whisper now. “Why?”
You finally allowed your eyes to look up at his. But they didn’t meet yours. Instead, they were looking out to the view behind you.
The lack of an answer hurt more than any excuse he could give.
“I couldn’t.”
Frustrations as evident in your voice. “Couldn’t what? Call me? Come by my apartment to let me know you’re okay?”
“I couldn’t drag you back into it.”
As if being near him was suddenly unbearable, you flinched back. “That’s not your decision to make! You don’t get to decide that for me.”
His voice was rough with emotions. “I got you a way out. Away from me. Away from the possibility of getting killed because you know me.”
“I didn’t want a way out. I wanted you.” Why couldn’t he understand that? “You were alive and breathing. In the same city that I was walking around heartbroken, trying to figure out how to live without you. I never planned for that.”
Frank flinched. He had survived murder attempts. Stab wounds. Bombs. But the devastation and honesty in your voice nearly brought him to his knees.
You watched his Adam’s Apple bob up and down as he swallowed hard, eyes darting as if searching the perimeter but also for the right response.
“I watched Maria die.”
You were quiet. You had known this. He had shared with you every grueling detail about the day his whole life ended.
“My kids. My babygirl.”
Nothing could’ve braved you for his next words, “I wouldn’t survive if I lost you too.”
You were inches away from him. Yet, it was as though the two of you were worlds apart. “Why wasn’t I worth trusting?”
His mouth opened. And closed. There was no answer that could lessen the cruelty of his actions to you. “I do trust you.”
You shook your head rigorously. “No, you trusted Karen. You trust her now.”
Guilt was written all over his face. You dug the heels of your palm into your eyes, trying to force the tears to cease.
His hand twitched at his side, as if he was fighting the instinct to comfort you.
“You didn’t die. You didn’t disappear. You decided that you didn’t want me as a constant in your life anymore.”
summary : frank coming home from deployment calls for the most extreme tap-out and sweetest surprise.
warnings : none rlly- just tooth rotting fluff, frank can't keep his hands to himself, frank has a potty mouth, fluffffffffff, mentions of pregnancy.
word count : 6.1 k
a/n : not proofread and based off of this rq ! ( also yes i know "tapping out" a soldier happens usually after a graduation from basic training but for the sake of the fic were gonna pretend it's a regular thing kay ? kay.)
The phone rings on the dinner table just as you turn the stove top off, cursing under your breath as the pasta water flows over the top of the pot. You scramble for a dish rag, burning yourself on the water as it soaks through the flimsy material.
Usually, you'd be screaming for Frank- whining in pain as he runs over to you, holding a gun, thinking someone broke in or something.
But you can't do that.
You haven't been able to do that for seven months. Not since he went to Afghanistan.
"Shit," you hiss, dropping the rag. The phone keeps ringing. Once. Twice. Three times. Your heart immediately starts racing. Because nobody calls anymore. Not really. Most people text. Calls mean something happened. Calls mean news. Good or bad. And when your husband is halfway across the world in a combat zone and you're pregnant to your teeth with a baby he has no idea exists - every unexpected phone call feels like a loaded gun pointed directly at your chest. The phone rings again. You stare at it.
Afraid to answer. Afraid not to. Finally, you force yourself forward and grab it.
"Hello?" Silence. Then—
"Sweetheart?" The entire world stops. Your knees nearly give out. You know that voice. You'd know it anywhere.
Even through static. Even half-asleep. Even after months.
"Frank?" You press your hand to your bump, feeling your daughter kick at your ribs at the mention of the name.
You found out you were pregnant a week after he left. It didn't make sense to tell him. Not that soon. A laugh crackles through the line. Soft. Tired.
God, so tired.
"Yeah." You sink into the nearest chair so fast it almost topples over. "Yeah, it's me baby."
"Oh my God." Your eyes immediately burn. Frank hears it. Of course he does.
Your daughter kicks again.
Hard enough that you suck in a breath.
"You cryin' already?"
"No."
"You are."
"I'm literally not."
"You sound like it." A tear slides down your cheek. Traitor. You wipe it away furiously.
"You haven't called in two weeks." The words come out sharper than you intended. Frank goes quiet.
"Yeah."
"Two weeks, Frank."
"I know."
"You said you'd call."
"I know." You hate how small his voice sounds. How exhausted. How guilty. The anger evaporates almost instantly. Because that's the problem. You miss him too much to stay mad. The silence stretches between you. You can hear his heavy breathing, the way it sounds like he's struggling to stay awake.
Can hear distant voices somewhere behind him.
Can hear the static.
And all you can think about is the secret sitting beneath your palm. The secret that has gotten bigger every single day he's been gone. The secret kicking your ribs like she's trying to join the conversation.
Seven months. Seven months of doctor's appointments. Seven months of ultrasounds. Seven months of talking to an empty side of the bed, or your bump and telling your little girl stories about her daddy. . Seven months of staring at pictures of Frank and wondering how the hell you were supposed to tell him. Not over the phone.
Not while bullets were flying around his head. Not while every call could've been the last one. So you waited.
And waited. And waited.
Until suddenly there wasn't a good way to explain why your husband had missed almost an entire pregnancy.
"Baby ?" He rasps. "Will you- Will you talk ? Just talk- about anything. Everything. I just want to hear your voice. Miss hearin' my pretty wife ramble about pointless things." You roll your eyes, and he chuckles, as if he nknows you're doing so. You bite on your bottom lip and look up at the stove top.
"I tried to make pasta." You mutter. Frank chortles.
"Tried ? What do you mean, tried, pretty girl ?" You glare at the pot like it's personally offended you.
"It boiled over." A pause. Then—
"Jesus Christ."
"Oh, shut up."
"You managed to lose a fight against noodles?"
"I burned my hand!" That wipes the amusement right out of his voice.
"You what?"
"It's fine."
"Sweetheart."
"It's barely a burn."
"Did you run it under cold water?" You blink.
"…Maybe."
"Maybe?"
"I got distracted."
"By what?"
"You called." The silence that follows is soft. Warm. The kind that only exists between two people who've loved each other for so long they can hear everything in the spaces between words. When Frank finally speaks, his voice is quieter.
"Lemme guess. You just stood there cryin' instead."
"I'm not crying."
"Sure." You sniff.
"Don't start." He laughs. God. You've missed that sound. For a while, you talk about everything and nothing. The neighbor's dog that keeps escaping. The grocery store cashier who keeps flirting with old ladies. The plant Frank swore was impossible to kill that's somehow still alive despite your complete neglect. Frank listens to every second of it. Like each stupid little detail is precious. Like he's starving for normal. Every now and then he hums or chuckles or asks a question. Mostly he just listens. Your hand moves across the curve of your stomach. Frank hums as you talk. The sound is warm. Comforting. Dangerous. Because it makes you want to tell him.
Right now. Immediately. Just blurt it out.
Hey, by the way, while you were fighting in Afghanistan, your daughter learned how to kick me in the bladder.
No big deal.
Instead, you swallow hard. And eventually, after nearly an hour, you glance toward the kitchen clock.
"What time is it over there? I don't want to keep you up if it's late. " There's a strange pause. A beat too long. "Frank?" Another pause.
Then a low laugh. You frown.
"What?"
"Nothin'."
"Frank."
"Sweetheart…" Immediately suspicious.
"What." He exhales. And suddenly he sounds nervous. Which is terrifying because Frank Castle isn't nervous about anything.
"Don't get mad."
"Oh my God."
"Just hear me out."
"Frank."
"I'm not in Afghanistan." The world stops. You stare at the wall.
"…What?"
"I'm not there anymore." Fear hits your chest so hard you grab the table for stability, afraid you'll fall over.
"What do you mean you're not there anymore?" You gulp, biting back tears. "Did they move you ? Oh my god, Frank, did they extend your deployment ?" Your heart is hammering and you let out a sob. "I can't do another year of this, Frank." The words break apart on a sob. Immediately, Frank makes a sound you've only heard a handful of times in your life. Panic.
"Whoa. Hey. Hey, sweetheart. No." Your breathing is getting worse. Because your brain has already filled in the blanks. Transferred. Extended deployment. Another combat zone. Another year of sleeping alone. Another year of staring at an empty side of the bed. "Baby, listen to me."
"You said you're not in Afghanistan."
"I'm not."
"Then where are you?"
"Sweetheart—"
"Frank, where are you?" The silence lasts exactly one second. Then—
"I'm in New York." You freeze.
"…What?" Frank laughs. Actually laughs. A little helplessly. A little nervously.
"Ain't in Afghanistan." You stare at the wall. Your brain refusing to process the information.
"What."
"New York."
"What."
"New York."
"What."
"Sweetheart."
"Frank."
"New York." The silence stretches. Then—
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm really not."
"Frank Castle."
"I'm lookin' at our pizza place right now." Your mouth falls open.
"You—"
"Pretty sure Johnny is outside's sellin' fake watches again."
"Frank."
"And somebody just yelled at a taxi."
"Frank." His laugh crackles through the phone. God. God. Your husband.
Your husband is home.
You press a hand over your mouth. And suddenly you're crying harder than before.
"Hey." The amusement disappears instantly. "Hey, baby."
"You're home?"
"Yeah." The answer is quiet. Gentle. Like he knows exactly what those words mean. You squeeze your eyes shut.
"You're really home?"
"Yeah."
"When?"
"Yesterday." Your eyes snap open.
"Yesterday?"
"Okay, see, now in my defense—"
"Yesterday ?"
"I was gonna surprise you."
"Frank!"
"I know!"
"You let me think you were still overseas!"
"I was trying to be romantic!"
"You're an idiot!"
"That's fair." You laugh through your tears. Half hysterical. Half relieved. All emotional. Frank just listens. Probably smiling. Definitely smiling. The bastard.
"You suck."
"I know."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"No, I really don't." A soft sound leaves him. The kind of sound people make when they're smiling so hard it hurts. Then his voice lowers.
"Missed you." And just like that, every bit of anger evaporates. Your throat tightens.
"Missed you too." For a moment neither of you says anything.
Just breathing. Just existing. Together. Finally, Frank clears his throat.
"So."
"So?"
"There's one problem." You immediately narrow your eyes.
"Frank."
"It ain't a big problem."
"Frank."
"It's actually a very small problem."
"Frank." He sighs dramatically.
"I was gonna come home tinight but- They got a ceremony tomorrow morning."
"Oh."
"Yeah." You understand immediately. His unit. His team. The deployment. Everything they survived together. "They wanna recognize everybody before they release us."
"Of course they do."
"Means I gotta stay overnight." You nod despite him not being able to see it.
"Okay."
"But." The way he says it immediately makes you suspicious.
"But?" Another pause. You can practically hear the grin spreading across his face.
"They need somebody to tap me out afterwards." Your heart skips.
"Oh?"
"Yeah."
"Mhm."
"So."
"Frank."
"What?"
"You planned this."
"I absolutely planned this." You laugh. The first real laugh you've had in months. And Frank immediately laughs too. Like he'd been waiting to hear it.
"So," he says softly. "You wanna come get your husband tomorrow?" Your eyes fill with tears all over again. Happy ones this time.
"Try and stop me, Castle." You chuckle, choking on a sob.
---------
The next morning, you wake up before your alarm. Before the sun. Before your brain can even fully catch up.
For one glorious second, you're confused. Then it hits you.
Frank. Frank is home. Almost home.
Your eyes fly open.
And your daughter immediately kicks you in the ribs.
"Ow." Another kick. "Yeah, yeah, I know." You press a hand over your stomach. She answers with another violent little jab.
Apparently she's excited too. The thought makes your chest ache. Because in a few hours, she's going to meet her father.
Well. Not really meet. But he'll know. Finally.
After seven months of secrets and ultrasounds and doctor's appointments and baby clothes hidden in closets. After seven months of staring at sonogram pictures and wondering how the hell you'd explain all of this. You sit up slowly. Immediately regretting it. At eight months pregnant, nothing is graceful anymore. Everything feels like a coordinated military operation.
Ironically. The thought almost makes you laugh.
By eight o'clock, you're dressed. Or as dressed as you're capable of being. The maternity dress is beautiful - but it barely fits anymore. Your shoes are a lost cause. And no matter what you wear, you're carrying what looks like an entire basketball team beneath your ribs. You stare at yourself in the mirror. Then at your stomach. Then back at yourself.
"He's gonna kill me." The baby kicks. "You're not helping." Another kick. Definitely Frank's daughter. The ceremony is being held on base. And by the time you arrive, your palms are sweating so badly you're worried you'll crash the car.
Not because of the crowd. Not because of the military officers. Not because of the ceremony.
Because of him. You haven't seen him in seven months. Seven months. Longer than you've ever gone without seeing Frank Castle.
You park. Sit in the driver's seat. And suddenly can't breathe.
What if he's different? What if you're different? What if—
A sharp kick lands directly on your bladder. You yelp. And immediately start laughing.
"Okay." Another kick. "Okay." One more. "Message received." You climb out of the car. Slowly. Carefully. And waddle. There's no dignified word for it.
You waddle toward the crowd. The ceremony is already underway. Rows of soldiers. Families. Friends.Children sitting on shoulders.
And then— You see him. Your breath leaves your body.
Frank. God. He's bulkier. His hair is shorter. There's a fresh scar on his jaw you don't recognize.
But it's him. It's still him. Standing straight. Hands clasped behind his back. Listening to somebody give a speech he absolutely doesn't care about. Your eyes burn instantly. Like they always do.
Like they probably always will. As if sensing it, Frank turns his head just as you sit down.
His gaze sweeps across the crowd. Past dozens of people. Then finds you. Everything stops. His face changes immediately. The exhausted military professionalism disappears. The soldier disappears. The tough guy disappears. And suddenly he just looks… Happy.
God. So happy.
The corner of his mouth lifts. Tiny. Private. Just for you. You smile back. You bite your lip. Wave awkwardly. Gather your jacket in front of your belly so that it looks inconspicuous. And thank god, he doesn't notice.
His eyes snap back to attention when his name is called, and he walks up to get his medal. Frank accepts the medal without a flicker of expression. At least, that's what everyone else sees. You know him too well. You see the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. The way his shoulders settle a fraction when he spots you in the crowd again. The way his eyes keep trying to drift back toward where you're sitting before snapping forward. The ceremony drags. Speech after speech. Recognition after recognition.
Until finally the commanding officer steps forward.
"At this time, personnel will remain at attention until tapped out by their designated family members." A ripple moves through the crowd.
People start standing. Parents. Spouses.
Children.
Everyone moving toward the rows of soldiers waiting to be released. Frank doesn't move. Can't move. Hands behind his back. Eyes forward. Completely still.
You rise from your chair, fiddling with your wedding band. Your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest. The baby chooses that exact moment to kick.
Hard.
"Please don't start," you whisper. Another kick. You swear she's laughing at you. Slowly, you make your way through the crowd.
One step. Then another. Frank is staring straight ahead. Military bearing locked firmly into place. He hasn't seen you stand. Hasn't seen you walking toward him.
And because you've been hiding behind chairs and people and your jacket all morning— He still has absolutely no idea. Your palms are sweating. Your throat feels tight.
Seven months. Seven months of waiting. Seven months of secrets. Seven months of wondering how you'd tell him. And somehow you've ended up here.
In front of half the military. With nowhere to run.
You stop a few feet away. Frank's eyes stay forward. The rules are the rules. No moving. No talking. No breaking attention. You bite your lip.
And wait. Just because you can.
Because after seven months? You deserve at least a little revenge. A few seconds pass. Frank remains perfectly still. You can practically feel the tension radiating off him.
Then— Very slowly— You take a step closer. His jaw tightens. He knows you're there. Of course he knows. He could probably identify you blindfolded from across a football field. Another step. Still no touch. The muscle in his cheek twitches. You almost laugh. Another step. Now you're directly in front of him.
Close enough to see the new scar on his jaw. Close enough to see the faint shadows beneath his eyes. Close enough to smell his cologne beneath the starch and uniform. His eyes remain fixed straight ahead. But they're starting to narrow. Suspicious. Impatient. You can practically hear him thinking:
Sweetheart, tap me out before I lose my damn mind. Instead— You slowly unzip your jacket. Just a little. Frank doesn't react. Then a little more. Nothing. Then you pull it completely open. The movement draws his gaze downward automatically. Just for a second. Just long enough. His eyes hit your stomach. And stop. Everything about him freezes.
Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But you do. Because you've spent years learning every tiny thing about this man.
The breath leaves his lungs. His eyes widen. Just barely. The color drains from his face.
He stares. At your stomach. Then your stomach. Then your stomach again. Like maybe he's hallucinating. Like maybe Afghanistan finally broke his brain. You feel tears burning behind your eyes. Frank looks up. Straight into your face. And the expression there almost destroys you. Shock. Wonder. Disbelief. Pure, overwhelming emotion. You smile. A tiny, watery smile. Then your daughter picks that exact moment to kick. A visible movement beneath the fabric. Frank sees it.
Oh God. He sees it.
His entire face breaks. Not outwardly. Not enough to abandon attention. But enough. Enough that you see it. Enough that his eyes go glassy. Enough that he looks like someone just handed him the entire world.
You let him stare for another second. Then another. Drawing it out. Because you've waited seven months.
He can wait five more seconds. Frank looks moments away from committing several military violations simultaneously.
Finally— Finally— You lift your hand. Your hand finds home on his chest, and his whole body lurches forward. His arms come flying around you, trapping you against his chest. One hand at the small of your back, the other tangled in your hair, keeping you close. Your arms loop around his neck as you sob, breathing him in, feeling the rabid heartbeat in his chest against yours. He's holding you so tight you're afraid you'll stop breathing, so you push away from him, chuckling through your tears as he cups your cheeks, his mouth parted. You brush your thumb over the scar on his jaw.
"Are you real ?" You manage. Frank licks his lips, his chest rising and falling so hard his dog tags are clinking.
For a second, he just stares at you. Not the crowd. Not the officers. Not the ceremony.
You.
Like he's trying to memorize every inch of your face all over again. Then his gaze drops.
Slowly. Deliberately. To your stomach. Back up to your eyes. Then down again. His hands are shaking. Actually shaking.
You don't think you've ever seen that before. Not Frank. Not your Frank.
His throat works.
Once. Twice.
When he finally speaks, his voice comes out rough enough to scrape bark off a tree.
"Baby, what…" His eyes flick back to your stomach. Then back to you. "What the fuck ?" Fear hits your chest so fast you try to take a tiny step back, but you're stopped by Frank gripping your waist, thumbs digging softly into the side of the curve of your belly - the curve that wasn't then when he left. You stammer helplessly, horrified that he might be angry with you. His thumb strokes against your stomach again.
"Is this- Is this a fucking joke ?" He rasps. You shake your head.
"Frank-"
"Because if this is your way of getting back at me for lying to you about coming home it's sick, baby. Sick and so fucking twisted." You stare at him. For a second, you can't even process what he just said. Then your jaw drops.
"Frank." His hands tighten on your waist.
"Baby, I'm serious."
"It's not a joke."
"You're telling me you're- " His eyes dart back to your stomach again, looking completely wrecked. "You're havin' my baby ?" You let out a wet, disbelieving laugh.
"No, i just got fat while you were gone." You sniffle. "Yes, you idiot. I' having your baby." Frank just stares. The crowd around you keeps moving. Families hugging soldiers. Children crying. People laughing. Cameras flashing.
It all feels a million miles away. Because Frank Castle is looking at you like the entire universe has narrowed down to one thing.
You.
And the baby beneath your heart. His mouth opens. Closes.
Opens again. Nothing comes out.
"Frank?" you whisper. His eyes immediately snap to yours.
"How long?" You swallow.
"I found out a week after you left. I'm seven months along." The words hit him like a freight train. You physically watch it happen. His eyes close. His head drops forward. One huge hand comes up and drags down his face.
"A week…" he repeats hoarsely. You nod. His shoulders shake once. Not a laugh. Not a sob. Something in between.
"A week," he says again, like maybe if he repeats it enough times it'll start making sense. "Jesus Christ."
"Frank—"
"A week."
"I wanted to tell you." His eyes open. And God. The guilt hits you all over again. Because there's hurt there. Not anger. Hurt.
"I missed everything." The words nearly break your heart. You reach for him immediately.
"Frank—"
"I missed everything." His hand tightens on your waist before his other comes up to brush hair away from your face. His voice cracks. Actually cracks.
You don't think you've ever heard that before. Not once. Not in all the years you've known him. His gaze drops to your stomach again. To the life that kept growing while he was thousands of miles away.
"I missed it's first heartbeat." Your throat tightens.
"Frank—"
"I missed the ultrasounds." Your eyes start burning.
"I know."
"I missed…" His voice catches. "I missed all of it." You grab both sides of his face.
"Hey." His eyes find yours. "Hey." He goes silent. "I wanted to tell you every day." And that's the truth. Every single day. Every appointment. Every kick. Every sleepless night. Every tiny outfit. Every sonogram picture. Every moment. "I just couldn't." Frank watches you. You can see him trying to understand. Trying to put himself back into those months. "You were over there," you whisper. "Every phone call could've been the last one." His jaw tightens. "I wasn't gonna tell you something that huge and then hang up and spend the next two weeks wondering if you were alive." You choke on a sob. "God, Frankie. For the first three months i cried whenever anyone knocked on the door. I thought i'd open it to see soldiers and a folded flag, carrying a solemn look on their faces about to tell me my husband was shot to death or-or blown up or-"
"Baby.." Frank rasps. His hands come up so fast you barely see them move. One cups the back of your head. The other settles over the curve of your stomach.
Protective. Instinctive.
Like he's already trying to shield both of you from things that already happened.
"Hey." His forehead presses against yours. "Hey, look at me." You can't. Because now you're crying too hard. The words have been sitting in your chest for seven months. Every fear. Every nightmare. Every terrible possibility. And now that he's here, standing in front of you, alive and breathing and warm, they all come pouring out.
"I was terrified," you choke out. Frank closes his eyes.
"I know."
"No, you don't." His jaw clenches.
"I know enough."
"I'd hear the phone ring and think something happened." His thumb brushes your cheek. "I'd see military officers in public and I'd panic." His breathing shudders. "And every time she kicked—" Your voice breaks. "Every time she kicked I wanted to tell you." Frank's eyes squeeze shut. Hard. Like he's physically hurting. "I wanted to show you the ultrasounds." You laugh wetly. "I bought this stupid little pair of baby shoes and I cried for an hour because you weren't there." Frank lets out a sound. A broken sound. One you've never heard from him before.
"Sweetheart…"
"And I kept thinking if something happened to you…" Your voice cracks completely. "How was I supposed to tell her about you if she never got to meet you?" That does it. Frank's face crumples. Actually crumples. The big scary soldier who survived Afghanistan looks like he's about two seconds from falling apart right here in front of God and everybody.
"Don't." The word comes out rough. Barely audible. "Don't say that."
"But I thought it."
"I know."
"I thought it every day." Frank swallows hard. Then he pulls you closer. Careful now. One hand on your back. One hand still resting on your stomach. Like he can't stop touching it. Like he's afraid it'll disappear if he does. For a long moment he just stands there breathing.
Trying to collect himself. Trying and failing. Then he looks down.
At your stomach. Again. And again. Like he still can't believe it.
"You really kept a whole baby secret from me." Despite everything, a laugh escapes you.
"Technically." His eyes narrow.
"Technically?" A sharp kick answers him. Your eyes widen. Frank freezes. Completely freezes.
"Oh my God." Another kick. Right beneath his hand. Frank makes the strangest noise you've ever heard. Half laugh. Half sob. His knees almost buckle.
"Oh my God."
"Yeah."
"Oh my God." You start laughing through your tears. His hand spreads wider over your stomach. Careful. Reverent. Like he's touching something sacred. Another kick lands. And Frank's entire face lights up. Not a smile. Something bigger. Something brighter. Pure wonder. The kind you only get once. Maybe twice. In an entire lifetime.
"That's my kid." You choke on another laugh.
"Pretty sure."
"That's my kid." Frank sounds stunned. Like he just discovered fire. Like nobody has ever had a baby before and this is a completely new concept. Another kick. Frank immediately looks offended.
"She's kickin' you that hard?"
"Constantly." Then he looks down at your stomach one more time. And his expression softens. Completely.
"She's a girl?" Your heart squeezes. You nod. Frank just stands there. Silent. Processing. Then his eyes fill again. Frank's hand trembles against your stomach. And when he finally smiles, it looks almost disbelieving. Like he's still waiting for someone to wake him up.
"Our little girl." Then he looks at you. At the woman he thought he was coming home to. And the family he didn't know he'd already started. And his voice breaks all over again.
"You went through all this shit alone."He rasps, shaking his head. And the the thought sours in his head. Frank's face goes completely blank.
Which, somehow, is worse. You know that look. It's the look he gets when he's furious and trying very hard not to show it. Not at you.
At himself. His eyes travel down again. Your swollen ankles. The way you're unconsciously rubbing your lower back. The way one hand keeps supporting the underside of your stomach. The exhaustion hiding beneath the excitement.
And suddenly you can practically see the last seven months playing through his head.
You trying to carry groceries. You assembling nursery furniture. You standing on chairs to reach shelves. You driving yourself to doctor's appointments. You getting sick. Scared.
Alone.
Without him.
"You carried a whole human bein' by yourself for seven months?"
"I mean, technically she's still in there—"
"Sweetheart."
"Frank."
"No." You stare at him. He stares right back.
"That's not an answer."
"It is an answer."
"It's literally not."
"It means you're done."
"Done with what?"
"Everything." You bark out a laugh.
"Oh, absolutely not."
"Oh, absolutely yes."
"Frank." He points at your stomach.
"You are eight months pregnant."
"Seven."
"Eight."
"Seven."
"Close enough." You roll your eyes. Frank immediately notices. "I saw that."
"You don't get to come home after seven months and start bossing me around."
"I absolutely do."
"You absolutely don't."
"I fought a war."
"And?"
"And you built a baby." The words hit you so unexpectedly you actually stop talking. Frank seems surprised he said it too. But then his expression softens. "You built our little girl." Your eyes sting instantly.
"Frank…" His hand slides over your stomach again. Gentle. Careful. Almost disbelieving.
"We're going home. Now." By the time he gets you into the passenger seat, he's still muttering apologies. The second you reach for the seatbelt, his hand appears.
"I got it."
"Frank." Click. Buckled. You stare at him. He closes the door. Walks around the driver's side. Gets in. Starts the engine. Then reaches over and adjusts the air conditioning vent so it isn't blowing directly on you. Then adjusts your seat. Then hands you a bottle of water. Then asks if you're hungry. Then asks if you're tired. Then asks if your back hurts. Then asks if your feet hurt. Then asks if the baby kicks a lot. Then asks if you've been sleeping okay.
Then asks approximately fourteen thousand more questions.
Finally you hold up a hand.
"Frank."
"What?"
"Take a breath." He looks at you. Looks at your stomach. Looks back at you. And says, completely serious: "I leave for seven months and come back to find out there's a whole person in there." You start laughing. He doesn't.
"Frank."
"I'm serious."
"I know."
"There's a tiny person."
"Yes."
"Our tiny person." You smile.
"Yeah." Frank's eyes immediately get shiny again. Frank shakes his head. Then reaches over. Grabs your hand. And doesn't let go for the entire drive home.As if seven months apart used up every second he's willing to spend without touching you.
The second the front door opens, Frank stops. Just stops. You nearly walk into his back.
"Frank?" He doesn't answer. He's staring into the apartment. At the laundry basket overflowing beside the couch. At the stack of unopened mail on the counter. At the half-finished nursery visible down the hallway. At all the little signs of a life that kept moving while he was gone. A life you carried alone.
His jaw clenches.
Then he reaches back without looking and grabs your hand.
"Come here."
"Frank, I'm literally right here."
"Closer." You roll your eyes. But step closer. Immediately his arm wraps around your shoulders. Like he's making up for lost time. Like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go. The moment you're inside, he starts fussing. Relentlessly.
"Take your shoes off."
"I just sat in a car for forty minutes."
"Shoes."
"Frank."
"Shoes." Five minutes later he's helping you onto the couch. Ten minutes later there's a blanket over your legs. Fifteen minutes later he's somehow produced a glass of water, a pillow, a snack, and approximately seventeen questions about whether you're comfortable. You stare at him. He stares right back.
"What?"
"You're hovering."
"I'm supervisin'."
"That's the same thing."
"It ain't."
"It literally is."
"Nope." You open your mouth. A yawn immediately escapes instead. Frank's entire face softens.
"You're exhausted. You been on y'a feet too long."
"I'm not." Another yawn. Frank looks smug.
"I hate you."
"No, you don't." You try to argue. You really do. But the couch is soft. The apartment smells like home. Frank is finally here. And the second he sits beside you, one hand resting automatically on your stomach, you feel yourself melting. The last thing you remember is his thumb brushing slow circles over the fabric of your dress.And his voice.Low.
Warm.
Safe.
"Go to sleep, sweetheart." When you wake up, sunlight is pouring through the windows. For one disorienting second, you panic. Then you feel the blanket tucked around you. And hear the faint sound of tools clinking somewhere down the hall.
Your eyes blink open. The apartment feels… different. Cleaner. You sit up slowly.
Immediately noticing the laundry basket. Or rather— The lack of one.
Your brow furrows. You look around. The living room is spotless. The dishes that were sitting in the sink are gone. The counters are clean. Something smells amazing.
Food. Actual food. Not whatever sad collection of snacks you've been surviving on for the last few months.
"Frank?" No answer. You push yourself to your feet.
Follow the sounds. And stop dead in the hallway. The nursery door is open.
Inside, Frank is sitting on the floor. Building the crib. Your crib.
The one that's been sitting half-finished in a box for weeks because you couldn't figure out the instructions and eventually got frustrated enough to threaten it with violence.
Frank has one knee up.
Instruction manual spread beside him.
Sleeves rolled to his elbows.
And a tiny pink onesie hanging from one of the crib rails because apparently he found those too.
For a moment you just stand there. Watching. Something in your chest aches. Because he looks so unbelievably at home. Like he belongs here. Like he was always supposed to be here.
Like he never left.
Not overseas.
Not fighting wars. Here.
Building a crib for his daughter.
Frank glances up. Immediately catches you staring. His entire face lights up.
"Hey, goregous." You don't answer. Your eyes are already burning. Frank notices instantly. "Oh no."
"You did laundry."
"Yeah."
"You cleaned."
"Yeah."
"You made food."
"Yeah."
"You built half the crib."
"Workin' on it."
"Frank." His expression shifts. Softens. You shake your head. "You're supposed to be resting." Frank actually laughs. A full laugh. Like that's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard.
"Sweetheart."
"I'm serious. You need to sleep. You got back from Afghanistan yesterday."
"And?"
"And you're exhausted." Frank snorts. Then points the screwdriver at you.
"Counterpoint." You narrow your eyes.
"What counterpoint?" He gestures around the nursery.
"You built a whole human." Your mouth falls open.
"Frank. You were in a war zone. You need a shower and a- a meal ! A good night's sleep ! Not to be fussing over me and building a crib-"
"Baby." Frank just stares at you. Then he slowly sets the screwdriver down. Which is never a good sign. Because it means he's about to make a point. A very annoying point.
"No."
"I ain't even said nothin' yet."
"I know where this is going."
"No, you don't."
"I do."
"You don't." You point accusingly at him.
"You're gonna say something noble and stupid." Frank looks offended.
"I don't say noble things."
"You absolutely do."
"I really don't."You groan. Frank looks entirely too pleased with himself. Then his expression softens. A little.
"C'mere." You walk over to him, arms crossed. His hand finds yours.
Big. Warm. Familiar. He squeezes gently.
"You think I spent seven months over there dreamin' about sleep?" You open your mouth. Then close it.
Because honestly? No.
You know exactly what he dreamed about. Home. You. The life waiting for him.
Frank's thumb brushes across your knuckles.
"I slept in dirt."
"Frank."
"I ate food that tasted like cardboard."
"Frank."
"I showered when I got lucky." His eyes crinkle slightly. "But every night?" You swallow. Every trace of amusement disappears. "I thought about comin' home." Your throat tightens. Frank glances around the nursery. At the half-built crib. At the tiny clothes folded neatly on the shelves. At the stuffed rabbit sitting in the corner. Things he never got to see happen. Things he missed. Then he looks back at you. "And now I'm here." His voice is quiet. Steady. Like he's reminding himself. "I'm home. And i'm never leaving you again." You blink rapidly.
"Frank…"
"So no." He shakes his head. "I don't wanna sleep."
"You need sleep."
"I wanna do this." He gestures around the room. The nursery. The crib. The tiny pink blanket folded nearby. "I wanna know where you keep the diapers." You laugh through the tears gathering in your eyes. Frank keeps going. "I wanna know which drawer her clothes are in." Your lips wobble. "I wanna know what doctor you've been seein' or where your to-go bag is. I wanna know your cravings, what side y'like to sleep on."
"Frank…"
"I wanna know which stuffed animals she likes."
"She isn't born yet."
"Don't matter." A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I still wanna know." A tear escapes. Frank immediately reaches up and wipes it away.
"Hey." You shake your head.
"I just…" Your voice breaks. "You should be taking care of yourself." His expression softens completely. The teasing disappears. The grumbling disappears. Everything disappears. Until it's just Frank. Just your husband. Looking at you like you're something precious. Something he almost lost.
"Sweetheart." Your eyes meet his. "I spent seven months takin' care of myself." The words land softly. "But I ain't spent any time takin' care of my girls." You laugh.
"I still think you need rest." You say. Frank kisses your forehead.
"Trust me, baby. Being here with you, at home, and not in a place where I'm getting shot at every six seconds qualifies as rest." He pulls away from you and ducks down to grab the screwdriver. You groan.
"God, Frank- At least take a nap. Please ?" Frank looks up at you like you just asked him to sell you drugs.
