welcome home, soldier boy- frank castle
pairing : frank castle x f! reader
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.
He scoffs, sitting back down on the floor.
"Oh, baby. I don't do naps."
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