Frank Castle x High School Sweetheart!Reader — Glory Days
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Series Summary: Before war and murder and vengeance, Frank existed as… well, Frank. Young, wary of the world, but determined to make an impact. And then…? Then came you. You changed everything. Ah… to be 18 again.
Chapter Summary: Frank has a minor crash out trying to bake you a cupcake for your birthday. His mom comes to the rescue. Just when you think you’ve had the best birthday of your life thanks to Frank, it quickly turns into the worst because of him.
Warnings: angry!frank at the start (he cares a lot), mother-son angst & baking, multi-pov, birthday fluff, implied underaged drinking & drug use (not active, not reader, you’ll see), grumpy!softie!bf Frankie, i do not specifically state it or write it but hand stuff (m & f) happens off page, unresolved angsty end. pic for aesthetic only, reader’s appearance not described. Frank’s 18, reader’s 19.
(dedicated to @veralinasol - hbd friend, much love 🥳🎁)
Louisa Castiglione Castle considers herself a strong woman.
Birthed a nine pound baby without an epidural for her one and only geriatric pregnancy. After thirty-six hours of labor, mind you.
Moved across the globe with no more than a pocketbook full of English, a new husband, and two dimes for a better life, better opportunities.
It cost her name. Castiglione. Discrimination. Language barriers. Loneliness and culture shock. Even… fear.
It left her—even at sixty-three—with full, black curls and rich olive skin showing only a shiver of age from Sicily, to remind her of the home left.
Those things, though, what it cost, Louisa gives credit to her grit, her resilience. It left her with a strict demeanor and a willingness to fight against anything that threatens the life and family she built.
Having lived in two different countries… things rarely surprise her.
…Until she finds her son in the kitchen after midnight on a Friday.
“Francis!” she blurts, hanging onto the doorframe so she doesn’t fall through it. “Francis David, what have you done?”
Globs of batter stick to the cabinetry in confectioner’s abstraction.
A pot on the stove pipes steam, smoldering a low, blackened bubble of only god knows what.
Flour coats the countertops and Frank’s sleep pants in a thick layer.
Grains of sugar look like they’ve been thrown as edible confetti.
Every bowl, pan, and whisk Louisa owns and cherishes lay scattered and smeared in chocolate.
Foil cupcake liners roll from the ledge and onto the floor, one by one in a mockery.
At the middle of it all, hands twisted in his hair, looking every bit of wild as the kitchen… her son.
Short, stout, and quick for her age, Louisa bundles her robe tight and scurries to her son. Concern and demand shake her words. “Answer me, Francis! What are you doing!?”
She snaps off the burners and nearly has a stroke when she sees the oven’s set to 500* degrees.
“She, uh—” his voice scratchy, thin. “She likes chocolate.”
“Who!?” Louisa fires back as she dons a potholder, removing the scorched pot from heat as if it’s toxic waste.
Frank throws a cold sidelong glare. Who do you think?
“You suppose burning down my kitchen is going to get her chocolate?”
Louisa’s always been good at damage control, physical and mental.
“Tried,” Frank croaks, throwing a hand at the disaster. Flour on his pants, gooey chocolate plastered to his shirt, a silicon spatula melted in the sink. “Fucked it up.”
His mom bites a groan at the language, her face flush as she zips around to extinguish the fire hazards and salvage her bakeware.
She’s taught him to cook.
Baking’s a different beast.
It takes all of the strength life’s given Louisa Castle to not break as she watches her son stand in helpless shambles over cupcakes in her kitchen at midnight.
Frank’s having some sort of out of body experience while his mom rushes around him, cleaning his mess, muttering colorful Italian curses.
Frank doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Towers in front of the oven, unblinking eyes clouded, shoulders slumped. All six-foot-two looking pathetic instead of intimidating.
The clock on the stove clicks another minute gone.
It’s your birthday. And he doesn’t have a fucking thing for you like he planned.
The shit to buy? Yeah, sure. Easy.
The shit that actually means something? His mom’s scraping his failure into the trash.
Louisa slaps the facet off and—
The silence is resounding.
So fuckin’ final it echoes, grating static in Frank’s eardrums.
He can do a lot of things. Can’t fuckin’ bake one. single. cupcake for you, though. How’s he supposed to provide when he can’t even do this?
T-shirt and sweats stained, hair an unruly nest, Frank’s empty stare locks onto a cupcake foil rolling on the counter. Aggravating little arcs, catching air from the fan just right.
Louisa bundles her arms around herself, standing across the room at the sink, facing the wall of Frank’s back.
“Are you going to tell me what you’re actually doing down here, Francis?” she whispers with a frazzled edge.
“Already did.” Short, mean.
“No, you told me your girlfriend likes chocolate. That doesn’t explain why you broke my whisk and tried to boil my chocolate chips in a dozen eggs.”
He’s exhausted. He’s pissed. He’s having his first quarter life crisis because you matter.
Clipped words leave his mouth in tamed snarls. “She- she didn’t ask f’fuckin’ nothin’ cause that’s the type ‘a person she is,” he says. His hands find the chip on the underside of the counter and clamp on until the skin pricks open. “You wanna know what she asked me for?” Knuckles white, forearms cut in angry muscle. “Huh? You wanna know? This girl— this goddamn girl asked me f’the same shit we do every Saturday night. Asked f’a goddamn movie.”
Louisa looks down. Instead of inspecting the mess on the floor, it’s a spot for realization.
“Asked me f’that ’cause she’s scared t’ ask f’anythin’ else. ‘Cause she’s selfless ‘n fuckin’ scared ‘n she knows what it’s like to pay the goddamn bills.”
And a good woman will always ache for babies in need, who’ve gotten less than her own. She blinks to bat away the sting.
Frank turns two steps to face her, his face twisted into a spine-deep contempt. Frenetic eyes land on her, then around her, his massive hands coiled into fists heavier than lead. “Sound familiar t’ you, Ma?” His head tilts, repulsion not aimed at her, but towards the parallel realities you and his mom share. “Selfless ‘n scared ‘n tryna feed a goddamn family? Imagine bein’ eightee— sorry, nineteen—still in school, doin’ that shit. You imagine that, huh?”
Louisa lowers a hand, a slight signal to calm down. It never works. “No. I can’t imagine that. But she’s a strong young woman, I do know that. And I know you’re a strong young man, Francis.”
His seething glare finds the place right between her eyes; a challenge to keep talking. It doesn’t deter her the least bit.
“You’ve got such a big heart, sweetie.” A whisper, the space between them chasmic instead of a few feet. “Sometimes I don’t think you know what to do with all of it. And it scares you, doesn’t it? Not being able to fix it for her. Francis, you’re only a boy too. Stop punishingyourself for that.”
A bad dog’s snarl wrinkles his nose, bares clenched teeth. “‘Member what you said t’ me? Hm?” Shredded heaves shallow in his chest, his nose. “What you told me when we saw that scumbag piece ‘a shit beatin’ that old lady’s head in f’her five dollars?”
The dead-on stare tells Frank she remembers and admits to it.
“Told me t’ be a man ‘bout it, huh? God gave me six feet ‘n two hundred pounds t’ fuckin’ fix shit.”
“I fixed it, yeah. I did. ‘Member that too?”
Neither Frank nor Louisa can forget the bloodshed.
A pool seeping on the sidewalk.
A grateful old lady who took Frank’s bloody knuckles, squeezed them tight, and thanked him for doing what no cop would to keep her safe.
Frank trembling as Louisa walked him home. But the shaking wasn’t fear, no… he just didn’t know what to do with the leftover violence.
Hands out to implore him, Louisa speaks so softly it contradicts her usual nature. “You mustlearn the weight of the world is not yours to bear… There will always be problems and bad men in the world. You must focus on what you can control, dear.”
Control. Pft. Frank can control if the man fuckin’ breathes or not. Yeah, he’s got control over that.
“Never met ‘im ‘n I fuckin’ hate ‘im. Think if I ever do? S’gonna take everythin’ in me not t’ kill ‘im dead. World’d be better off without ‘im.”
“And who gives you the right to make that decision?”
“Ain’t it obvious he’s a piece ‘a shit? No goddamn purpose in the world. Jus’ a fuckin’ leechwastin’ oxygen.”
“There’s only one God, Frank. Leave those decisions to Him.”
His ideology’s a losing battle. He knows. So he stuffs the rest behind his teeth, swallows it down. Regurgitates something else, though, something he has to tell someone because the severity’s making him ill.
“I like her, Ma, like her a lot.” Rage subduing merely from the mention of you on his tongue, your face in his thoughts, Frank rakes a hand over his mouth. Speaks from behind it. “Hell, I— Hell, I love her. ‘N I don’t- don’t know what the hell ‘m doin’, y’know? Ain’t got a fuckin’ clue.”
He relents a fraction. Drops his back against the edge of the counter, arms in a loose fold. Solemnity on his face now, quieted by the gravity of such a thing. An elemental force he’s never experienced.
During Frank’s reprieve, it clicks for his mom. She knows what she has to do. Louisa marches through the kitchen, strategic in her operation.
She grabs the one clean bowl. The only whisk left. Measuring cups. Dumps them all on the counter beside Frank.
He blinks, brows coming together. “…The hell’re you doin’?”
Without breaking stride, movements snappy by memory, Louisa turns a knob to preheat the oven. “Helping you figure this out. Come on now.” Two snaps. “Pay attention. Start a pot of coffee. Make it extra strong. Now, Francis, now.”
A soldier in practice, Frank’s all systems go. He pushes off the counter and into action. Using his hands, movement… it eases the burden of those violent thoughts. He rinses the self-inflicted cut on his hand. Makes the coffee.
Louisa teaches him how to whisk without aggression. And how to properly measure flour by spooning it. And that coffee’s the trick for extra rich chocolate cake (cupcakes included).
Frank makes the batter with step-by-step instruction and narrowed eyes.
Iced it, too. A lopsided swirl his mom said “wasn’t bad”. From her? That’s praise.
By four a.m., the messes get cleaned. It smells like chocolate cake, coffee, buttercream icing, and a tinge of Frank’s sweat. Quiet early morning existence after what started as a disaster.
Frank slumps in a kitchen chair, struggling to keep his eyes open as he nurses his sixth cup of coffee.
Louisa sits opposite of him at the table, watching the sky begin to change as the day inevitably comes.
“You’re a good boy, Francis…” she says after thirty minutes of silence, like maybe that’s what she’s been thinking the entire time. “Stubborn, but good.”
He scoffs it off. A few months ago he was a watered down version of the Antichrist. Drinks more coffee, but nothing alleviates the weight under his eyes.
“She will love it,” she affirms again, never once looking at him. “And you. You did good.”
He isn’t so sure. His fingers tighten on the ceramic until it squeaks. Too tired to fight.
The chair creaks as Louisa stands. Abandoning her mug, she pads for the door. She stops, though, at Frank. Leans in to press a light kiss in his tangle of curls that match hers. He can’t even bring himself to grumble about it.
“Get another hour of sleep, Francis. Andare, go. Up to bed. Off with you.”
Louisa snaps again, less demanding this time, as she shuffles from the kitchen.
Again: Ma points. He follows. Usually.
They part ways at the staircase. Frank goes up. She goes right.
Mid-stride, two steps between his legs, he pauses. Looks back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Don’t let your big heart kill you.”
Frank thinks nothing of it as he drags himself to bed. Slides into the cool sheets, hand automatically finding your Polaroid as he settles onto his stomach, cheek smashed into the pillow.
“Happy birthday, pretty girl,” graveled from lack of sleep, over the moon in its softness. “See you soon, hm?”
Your picture in hand, his eyes fall shut before he can resist.
He sleeps an hour longer, not understanding yet his heart will be the death of him, in time.
Again and again and again.
“This’s dumb ‘n this’s bad,” Frank grumbles, shoving an envelope and a Tupperware across the cab of the truck at you while he looks anywhere but you with red ears.
“W-what?” You sputter a laugh at the abruptness, cheeks still invigorated from laughing the entire drive to the drive-in theater from the arcade.
Parked in your usual spot, the cab of the truck is… cozier than usual. Exaggeratedly so.
Blankets stacked in plush layer the bench seat, pillows stuffed in the corners to make hard plastic comfortable. And in your arms… a fat Grumpy Bear Care Bear (blue and frowning about its existence) Frank won for you at the arcade because you said it looked like him so you wanted it.
You point. He follows. Always.
“Take it.” The container and card push at you again.
The sky blooms like a bruise, navy blues bleeding to black. It hides most of his face, but the flickering reel of film onscreen catches the nervous flit of his eyes.
Arms around the bear, your eyes drift down to the container… and drag back up to his tense expression. Lock-jawed and avoidant.
This—whatever it is—has him riled up and nervous like a bad dog.
Bear sitting in your lap, you take both. The container joins Grumpy on your thighs.
Card first, you hear the memory of your mom say. It’s polite.
Soft rips as your finger inches through the envelope seal. It’s the only sound between you.
Frank sits off to the side, his elbow on the window frame, hand over his mouth as he pretends to watch the movie.
Your knees angle at him as you tug the card free. It’s minimal with no nonsense, but still pretty, tasteful. Printed cursive happy birthday on the front surrounded by watercolor candles. Something he definitely picked out himself.
Right as your fingers go to open it, Frank interrupts in a strained tone. “Don’t gotta read it now. Leave it f’later, yeah?”
Your thumb between the cover. “…But I wanna read it now.”
“Jeez—” Frank huffs, waves off arguing, cuts short the grumble of Jesus Christ it was going to turn into.
You’re hungry for this. So hungry you forgot starvation is a form of acceptance you made friends with long ago.
Careful… so fucking careful… you thumb open the heavy cardstock. Your breath catches when the inside’s packed with his sharp, blocky writing:
Ain’t good with words, you know that. But you make me wanna try. Don’t know what the hell I’m doin’, just know I wanna do it right with you. Ain’t ever felt like this before. How you make me feel. Think I’m goin’ crazy sometimes. For you. Don’t even know myself anymore ‘cuz you make me a whole damn person. Make me wanna be a better person, yeah. Better man. You deserve the world. Gonna give it to you, sweetheart. I swear on it & I ain’t a liar.
Love you. Lots. Hope you love me too. Lots.
You don’t recall curling your hand around your mouth to stifle a sob. Or when the words got blurry from tears in your eyes.
Preventing a breakdown or trying to change the subject, Frank reaches out. Gently pulls the trembling card from your hand. Closes it nice. Sets it on the blanket by your thigh. Taps the lid of the plastic ware twice with one finger.
“Ain’t much,” he says, voice so thin it’s almost gone. “Sorry.”
Little bursts of shaking your head diminish his downplaying. “No,” wobbly but firm, “no, it’s gonna be great, whatever it is—” stopping yourself with a sniffle, you bat your eyes clear.
Okay, open the lid. You can do this. You can do this and accept things without crying.
But you’ve been so alone you forgot how overwhelming accepting love is.
To love and be loved is to be vulnerable. There are no facades. Maybe that’s what gets you the most: the fact of Frank stripping away his gritty demeanor, willingly cracking himself open for you to see. To… accept him, as he’s accepted you. The good, the bad, the ugly. All of him, all of you… together.
Peeling the lid off, the scent of decadent chocolate pours out, fills the truck.
“…Wha…?” blinking down, a stunned laugh flings your mouth into a wide smile. “Frankie…”
You pass Grumpy Bear to Frank, using both hands to cradle the cupcake out from the container. Much like you would a baby animal; the gentlest of hands protecting something delicate, precious.
You scrunch to have it at eye-level, awe shaping your mouth in a circle, brows wiggling up under the magnitude of one singular cupcake.
“Chocolate on chocolate…” you laugh again, marveling over the spongey cake, the plop of icing. “My favorite.”
Mouth clamped shut, Frank gives one uncertain nod. “Pro’lly gonna taste like shit,” he gruffs.
You shake your head again, glowing. “If it does I won’t tell you. I won’t even notice,” you tease. It won’t. You know it won’t. “You… made this?” you ask, your eyes over the icing peaks.
He shrugs a shoulder, throws a hand up. “…Had help.”
He glances over a second long enough to see your brow raised in question.
“Ma,” he mumbles. “Can’t take all the credit. Almost burned the goddamn house down tryin’.”
“You almost burned down your house… for me? For… this?” You hold up the cupcake.
Frank shrugs again. Then nods. “Take a bite so if you gotta throw up it ain’t durin’ the good parts ‘a the movie.”
The laugh stays in your belly this time, a fragment breathed out from your nose. Peeling the foil wrapped down one side, you indulge. You take a full bite, teeth scraping cool icing first. Thick, creamy. And then the cake. Velvety and moist and mashing flawlessly together as you chew, moaning around it. You can taste when something’s made with love. It’s rich, the effort mixed in, the love adding indescribable flavor.
“Oh my god, Frank…” you hum, hand covering the crumbs on your lips from view as your eyes flicker shut. “This is the best cupcake I’ve ever had.”
“Bullshit,” he glances back and forth at you. Won’t let himself stare, certainly won’t let himself believe it. “Blowin’ smoke up m’ass.”
“Nuh-uh, mmm, nhm, no way… Here, try for yourself.” You scoot closer, placing the cupcake in front of his mouth and your other hand beneath to catch crumbles.
Frank hesitates. Eyes cross at the cupcake in front of his nose, then at you for… permission? You can’t tell, he looks almost… skeptically bewildered. Eyes wide but sharp, head jerked back against the headrest.
Encouragement he needs, you dance the cupcake in front of his mouth. “C’mon, seriously. Try it.”
One last look at your smile—goofy and small—Frank surrenders. Takes a bite, his teeth carving out bigger impressions over your tracks.
Knees touching his, you pull the cake close to your chest and study his reaction.
He eyes you… suspiciously.
He swallows, throat slinking.
You raise your brows, nodding along in a wordless right? right?
“…Shit, that’s good,” he tilts his head, eyes narrowed with fondness on the cupcake.
You share the rest with him. You trade bites, feeding Frank when it’s his turn. He lets you. You wonder if there’s anything he wouldn’t allow. You doubt it.
You dust the crumbs from the corner of his mouth with two fingers.
He licks his thumb and smudges off icing from your chin.
You scrape the wrapper clean with your bottom teeth. Frank doesn’t judge.
When it’s all said and done, the container tucked into the footwell, you find yourselves tangled together.
One long leg kicked up on the seat, Frank reclines against the driver’s side door, pillow propped behind his back.
Grumpy Bear back in your arms, you lay between his legs, your back against his chest and your blanketed legs sprawled down the bench.
The card pokes out the top of your purse. Your eyes keep drifting to the empty container.
Head tipped back against the window, Frank watches the movie. Or looks convincing enough. One of his hands rests at your bicep, thumb smoothing your arm. The other drapes across your collarbone, a dormant possessiveness to it even in rest.
Head forward and movie forgotten, you toy with the bear in your lap, hyperaware of every warm inch of Frank beside you, behind you, around you. The weight of his arm eases your breathing. The steady rise and fall of his chest lulls you to contentment.
“…So which one’s supposed to be dumb and which one’s bad?” you ask, quiet as the movie audio trickles in static from the radio.
“Card’s dumb, cupcake’s bad,” he says without hesitation.
“…No, Frank. Not even close. They’re both so… perfect.” Smile so profoundly happy it’s sad, your eyes glimmer as you crane your head back to look at him. “…Is that why you’ve been acting strange all night? You were nervous about giving those to me?”
Frank tuts a breath off his tongue, does a double take with his mouth open, but no excuse comes.
“…I love it,” your murmur, face smooth as you struggle for power over the aching flood of warmth in your chest. “…I’ve… only got one birthday card since my mom died. She… she used to get me one every year, like this.” You gesture to your purse, the envelope. “Write nice things in it and said some words were meant to be on paper so we can keep them.”
“Yeah,” Frank says, pauses. “She was right. Smart lady.” His eyes track down to you finally. Jawline harsh, eyes soft. He lifts the hand from your collarbone, brushes his knuckles against your neck, the underside of your jaw. “Havin’ ‘n alright time?”
You squeeze his hand with your chin, nod. “I’ve never had such a good birthday. This is the best one ever.”
“Stop, I’m serious… Thank you.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, taking your chin to tilt your head back, nudge his forehead against yours. “No problem. Like doin’ things f’you, you know that?”
You push your nose against his, grin soft. “Gonna spoil me if you’re not careful.”
“You’re the one that keeps talkin’ durin’ the movie,” but he’s grinning too.
“As if you care about this movie.”
“Sweetheart, I don’ even know what fuckin’ movie we’re watchin’.”
As soon as you bust out laughing, his dumbass chuckle makes an appearance. All deep in his chest, out through his little teeth. It’s a sound that’s yours, since he only makes it with you. You cherish every one.
The chuckle stops when you shift, his hands coming off you.
You move with careful intention, seating yourself to face him in his lap.
He swallows as he meets your stare, face skewed so much he’s unreadable. A line in his brows, dark eyes working a gentle assessment over you.
“Whatchu doin’, huh?” he whispers, shifting to give your knees more room on either sides of his hips.
Kissing him’s your answer.
Hands planted on his chest, you lean down. Your lips find his with all the time in the world and every bit of gratitude you have. Soft lips, firm latches—your thanks best expressed physically.
Frank bands an arm around your waist, sculpts the side of your face with his other hand. Tension bleeds from his body, melting under you.
That’s the power you have over Frank. You leash the beast. Give him a safe space to be more than angry.
As the kiss blisters to teeth and tongue and want, Frank yanks back.
“Don’t,” he grunts, body jolting as if lashed. “Don’t gotta do this. Ain’t why ‘m doin’ this f’you, alright? You know that? Ain’t expectin’ anything like that outta this. You don’t owe me shit, alright? You tell me you know that?”
Breathless, lips swollen and hot, you peer back to meet his wild, darkening stare. “I know,” you whisper. “I know.”
The movie goes forgotten.
Neither of you catch the title.
In the passenger seat, you sit ramrod straight and electric with leftover thrill.
As he drives you home one handed, Frank glances at you from the corner of his eye every other second, wearing an infuriatingly dopey little smile.
The street lights cycle through the truck.
Endorphins exploding inside of you, you almost blurt you love him again. You don’t, you keep your shit straight.
Wind whistles through Frank’s cracked window.
You feel… changed. And charged. And empowered. For the better, having given an untouched piece of yourself to the first person you‘ve loved and trusted.
It wasn’t all the way, no. You’re not ready for that, he isn’t either, but it’s a start. Small start at a pace you’re both comfortable with. It’s trust and loyalty and the specific vulnerability that ties directly to loving someone.
And you can hardly sit with the exhilaration of it.
Brakes squeak as Frank rolls the truck to a stop outside of your apartment.
Six stories of neglected brick, threads of ivy consume the building like it knows demolition is better suited. You stare at it through the passenger window. One light flickers beside the main door, begging to die out. The other’s long deceased. A tomcat—lean and mean with a clipped tail—prowls through tall, weedy grass littered with trash to hunt the bountiful vermin.
Frank leans forward to stare too, a brow quirked as he bites his tongue.
“Home sweet home,” you mutter, but it lacks your usual disdain. You can’t find hatred so close to the surface after tonight.
Best birthday ever with the best boyfriend ever. You intend to keep him as long as he wants to stay.
“Sure your old man ain’t gonna shit hemorrhage me bringin’ you home so late?”
“Hm?” A distracted hum, your eyes tearing away from the dregs of the complex. “No, it’s fine. He won’t know.”
You turn, offering your pinky. His’s already there, thick and rough and you shiver at the thought.
Your fingers bind together in a promise.
Tension doesn’t leave Frank, but the promise appeases him, his shoulders falling as he lets out a breath.
“Lemme walk you up, huh?”
“Can’t,” you murmur, your smile an apology. “That would have him shit hemorrhaging if he was awake.”
Frank sighs, easing your joint fingers to his chest. “Alright. Call you after I get home?”
“Yeah,” a soft smile in place, scooting in closer for a final goodbye. “Call me when you get home.”
Frank guides you by the hand to fall into him.
Your cheek on his shoulder, your arms around his neck. Eyes scrunched shut, you squeeze tight.
“Thank you so much, Frankie,” you whisper, your arms bunched until they quake.
“Hey, yeah,” he rumbles, big hands warm splayed across your back. “Anytime, pumpkin, hear me? Anytime.” And he seals it with a kiss to your head. “Ain’t no trouble.”
Unraveling from the hug, you don’t get to go far.
Hands on your back, Frank grunts, head canted to stay in your face. “Forgettin’ sumthin’?”
“Nooo,” you lean in, rubbing your nose over his. “You didn’t give me a chance. Patience goes a long way, Francis.”
The grumbling starts, so you staunch it.
You kiss him again, your lips curled into a smile so wide he gets your teeth.
“Ain’t what I was talkin’ ‘bout,” he mumbles against your mouth, an impish little smirk twitching.
“No?” you ask, teeth clicking his while you kiss and talk.
“S’pposed t’ say you love me, hm?”
Head falling back, your laughter fills the truck.
“Again— didn’t give me a chance. I was getting to it.”
Playfully impatient, he waves a hand to have you get to it.
“I love you,” you emphasize each of the three words. Slow, heavy rolls off your tongue as your forehead presses into his.
“Yeah, s’what I was waitin’ for,” he stamps a kiss to your chin, tip of your nose. It feels like praise. “Love you too, pretty girl, really do.”
Goodbye kisses feel different, you’re realizing when you kiss him one last time.
It’s a slower fit of mouths, a softer lock; memorizing the sensation and taste of someone before the seconds are gone and you’re without.
With painstaking reluctance, you two separate in a soft click of lips.
Your eyes settle on his face to commit him like this to memory. Soft and sweet for you, leading and generous without ever having been asked. You palm his cheek, the stubble rough. He leans into you without apology; an intrinsic force compelling him to your touch.
You feel it too. See it, in the intensity of his stare, as though you’re an anomaly he’s yet to figure out and needs a lifetime to explore. The… invisible thread in the air made of something durable. Whatever it is—this energy, this force—wires you together in ways that… fit. Withstand. Complementary. Two halves coming to a whole when you’re with each other. Better together.
“Call me?” you ask, fingers curling down his cheek.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, turning his head to catch your fingers in a fleeting kiss before they drop. “Call you real soon, sweetheart. Happy birthday, pretty girl.”
Halfway out the door, purse over your shoulder, you look back at him. “…Thank you, Frank. For everything. I’m happy the world gave me you.”
“Yeah,” he says, eyes flicking away like it’s too much to bear. “Me too.”
You fly up the stairs and through the front door like a bat out of hell.
The must of your dad’s territory downstairs can’t tarnish your excitement any.
Stiff precaution, heart hammering, you whirl the front door closed and— stop before it hits the frame. Gently, so gently not even the hinges care to betray you, you twist the knob and slot the door closed. A quiet latch of the locks.
Not a single conscious sound. Just the muffled reruns of The Price Is Right coming from the living room. You listen… and listen… eyes on the ceiling to focus for the one sound you need…
The snores. It comes in a piggish inhale from the living room recliner. Gut-deep, liquor-induced snores.
You breathe a sigh of relief, liquifying against the front door until you slide your way to the floor.
You’re alive and giddy in ways you’ve never felt before—no one’s ever made you feel this way.
A new step taken, an exploration of touch that left you galvanized yet limp and blissful and entirely enamored by Frank Castle.
Heat stays on your cheeks. The butterflies… oh, how wild they squirm in your stomach. The elation, it’s almost violent. Dizzied with giddy ecstasy, thrumming with excitement, you slap a hand over your mouth to giggle into it and fall over onto the floor.
But under your temple… that’s not the floor.
You blink, sit upright, and your heart does a flip.
Another envelope. With your name on it.
It’s card sized, but thick. You turn it over in your hands, testing the weight, the intention. Is it really from…?
Your eyes drift to the living room. All you can see is the back of the chair, the spilt bottle of Jim Beam, and your dad’s arm dangling off the side where he sits.
“…You remembered?” you whisper to the idea of him, throat closing. “Maybe this really is the best birthday ever…”
On a mindless track, you take yourself to your room. You read and reread your name etched onto the front.
You haven’t seen Dad’s writing in… God, years? Maybe this is what it looks like now. Short, angry and all caps.
Opening a card from your dad requires… privacy. How’re you supposed to react after a lifetime of inattention from him? Now you’re getting acknowledgment on the anniversary of the day you made him a father?
The lock clicks shut behind you. Blindly reaching, you fumble on your bedside lamp and fold yourself on the mattress. The phone rattles as you drag it onto the bed with you. Frank’s gotta hear about this, gotta be the first person you tell.
First thing’s first, you grab the card from Frank. Opening it with convulsing hands, you smooth the spine so his words lay up and stare right at you. Right now? His support’s exactly what you need, even if just in his note.
“You’re the best,” you say to his handwriting, biting your bottom lip to rein in your smile. “Thanks for being my best friend, Frankie.”
You’ll tell him that too once he calls. He promised he would, so he will.
Taking in a steeling breath, you brace at the sealed lining of the envelope.
“Okay… Here goes nothing…”
Little tears. Uncoordinated fingers. The glue must know you’re in a hurry because it’s uncooperative.
“Jeez,” you laugh under your breath. “Must be something good in here.”
Anything will be good, close to perfect, even. Right?
With a final, decisive rip, you accidentally shred the envelope in half.
Pictures fall out. Dozens of them.
Blurry Polaroids unfamiliar to you.
“…what?” another laugh pushes from your chest, but this one… it’s different. It’s a struggle to understand, your brows pinching down, your heart plummeting to your stomach.
These aren’t your photos.
The cupcake curdles in your belly. The warmth of the night evaporates. Nausea churns and ties sickening knots in your gut.
Breath stutters from your nose, short, frightened trembles.
Pictures spun out over your legs, Frank’s card, fear drains you of color as you lean in closer.
Closer, and you see a different reality.
Closer, and you see Frank.
Frank with a rolled dollar in his nose and a line of white powder at the end.
Frank with two forty ounce beers duct-taped to his hands, looking so glazed and gone he’s a fucking ghost.
Frank lounging on someone’s couch, another classmate—Vanessa, from the cheerleading squad—curled comfortably into his side as she grins and reaches for the joint in his mouth.
And then other girls you don’t know.
One with her arms around his neck.
Another sitting on his shoulders as they both raise red solo cups.
And another, Frank shirtless and on his knees as he slugs a beer bong held by three girls in crop tops and captivated smiles.
Frank, stone cold serious and entirely wasted in a cutoff as he flexes one arm, and totes a pretty girl—you think you’ve seen her with Billy Russo before—on the other like it’s her personal perch. And the smile she wears…? She knows it, too.
There’s no card. Only rotten evidence of a man you don’t know. Your Frank. Maybe who he really is when you’re not looking.
Tears bite your eyes again tonight, but the reason’s putrid.
Insides soured, your heart shriveled and combusted, the pain… god, it fucking oozes through you like disease. Sludgy and black, stopping up your arteries and windpipe. It chokes you, the stifling anguish of putting your full trust in someone and finding out you don’t know them at all.
By your foot, to the side of the photos… you see it. A torn piece of paper with ratty corners and that same angry, striking writing from the envelope:
YOU REALLY THINK YOU KNOW HIM? THINK AGAIN.
It’s Frank keeping his promise.
And you puke all over the fucking floor.
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