addy

It was such a stupid thing to get hurt over.

Not a mission. Not some dangerous situation. Not anything remotely worthy of the way Frank Castle was eventually going to react to it.

Just a loose cabinet door in the kitchen.

That was it.

The hinge had been hanging crooked for almost a week now, making the stupid thing sag every time you opened it. Frank had noticed immediately, of course. He’d muttered something under his breath, grabbed a screwdriver from the junk drawer, then gotten distracted by three different emergencies before he could actually fix it.

“I’ll do it tomorrow,” he’d promised absentmindedly two days ago, kissing the top of your head on his way out the door. Tomorrow became another day. Then another.

And honestly? It wasn’t even bothering you that much anymore.

It just became one of those tiny things that sat in the back of your mind every time you walked into the kitchen. The loose hinge. The crooked door. The unfinished task. So when Frank left that afternoon to meet Micro for “an hour, tops,” you figured you’d just handle it yourself.

How hard could it be?

Turns out: harder than expected.

Because apparently the tiny metal spring inside the hinge was under enough tension to become a literal weapon.

You sigh dramatically as you crawl onto the kitchen counter, cracking your neck.

"Okay.." You hum, reaching up into the cabinet. You brace one knee carefully against the marble counter, tongue poking slightly between your teeth as you squint up at the crooked hinge. The cabinet door hangs open awkwardly beside your head, swaying every time you move.

“Frank literally said this would be easy,” you mutter. In hindsight, that probably should’ve been your first warning sign. You reach deeper into the cabinet with the screwdriver clenched in one hand, trying to line the hinge back into place while simultaneously holding the stupid door steady with your shoulder. Immediately impossible.

“Okay, no, that’s fine,” you mumble to yourself as the cabinet door slips sideways again. “Didn’t need both hands anyway.” You awkwardly adjust your balance higher onto the counter. The hinge suddenly shifts.

There’s a loud metallic snap. Then—

“Fuck—!” Pain explodes across your palm. Bright. Sharp. Immediate. You jerk backward instinctively as the screwdriver slips clean out of your grip. The cabinet hinge springs loose like a trap, one jagged metal edge slicing straight across the center of your hand. For one stunned second, all you can do is stare at it. The cut opens slowly. Then blood pours out.

“Oh my God—” Your stomach lurches instantly. The pain hits all at once now, white-hot and throbbing hard enough to make your fingers spasm. You clutch your injured hand automatically, which is unfortunately the exact moment you realize you are still balanced precariously on the kitchen counter.

“Oh, shit—” Your foot slips. The world tilts violently sideways. And then you’re falling. You hit the floor hard enough to knock the air straight out of your lungs. Your shoulder slams into the cabinet first. Then your hip. Then the back of your head bounces lightly against tile with a painful crack.

“Jesus Christ—” The cabinet door comes down with you. It smashes beside your leg in a horrible explosion of wood and metal. For a second, you just lie there spread across the kitchen floor in complete silence, staring at the ceiling while pain radiates through approximately every inch of your body. Your hand throbs violently against your chest. Something warm drips down your wrist. You slowly sit up with a groan—and immediately regret it when dizziness washes over you.

Blood.

So much blood.

It’s running down your palm fast now, dripping off your elbow onto the tile in fat red splatters. Your shoulder aches where you hit the cabinet, and there’s already a nasty pulse forming at the back of your skull.

You stare at the demolished cabinet door lying beside you.

Then at your bleeding hand. Then at the streak of blood now smeared across the kitchen floor.

Your hand pulses violently in time with your heartbeat. The cut is deep enough that every movement sends fresh blood spilling between your fingers, hot and slick and impossible to ignore. You press the sleeve of your shirt against it with a shaky hiss You push yourself upright using the counter and nearly crumple again when your hip screams in protest. Apparently you landed harder than you thought. Great. Fantastic. Love that for you. The kitchen looks like a crime scene.

The cabinet door is snapped clean off one hinge. There’s blood on the tile. Blood on the counter. A suspicious streak on the fridge somehow.

You stumble toward the sink, dizzy enough that your shoulder clips the counter on the way there. The impact makes pain spark behind your eyes.

“Motherfucker—” The second cold water hits your hand, your knees almost buckle. The cut burns so viciously you actually gag a little. Blood swirls pink down the drain in endless ribbons no matter how hard you try to rinse it away.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, staring in horror. “Why is there so much?” You grab paper towels with your good hand and wrap them frantically around your palm. Within seconds, red blooms through all the layers.

Cool. Cool cool cool.

Your breathing’s getting too fast now. Panic mixing with adrenaline and pain until your thoughts feel slippery. Frank is gonna freak out. Not angry freak out—worse. That terrifying quiet kind where he looks at you like you’ve been shot in front of him. You cannot deal with that right now. So instead, you start cleaning. Which would maybe be more convincing if you weren’t actively swaying on your feet. You wipe down the floor first, crouching carefully while your injured hand throbs hard enough to make your vision pulse. Every time you move your fingers, fresh pain shoots up your wrist.

“Stupid,” you hiss at yourself, scrubbing another streak off the tile. “So stupid.”

Your shoulder aches. Your head aches. Your hip definitely feels bruised already.

And your hand— Your stomach turns every time you accidentally glimpse it beneath the blood-soaked paper towels. You should probably get stitches. That realization lands heavily in your chest.

“No,” you say out loud immediately. “Absolutely not.” Because stitches would require a hospital. And a hospital would require explaining. And explaining would require Frank finding out. You look toward the clock. Forty minutes until he gets home. Panic spikes fresh and hot. You force yourself upright again and immediately have to grab the counter when dizziness crashes over you hard enough to tilt the room sideways.

“…Okay maybe concussion-adjacent,” you mumble. Your reflection in the microwave startles you a little. Pale. Sweaty. Hair a mess. Eyes glassy with pain. Frank is going to know something’s wrong instantly. You rush to the bathroom anyway. By the time you’re done wrapping your hand in gauze from the first aid kit, it looks bulky and suspicious as hell. You stare at it miserably.

“Maybe if I just keep my hand behind my back the entire night.” Even you don’t buy that. You try to fix your hair next. Wash the blood off your arms. Change your shirt. Halfway through pulling the clean shirt over your head, pain slices through your shoulder so sharply you gasp and nearly pass out again.

“…Jesus Christ.” You lean heavily against the bathroom sink breathing through it. This has officially become the worst decision you’ve made all month. And somehow—somehow—the thing making you most emotional right now is the stupid broken cabinet. Because Frank said he’d do it. And instead of waiting, you made everything worse. Your eyes sting unexpectedly.

“Oh, come on,” you whisper miserably. “Don’t cry. That’s pathetic.” The lock clicks at the front door. Your entire body freezes. Then Frank’s voice echoes through the apartment.

“Baby?” A pause. “Why’s it smell like bleach in here?”

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Your stomach drops straight to your feet. You stare at yourself in the mirror one last time—pale face, pupils blown a little too wide, gauze already spotting pink through the bandage—and try desperately to look normal.

“Coming,” you call, and your voice comes out weirdly breathless. Too high. Frank notices immediately. You hear his boots stop moving in the other room. A beat of silence. Then slower:

“…You okay?”

“Yep!” you answer way too fast. Oh, fantastic. You close your eyes briefly against the wave of dizziness rolling through your skull, then push yourself off the sink before you can think too hard about it. Your knees wobble the second you step into the hallway. Frank’s standing near the kitchen when you finally emerge. And immediately - immediately - his expression changes.

Not dramatically. That’s the scary part. Frank goes still in the way predators do. His eyes flick once over your face. Your posture. The too-careful way you’re holding your arm. The damp little flyaways around your hairline from sweat. The fact that you won’t quite meet his eyes.

“…Baby,” he says slowly. You smile so hard it hurts.

“Hi.” Frank doesn’t move.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” Instantly:

“Bullshit.”

“It’s literally nothing.” His gaze drops. Right to the trash can beside the bathroom door. Stuffed full of blood-soaked paper towels.

Shit.

Frank’s head lifts very slowly. And the look on his face makes your stomach turn over.

Not anger.

Worse.

Fear.

Pure, cold fear already blooming behind his eyes. He crosses the apartment so fast you barely process it before he’s in front of you, hands hovering at your waist like he doesn’t know where he’s allowed to touch yet.

“What happened?” he asks again, voice lower now. You instinctively tuck your injured hand behind your back. Frank notices that too. Of course he does.

“Baby,” he says carefully, “show me your hand.”

“It’s fine.”

“Show me.”

“I said it’s fi—” The room tilts. Hard. You stop mid-sentence, grabbing blindly for the wall as nausea crashes through you in one violent wave. Frank catches you before your knees fully buckle.

“Whoa—hey, hey—” You hear his voice go sharp with panic as his arms lock around you. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m okay,” you mumble automatically.

“You are visibly not okay.” The words come out rough and frightened. Frank half-carries you toward the couch, one arm braced around your waist while the other cups the back of your neck. The movement jostles your hand and pain shoots all the way up your arm. You hiss. Frank freezes instantly. His eyes snap to the bulky gauze wrapped around your palm. Then to the blood slowly soaking through it. His face drains completely.

“…Oh, baby.” That tone almost makes you cry on the spot.

“It looks worse than it is,” you whisper weakly. Frank just stares at your hand for one awful second before very, very carefully taking your wrist.

“You’re bleedin’ through the bandage,” he says quietly.

“I tried to fix it.”

“You what?”

“The cabinet,” you mumble, suddenly unable to look at him. “I just wanted to fix the stupid hinge because you kept forgetting and then the spring thing snapped and I fell and—”

“You fell?” Okay. Apparently that was the wrong detail. Frank goes pale under the stubble.

“You hit your head?” he asks immediately. You hesitate. Frank’s voice sharpens.

“Baby. Did you hit your head?”

“…Maybe a little.” His entire body tenses. He looks back at the cabinet, then back at you, his fists clenched.

"I told you I would handle it."

“I know,” you say quietly. “I just thought—”

"This is exactly what I was afraid of. Fuck !" He yells, shaking his head. The shout cracks through the apartment so suddenly you flinch. Not because you think he’s angry at you. Because Frank sounds terrified. He turns away sharply, dragging both hands over his face before pacing two steps into the kitchen like he physically cannot contain the panic burning through him. His chest heaves once. Twice.

“You’re bleedin’ all over the damn apartment, you hit your head, you almost passed out, an’ you’re tellin’ me it’s nothing?”

“I didn’t want you to freak out.” Frank actually laughs at that. One short, wrecked sound.

“Little late for that, sweetheart.” He turns back toward you immediately after, anger already collapsing into something rawer the second he sees the way you’re shrinking into yourself on the couch. His expression crumples a little around the edges.

“Hey,” he says quieter. “No, c’mere. Don’t do that.” You hadn’t even realized your eyes were watering again until his voice softened.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I just wanted to fix it before you got home.” Frank’s face twists like the words physically hurt him.

“Baby, I don’t give a shit about the cabinet.”

“You said you’d handle it and I know you’ve been stressed and busy and I thought maybe if I just fixed one thing—”

“Stop.” He’s back in front of you instantly, crouching down between your knees. “Stop talkin’ like you did somethin’ wrong.” Your injured hand throbs violently in your lap. Frank notices the way you flinch and immediately gentles further, like someone turning down the volume on a storm.

“Lemme see,” he murmurs. You reluctantly hold your hand out. The second Frank carefully unwraps the blood-soaked gauze, he goes white.

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

“It’s not that bad—”

“It is that bad.” His voice shakes. Actually shakes. “Honey, you can see how deep this is, right?” You look away immediately. Frank exhales hard through his nose, visibly trying to get himself under control. Then he reaches up and cups your jaw carefully.

“Look at me.” You do. And God, he looks devastated. Not annoyed. Not frustrated. Just scared out of his mind. Guilt crashes through you so hard it almost hurts worse than the injury itself.

“I’m sorry.” You hum. He sighs, shaking his head.

"S'alright. S'alright, just stay there, kay ?" He darts off to the bathroom, thudding and clattering echoing from the room. You hear him ripping drawers open before he comes back with the first aid kit clutched in one hand and a wet washcloth in the other. His face is still pale. Jaw tight enough to crack teeth. But the second he kneels in front of you again, every movement turns painfully gentle.

“Okay,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “Okay, sweetheart, lemme clean it up first.” You nod weakly. Frank sits beside you instead of staying on the floor, close enough that one of his thighs presses against yours the entire time. Like he needs constant proof you’re upright and breathing. He carefully lifts your injured hand into his lap, holding it so delicately it almost hurts worse.

“You dizzy right now?” he asks immediately.

“A little.”

“Nauseous?”

“…Yeah.” His mouth flattens.

“Probably got a concussion,” he mutters darkly. “Jesus Christ.” Then, softer: “You shoulda called me, baby.”

“I didn’t wanna bother you.” That gets a reaction. Frank’s head snaps up so fast it startles you.

“Don’t ever say that again.” Your chest tightens instantly.

“You are never a bother to me,” he says firmly, eyes burning straight through you. “You call me. Every time. I don’t care if it’s a broken nail or the damn apartment’s on fire, you hear me?” You swallow hard and nod. Frank exhales shakily, calming himself back down before looking at your hand again. The washcloth turns pink almost immediately when he starts carefully wiping blood away. You hiss through your teeth.

“I know,” he whispers instantly. “I know, honey. I got you.” His thumb rubs absently against your wrist while he works. Grounding you as much as himself. “Just gotta clean it up.” The cut looks even worse properly cleaned. Deep across the center of your palm, angry and red and still slowly bleeding. Frank goes quiet. Not detached quiet. Scared quiet. You watch his throat bob once before he reaches for antiseptic.

“This’s gonna sting,” he warns softly.

“It already stings.”

“Yeah, well.” He gives you a tired little look. “This part’s gonna sting disrespectfully.” Then he pours the antiseptic over the cut. Pain detonates through your hand.

“Oh, fuck—Frank—”

“I know, baby, I know, I know.” He catches you automatically when you jerk toward him, one arm wrapping around your waist while the other keeps hold of your hand. “Breathe. C’mon. Look at me.” Your eyes burn instantly. Frank presses his forehead briefly against yours while the antiseptic drips pink into the towel beneath your hand.

“You’re okay,” he whispers. “You’re okay. Got you.” The tenderness in his voice almost makes you cry harder than the pain does. Once the cut is finally cleaned and bandaged properly, Frank sits back just enough to inspect his work with a deep frown.

“You probably need stitches,” he mutters. Your face immediately falls. Frank notices instantly.

“…You really don’t wanna go to the hospital?”

“No.” Normally he’d argue. You can see it on his face—that instinct to drag you somewhere safe and medically supervised whether you liked it or not. But then he looks at you again. The exhaustion. The dizziness. The tears you’re trying not to cry. And he softens immediately.

“Okay,” he sighs quietly. “Okay. We monitor it tonight. But if you pass out again or start throwin’ up, I’m carrying you into an ER whether you like it or not.” He carefully rewraps your hand with fresh gauze from the first aid kit, movements painfully gentle for someone with hands that rough. Every time you hiss, his jaw clenches harder.

“There,” he mutters after tying it off carefully. “Pressure’ll help a little.” You watch him quietly. Frank avoids your eyes while he cleans the blood off your wrist with a damp cloth, expression thunderous and miserable all at once.

“…You were cleanin’ it up.” The realization lands suddenly in his voice. You swallow.

“I didn’t want you to come home and panic.” His head snaps up.

“Baby.” The word comes out shattered. “You were bleedin’ bad enough t’pass out and your priority was makin’ sure I didn’t panic?” Your eyes sting again immediately. Frank looks like he might actually lose his mind.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He puts the cloth down instantly and crowds closer, big hands settling carefully at your waist. “C’mere.” You practically fall into him. The second your forehead hits his shoulder, Frank wraps both arms around you so tightly it almost hurts. Like he’s trying to physically hold you together.

“I got you,” he murmurs into your hair. “I got you now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizin’.”

“But you were right and I should’ve just waited and now the cabinet’s broken and—”

“Baby.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes fierce suddenly. “Listen t’me real careful right now.” One hand slides up to cradle the back of your head with unbelievable gentleness.

“I do not care about the cabinet.”

“…You don’t?”

“I’d rip every damn cabinet outta this apartment myself if it meant you didn’t end up hurt.” His voice breaks slightly around the edges. “You think I care about wood an’ screws right now?” That finally breaks you a little. Your face crumples instantly. Frank’s expression softens so fast it’s almost painful.

“Oh, honey. Hey, no.” He kisses your forehead immediately. Then your temple. Then the corner of your eye. “Don’t cry.” You curl into him, your head pounding.

"I should've listened to you." Frank exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s trying to physically push the panic out of his body before it turns into something sharper.

“Yeah,” he says at first—and you tense immediately—but then he shakes his head. “No. No, that ain’t it.” His hand stays steady at the back of your neck, thumb moving in slow, grounding strokes.

“You don’t get to turn this into somethin’ you did wrong,” he says quietly. “You hear me?” Your throat tightens.

“But I—”

“Hey.” A little firmer now. Not angry. Just absolute. “No.” You go quiet. Frank watches your face for a second like he’s making sure the point actually landed, then his expression softens again—like something inside him physically deflates when you stop arguing. “That cabinet?” he says, voice lower. “That’s on me. I said I’d fix it. I didn’t. That’s it.” You blink at him through the haze in your head.

“Frank, that’s not—”

“It is.” He cuts in gently, but firmly. “And you hurt yourself because you were tryin’ to take care of somethin’ in this place I should’ve already handled.” His jaw tightens for a second, like even saying it costs him something.

“That’s on me,” he repeats, quieter. The words don’t sit right in your chest either. Too heavy. Too unfair.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head a little too fast—then immediately regretting it as your skull throbs. “No, it’s not like that. I just… I didn’t think it would—”

“I know.” Frank’s thumb brushes your cheek, catching a fresh tear before it falls. “I know you didn’t.” Silence stretches for a beat. Then his voice drops softer than before. “But you’re hurt,” he says. “That’s the only part I care about right now.” You swallow hard. Frank shifts closer without thinking, like gravity just decided you belong in his space and he stopped arguing with it. His forehead touches yours again, careful this time—no pressure, just contact.

“I need you to do somethin’ for me,” he murmurs. You let out a shaky breath.

“Okay.”

“No more fixin’ things when I’m not here.” A pause. “No more climbin’ on counters. No more ‘I got it’ when it’s somethin’ that can wait.” You almost protest out of instinct, but his hand tightens slightly at the back of your neck—not restricting, just anchoring. “Can you do that?” he asks. It isn’t a command. It’s… fear, shaped into a question. So you nod.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Yeah, okay.” Frank lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for hours.

“Good,” he says softly. Then, after a beat, his mouth quirks just a little—barely there, but real. “‘Cause if you try to give me a heart attack again over somethin’ that dumb, I’m gonna start boltin’ every cabinet shut in this place.” Despite everything—your head pounding, your hand throbbing—you let out a weak laugh.

“That’s insane.”

“Mhm.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Welcome to bein’ married to me.”

“I’m not married to you.” Frank pauses.

“…Not yet.” That gets another small, broken laugh out of you, and he visibly relaxes at the sound of it, like it’s the first real sign the world is righting itself again.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “That’s it. Stay with me, yeah?” His hand slides down to your shoulder, steadying you as he shifts to lie beside you on the couch, pulling you carefully against his chest like he’s trying to replace every shaky part of you with himself.

“Oh my God.” His voice muffles against your shirt. “I’m never lettin’ you hold a screwdriver again.”

taglist !

The apartment is too quiet.

You don't notice it at first.

Not really.

It's just one of those long evenings where the city feels farther away than usual, where the traffic outside sounds muted beneath the steady rain tapping against the windows.

Frank should be home in an hour.

Maybe two.

You glance at the clock on the microwave for what feels like the hundredth time.

9:17 PM.

The pasta water bubbles lazily on the stove. His favorite. You smile despite yourself. The man could survive on military rations for six months straight, but put a bowl of pasta in front of him and suddenly he's acting like you've personally invented happiness. Your phone lights up. Frank. Immediately, you grab it.

FRANKIE Running late. Don't wait up for dinner.

You roll your eyes.

YOU Too late. Already made it.

The typing bubble appears.

Disappears. Appears again.

FRANKIE You're stubborn.

A smile tugs at your lips.

YOU Says Frank Castle.

Nothing for a moment.

Then:

FRANKIE Love you.

The words hit just as hard now as they did the first time he'd said them. Your chest warms.

YOU Love you too.

The typing bubble appears again.

FRANKIE Lock the door.

You snort. You glance toward the front door. Locked. Deadbolt engaged. Chain on. Exactly the way Frank likes it.

YOU Done.

A few seconds pass.

FRANKIE Good girl.

Heat blooms instantly across your cheeks.

"Asshole," you mutter. The smile never leaves your face. You set the phone down and return to the stove. Outside, thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance. The apartment creaks softly around you. Old building. Nothing unusual. You stir the sauce. Check the clock again.

9:24 PM.

Still too quiet. The realization prickles at the back of your neck. Normally, you don't notice sounds here. The pipes. The neighbors. The elevator. Tonight, it's like the building is holding its breath.

You frown. Then shake it off. Rain. That's all. The rain is drowning everything out. You reach for a glass from the cabinet. And freeze. A sound. Very faint. Metal. A tiny scrape. Your head turns toward the front door. Nothing. Silence. You stand there for several seconds, listening.

The apartment settles. The refrigerator hums. The rain continues.

You're about to laugh at yourself when— Scrape. Again. This time louder. Coming from the front door. Every muscle in your body locks. The glass slips slightly in your grip. You stare down the hallway. The deadbolt is locked. The chain is on.

Frank is still an hour away.

Another scrape. Slow. Deliberate. Like somebody is trying very, very carefully not to make noise. Your heart drops into your stomach. And then the doorknob moves. Just once. A tiny test. Someone is on the other side. Someone who definitely isn't Frank. Fear strikes your chest so hard, and you back up slowly, your chest heaving. What follows next makes you want to gag. You hear a gun cock.

Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god.

A gun shot echoes through the walls, and the deadbolt comes flying clean off. You dive for the cutlery cupboard, you hand wrapping around the handle of the biggest kitchen knife you can find, before spinning on your heel and running as quietly as you can to the bedroom.

Your socks slide against the hardwood as you sprint down the hallway.

Behind you— A crash. The front door slamming into the wall.

Someone is inside. Your stomach drops. You reach the bedroom and throw yourself inside, shutting the door as quietly as you can.

Don't lock it. Frank taught you better than that. A locked door tells them exactly where you are.

Instead, you duck into the closet, dropping low to the floor, and locking that door.

Your phone. Where's your phone? Kitchen counter.

Of course. Of fucking course. Tears sting your eyes. The knife shakes in your grip. You force yourself to breathe.

Think.

Think.

Frank. You need Frank.

The apartment falls silent. Then— Heavy footsteps. Not rushed. Not panicked. Slow. Methodical.Whoever it is isn't worried. Which means they either know you're alone— Or they don't care. The footsteps move through the living room. You hear drawers opening. Cabinets. The sound of something crashing onto the floor. Your pulse pounds so hard you can hear it. The bedroom door remains half-open. From where you're crouched, you can see only a sliver of the hallway. Nothing else.

Another crash.

Then silence. A long silence. Too long. The kind that makes your imagination do terrible things. You grip the knife tighter. Your palms are slick with sweat.

And then-- A voice. Male. Deep. Close.

"Come out, Frankie !" Your blood turns to ice. "I know you're here, scumbag ! Come out." Your whole body is shaking, your hand clamped over your mouth. "What ? Don't wanna come say Hi to your good pal Billy Russo ?"

Billy Russo.

The name means nothing to you.

But the way he says it— Like a joke. Like a grudge. Like he genuinely expects Frank to answer— Makes your stomach turn. You clamp your hand harder over your mouth.

Don't make a sound.

Don't.

The apartment creaks. Rain taps against the windows. And Billy laughs. It's a terrible sound. Warm. Friendly. The kind of laugh that belongs at a bar between old friends. Not inside a stranger's apartment with a gun.

Your foot hits something soft, and you look down.

A duffel bag ?

Oh thank god, a duffel bag.

Shifting your weight side to side, you maneuver the bag into your lap, clammy palm still clutching the knife as you open in, wincing at the loud noise the zipper makes.

Your eyes scan the contents, your chest heaving.

Emopy gun, no bullets. His vest with the skull on it. Boots, a few shirts and-

Oh thank god.

A burner phone.

Your hands shake so badly you almost drop it. The burner phone slips against your sweaty fingers.

"Oh my God." The words never actually leave your mouth. You don't dare. Outside the closet, Billy keeps moving. You hear the bedroom door creak open. Then footsteps. Slow. Unhurried. The sound makes your stomach roll. He's looking. Searching. The burner phone feels like salvation in your hands. Please work. Please.

You fumble the power button. Nothing. Your heart stops.

No no no—

Then the screen flickers. A dim blue glow illuminates the darkness around you. You nearly cry from relief.

Your thumb shakes as you scroll through the contacts. There aren't many. Just numbers.

Micro. Curtis. A handful of names. Then— FRANK. You almost sob. Outside, a drawer slams. Billy whistles softly.

"C'mon, Frankie." The footsteps move closer. Your pulse skyrockets. You press call. The phone begins ringing. Once. Twice. Three times.

Pick up.

Pick up.

Pick up.

The ringing stops. Your heart leaps.

"…Yeah?" Frank's voice. Low. Distracted. Alive. For one terrible second you can't speak. You just sit there clutching the phone with both hands. Breathing hard.

"Hello?" His voice sharpens immediately. Because he hears it. The panic. The fear.

"Who is this?" The knife nearly falls from your fingers.

"Frankie." The whisper breaks. A sob escapes before you can stop it. The change on Frank's end is instantaneous.

"Baby?" No distraction anymore. No softness. Pure focus. "What happened?" You hear movement. Fast movement. A car door slamming. The roar of an engine. Your throat closes. "Why are you whispering, baby ?" You whine out a silent breath, gulping.

"F-Frank." You gasp, looking at the gaps of light shift as Billy traipses across the room.

"Baby, fuckin' talk to me."

"Someone's here."

"What ?"

"Frank, someone's in the house."

"C'mon, Frankie." His footsteps move again. Slow. Casual. You can hear drawers opening in the bedroom now. The scrape of wood. The rustle of clothes. Your clothes. Tears sting your eyes. Frank's voice is gravelly when he answers.

"What ?"

"Someone's here. B-Billy Russo. He shot the deadbolt off the door. Frankie, i'm scared." You whine, sobbing quietly. Another thud echoes so hard you flinch.

"Thought you'd have a better hideout than this." Another drawer. Another laugh. "Though I gotta admit…" A pause. "This is cute." Never expected you to wear a lacy red thong. Your blood freezes. Cute. He's looking at your things. The photographs. The blankets. The life you've built together. You bite down on your fist to stop a whimper. The mattress shifts. Billy is sitting on the bed. "Oh, wow." A low whistle. "You really went domestic, huh?" The knife nearly slips from your sweaty hand. He's close. Too close. Only a few feet away. You can hear the springs of the mattress creaking under his weight.

"Baby, you need to breathe."

"I-I'm in the closet. Frank, he's in our room." You choke. "Hes in our room." For a second, all you hear is the engine. Then—

"Okay." Frank's voice changes. Not softer. Not calmer. Focused.

The way a knife gets focused.

"Listen to me, sweetheart." Another creak from the mattress. Billy is still sitting there. Like he owns the place. Like he's got all the time in the world.

"I need you to keep breathing." Your chest heaves. You nod even though he can't see it.

"I can't—"

"Yes you can." The response is immediate. Absolute. "You can." Outside the closet, Billy chuckles to himself.

"Never would've guessed it." Silence. Then— The bedroom door clicks shut. Your heart jumps. Why did he— The closet handle rattles. You stop breathing. Once. Twice. A testing movement. The lock holds. The silence afterward is so complete it hurts.

"I'm on my way, mama." Frank huffs. "I need you to hang up."

"No, Frank-"

"Baby, if he finds you with a phone, he'll hurt you." He gulps. "More than he already might."

"Please, Frank—"

"Baby, listen to me." The engine on his end roars louder. You can hear him driving far too fast. Can hear the strain in his breathing. The fear. Frank Castle is afraid. Not for himself. For you. The realization makes your throat close. "Sweetheart." His voice drops lower. Steadier. The way he talks when he needs you to listen. Really listen. "I need you to put the phone on silent." Your hands shake.

"Okay."

"I need you to keep whatever weapon i know you got on you." You look down at it. The blade trembles violently in your grip.

"Okay."

"And I need you to stay hidden." The closet handle rattles again. Harder. You choke on a sob.

"Frank—"

"I know." His voice cracks. Just for a second. Then it's gone. Covered by steel. "I'm coming." Outside the closet, Billy sighs dramatically.

"Y'know, Frankie." His voice carries through the room. Casual. Amused. "I always hated these closets." The blood drains from your face. The handle rattles again. This time accompanied by a soft chuckle.

"Too obvious." Your pulse thunders. Frank goes deadly quiet. The engine revs. Tires scream somewhere on his end. Then—

"Baby." The word comes out rough. "Hang up." You squeeze your eyes shut.

"No."

"Sweetheart."

"I don't wanna be alone." The confession slips out before you can stop it. Raw. Terrified. Honest. For a second, neither of you speak. Then Frank exhales. Long. Slow. The kind of breath someone takes before jumping into freezing water.

"You aren't." Your eyes sting.

"Frank—"

"You hear me?" The closet door shudders. Billy testing it. Playing with it. Like a cat. "You're not alone."

Another shake. Wood groans. Your eyes dart toward the sliver of light beneath the closet door.

Nothing moves.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Then— A soft knock. Three taps. Right beside your head. You nearly scream.

"Oh, sweetheart." Billy's voice is right outside the door. Warm. Friendly. Terrifying. "Frankie's not home." Your heart stops. Another tap. "But I know somebody is." The engine on Frank's end suddenly cuts. A car door slams. Hard. Frank's breathing changes.

No longer driving.

Running.

Fast.

"Baby." His voice is a command now. "Do not answer him." The closet door creaks. Billy leaning against it. Close enough that you can hear him breathe.

"Y'know." His voice lowers. "I've always wondered what kind of woman could convince Frank Castle to play house." You bite down on your fist. Hard. The taste of blood fills your mouth.

"Now I get it." A pause. Then— "You're exactly his type." Frank makes a sound on the phone. A sound you've never heard before.

Please. Please walk away. Please— Another rattle. Harder this time. Your pulse explodes. Billy goes quiet. On the other side of the door. Thinking. Listening. Your eyes squeeze shut. You can practically feel him standing there.

Then— A soft chuckle.

"Well." The voice is right outside. "Who do we have hiding in here ? " Terror floods every nerve in your body.

He knows. Of course he knows. Frank would've kicked the door off its hinges by now. Would've put a bullet through the wall. Would've done something. You are not Frank. And Billy Russo knows it. The closet door suddenly shudders beneath a heavy impact. You gasp. The phone slips. Clatters against the floor.

"Oh." Billy laughs again. "There you are." The sound tears through you. Another slam. The entire closet shakes. Wood splinters somewhere near the frame. You scramble backward on your hands and knees, pressing yourself into the farthest corner.

"Please—" The word escapes before you can stop it. Silence. Billy stops moving. On the other side of the door. For one horrible second, neither of you breathe. Then his voice comes. Different now. Softer. Almost curious.

"You're his girl." Not a question. A statement. The realization in his voice is worse than the threats. Because suddenly you matter. Not because of who you are. Because of who Frank is. Another long pause. Then-

"Well." The gun cocks. Slowly. Deliberately. "I bet that'll get his attention."

"Baby ? What the fuck's going on ? Baby, answer me !" You can hear Frank yell over the phone. You're clinging the knife to your chest, your eyes blown wide, trying not to cry as the closet door shatters inward. A boot comes crashing through the wood, landing right on the burner phone, shattering it.

"Well. There you are." Your chest squeezes pathetically when a face peeks through the shattered closet. "Wow. You're prettier than on the picture."

You don't answer. You can't. Your entire body is locked up with terror.

The knife shakes so hard in your grip it rattles against your wrist. Billy notices. Of course he does. His gaze drops.

"Aw." He sounds almost amused. "She's got a knife." Your breathing comes fast and shallow. The closet suddenly feels impossibly small. Too small. Too hot. Too close. Billy grips the ruined door and yanks. The remaining wood tears away with a horrible screech.

Light floods the space. You scramble backward instinctively. There's nowhere to go. The wall presses against your spine. Billy crouches slightly. Studying you. Like you're an animal he found under the porch.

"Easy." You nearly laugh.

Easy? Easy?

The man who shot your front door off its hinges is telling you to relax. Your fingers tighten around the knife. Billy's eyes flick to it again. Then back to your face.

"Frank tell you to grab that?" You don't answer. "Yeah." He nods to himself. "That sounds like Frank." A step forward. You jerk the knife up immediately.

"Stay back." The words come out shaky. But they're words. Billy actually pauses.

Then— He smiles wider.

"There she is." Another step. Your heart hammers.

"Don't."

"Or what?" His tone isn't mocking. That's somehow worse. Like he genuinely wants to know. You swallow hard.

The knife trembles between you. Billy looks at it. Looks at you. Then sighs.

"I really don't wanna hurt you." The lie lands like poison. Because he's already hurt you. He's standing in your home. He's terrified you half to death. He's holding a gun. And somehow he still sounds reasonable. Like you're the difficult one.

"Stay back." Your voice cracks. Billy takes another step. Your survival instinct finally snaps. You lunge. It's sloppy. Panicked. Nothing like Frank would've taught you. But it's enough to surprise him. Billy jerks sideways. The knife flashes through empty air.

"Oh, shit."He actually sounds impressed. Your shoulder slams into him. Both of you stumble. You try to pull back. Try to run. Billy catches your wrist. Instantly. The knife hand. Strong fingers clamping down. You cry out. The blade falls. Clatters across the hardwood.

"No!" You wrench against him. Adrenaline flooding every muscle. Billy's grip tightens.

"Easy—"

"Get off me!" You slam your free hand into his face. Not hard. Not enough. But enough. His head snaps back. Enough to make him lose balance for half a second. Enough.

You twist violently. Your wrist slips free. You don't think. You run. Bursting out of the closet. Billy swears behind you. The bedroom blurs. The shattered door. The overturned drawers. The ruined phone.

And there— The knife. Lying on the floor. A few feet away. You throw yourself toward it. Fingers stretching. Billy lunges. His hand catches the back of your shirt.

Fabric tears.

You hit the floor hard. Pain explodes through your shoulder. But your fingers skim near the knife. Relief crashes through you. Billy sees it. His expression changes. The amusement disappears. His hand wraps around your ankle, and he drags you forward before you even have the chance to grab a hold of the knife.

"Oh, no you don't." The world jerks. Your stomach slams against the hardwood as Billy drags you backward by the ankle. You scream.

Not from pain. From panic.

The knife is right there. Right there.

And getting farther away.

"No!" You claw at the floorboards, nails scraping uselessly against the wood. Billy laughs. Not warm anymore. Not amused.

Mean. Cruel.

Like he's enjoying every second of this.

"Jesus Christ, Castle really picked a live one." He yanks harder. Your body skids across the floor. You twist violently, kicking with your free leg. Your heel catches him somewhere in the ribs. Billy swears. His grip loosens. Just for a second. You wrench forward.

The knife is inches away. You dive. Your fingertips brush the handle— And then a hand buries itself in your hair. Agony explodes across your scalp. You shriek. Billy hauls you backward so hard your shoulders slam into his chest.

"Gotcha." His arm locks around your waist. The knife slips away again.

"No!" You elbow backward blindly. Connect with something. Billy grunts. Not enough. His grip tightens.

"You know," he pants into your ear, "Frank always had terrible taste in apartments." You thrash harder. Every survival instinct screaming. His hand leaves your waist. For one horrifying second you think he's reaching for a weapon. Instead he grabs your jaw. Forces your head forward. Makes you look at the knife lying a few feet away.

"So close." Your stomach turns. Billy shoves you forward. Hard. You hit the floor again. Your cheek slams into the hardwood. Stars burst behind your eyes.

Then he's on top of you. Not fully. Just enough weight to keep you trapped. His hand catches your wrist before you can crawl away. Pain shoots up your arm. You cry out.

"Stop moving."

"No!" You twist. Kick. Fight. Billy's patience snaps. His hand slams against the floor beside your head. The sound cracks through the room.

"Stop." The friendliness is gone now. Completely gone. You see it in his eyes. Cold. Violent. Unstable. The look of somebody who might genuinely enjoy hurting you. Fear hits so hard it steals your breath. Billy sees it. Smiles.

"There it is." You hate him. You hate him so much. And somehow that hatred gives you strength. You jerk sideways. Hard. Unexpected. Billy shifts to compensate. His grip slips. Just enough. You tear your wrist free. Scramble. Crawl.

The knife.

The knife.

The knife.

Your fingers close around the handle. Relief floods you. For half a second. Then Billy's hand crashes into your forearm. The knife doesn't leave your grip. But suddenly both of you have it. His hand over yours. Your hand clinging desperately to the handle. The blade wavering between you.

"No!" You pull. Billy pulls harder. Your shoulder screams. The knife jerks upward. Downward. Sideways. Neither of you has control anymore. The struggle becomes frantic. Wild. Your hands are slipping. His hands are slipping. Everything is sweat and panic and desperation.

"Let go."

"No!" The blade twists. Billy grabs your wrist with his other hand. Tries to wrench it away. You fight harder. The knife swings between your bodies. A dangerous blur of steel. For one second both of you pull in opposite directions. Then Billy suddenly shoves forward. At the exact moment you yank back. Everything happens at once. A stumble.

A slip. A collision of momentum.

And then— Both of you freeze. The knife has stopped moving. Billy's eyes widen. Not much. Just enough. You don't understand why. Then you realize. The blade isn't between you anymore. It's buried.

In his chest.

Silence. Complete silence.

The room seems to stop breathing. Billy looks down. Then back up at you.

For the first time all night— He looks genuinely surprised. Your fingers release the handle instantly. You scramble backward on hands and knees. Horrified. Billy presses a hand against the wound. Stares at the blood on his palm. Then slowly lifts his eyes to yours. The look there makes your blood run cold.

Not pain. Not fear. Anger.

Pure, terrifying anger. The kind that promises consequences.

"Well." His voice is very quiet. Very calm. Which somehow makes it worse. He stumbles to his feet, coughing up blood. You push yourself back on your hands and heels, gasping in fear.

You have no more weapons.

Nothing to protect yourself with.

"P-Please." You gasp, shaking your head. "Please. Don't." Russo coughs up more blood, clearly actively dying- but still coming for you.

"You..." He heaves through the blood in his lungs, "Little... slut." He falls forward. Right in front of you. His heavy body thuds on the hardwood, blood pooling around him like some sick blossoming flower.

For a second, you can't move. Can't breathe. Can't think. Billy's body lies sprawled across the hardwood between you and the bedroom door. Blood spreads beneath him. Too much blood. Way too much.

"Oh my God." Your voice sounds far away. Like someone else's. Your hands are shaking so violently you can barely see them.

"I didn't—" The words die in your throat. You choke on a sob, staring down at your hands.

Your blood covered hands.

You stumble away from the pool of blood you realise has reached you, covering most of your lower body and clothes in deep crimson red.

You curl up into a ball, sobbing into your knees as you try not to stare at the dead body in your bedroom.

The dead body you left there.

The apartment falls silent. Not normal silent. Not the kind of silence that exists when nobody's talking. This silence is wrong. Heavy. Like the entire world has stopped to stare at what just happened. You curl tighter around yourself. Your forehead pressed against your knees. Your body shaking so violently your teeth chatter. The blood on your hands is drying.

Sticky. Real. Every time you look at it, another wave of nausea crashes through you.

"Oh God." The words come out broken. A whisper. A prayer. A plea. You don't know how much time passes. Ten. An hour. It all feels the same. You sit there on the floor while rain taps against the windows and blood spreads slowly across the hardwood.

Waiting. Listening. Certain every sound is Billy getting back up.

Certain every creak means he's standing behind you. Certain if you look up you'll see him staring.

You never look. You can't.

Then— A noise. Far away. The front door. Your entire body locks.

No.

No no no.

Your heart launches into your throat. You scramble backward until your spine slams into the wall. Another sound. Heavy footsteps. Fast. Running. A man's voice. Muffled. Distant. Then louder.

"Baby!" Your breath catches. The voice sounds wrong. Far away. Like you're underwater. "Fuck, sweetheart- Where the fuck are you !"

Frank. It's Frank.

He's home. Relief should come. Instead panic hits.

Fresh and sharp. Because now he has to see. The ruined apartment. The blood.

Billy. You.

Covered in all of it. Footsteps thunder down the hallway. Closer. Closer. Then stop. The bedroom doorway fills with a silhouette. For one terrible second nobody moves. Frank stands frozen. Taking it all in. The shattered furniture.

The closet. The blood.

Billy. And then finally— You. Curled into a ball in the corner. His face changes. You watch it happen. Confusion. Shock. Fear. Pure, naked fear.

"Baby." The word barely leaves his mouth. You burst into tears. Not crying. Not sobbing. Breaking. Completely.

"Frank." He crosses the room so fast you barely see him move. Suddenly he's kneeling in front of you. His hands on your face. Your shoulders. Your arms.

Checking. Searching.

Making sure you're real. Making sure you're alive.

"Look at me." You can't. You physically can't. "Baby." You shake your head. A fresh sob tears loose.

"I didn't mean to." The words tumble out immediately. Over and over. Like you've been holding them in for hours. "I didn't mean to, Frank. I didn't—I wasn't trying to—I just—"

"Hey." His hands tighten. Not hard. Just enough to ground you. "Hey." Your eyes finally lift. The second they do, Frank's expression shatters.

Because he sees you. Really sees you. The blood. The terror. The guilt. The fact that you're still shaking. "Shit, sweetheart. I need you to fucking listen to me." His voice breaks. Actually breaks. "Are you hurt ? Did he hurt you ?" And that somehow makes everything worse.

"I killed him." Frank immediately shakes his head.

"Baby."

"I did."

"Stop that." The response comes harder. Sharper. "You hear me?" You stare at him. Tears running freely down your face.

"He was gonna kill me." Your voice is tiny. Childlike. Lost. "He was gonna kill me." Frank closes his eyes. Just for a second. When they open again they're shining. Not with tears. With rage. The kind you've only seen a handful of times. The kind reserved for people who've hurt someone he loves. His gaze flicks briefly toward Billy's body. Then immediately back to you. Like Billy doesn't matter. Like nothing matters except you.

"You defended yourself." You shake your head.

"It doesn't feel like it." Frank's jaw tightens. Then he reaches forward and pulls you into his lap. You go willingly. Boneless. Exhausted. He wraps both arms around you. One hand cradling the back of your head. The other pressed firmly between your shoulder blades. Holding you together.

"I got you." You bury your face in his neck. The familiar scent of him finally breaking through the nightmare. Soap. Rain. Gun oil. Frank. Home. And for the first time since the gunshot blew the lock off the door— You believe you might survive this.

"I was so scared." The confession dissolves against his skin. Frank's arms tighten immediately. Painfully tight.

"I know." His voice is rough. Raw. "I know, baby." Another shudder wracks your body. He huffs out a heavy breath. "He can't hurt you anymore, my love. He can't." You sob into his shoulder.

He-He pinned me down." You rasp, shaking your head. Frank's entire body stiffens. He pulls back, cupping your cheeks.

"What was that, baby ?"

"He pinned me down." You rasp, shaking your head. "D-Dragged me across the floor." Frank goes very still. Not the calm stillness from before. Something sharper. Dangerous in a different way. His hands stay on your face, but his thumbs stop moving. The air around him seems to change—like the temperature drops a few degrees.

“Say that again,” he says quietly. You flinch.

“I—he—” Your voice breaks. “He dragged me. Across the floor. Frank, I tried— I tried to get away, I swear—”

“I know.” His voice cuts through yours immediately. Firm. Controlled. “I know you did.” But his eyes have gone dark. Not at you. Never at you. Over your shoulder. Toward the body on the floor. Billy. Frank exhales slowly through his nose. One hand slides from your cheek to the back of your head, pulling you back into him like a reflex—like he can’t stand the idea of you being even an inch away right now.

“Did he touch you anywhere else?” he asks. The question is careful. Measured. But there’s something underneath it that makes your stomach twist. You shake your head quickly.

“No. No—just that. I swear.” Frank nods once. Once. Like he’s filing it away somewhere very far away from you.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay. Good.” His arms tighten again around you, almost protective to the point of pain.

“You did good,” he says, softer now. “You hear me? You did exactly what you were supposed to do.”

“I killed him,” you whisper again, like if you say it enough times it might turn into something else. Frank’s hand slides up your spine, steadying you.

“No,” he says immediately. “You stopped him.” Your breath stutters.

“I didn’t— I didn’t mean— I just— it happened—”

“Hey.” Frank tilts your face back to his again, forcing you to look at him. “Look at me.” You do. You don’t have a choice. His expression is still intense, still burning with something you don’t fully understand—but his voice is gentle when he speaks again.

“This is not on you,” he says. “You understand me?” Your lips tremble.

“But he’s—he’s—”

“He’s done,” Frank says flatly. A beat. Then, quieter:

“He’s done touching you. Done looking at you. Done everything.” Your throat tightens. Frank glances past you again for half a second, jaw flexing like he’s physically holding himself in place. Then he focuses back on you instantly. Like it’s effort. Like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored. You choke on a sob.

"Where were you ?" You wail. You hate the fact that it sounds like you're putting the blame on him, but your chest aches. "You were supposed to be home. You were supposed to be here." His grip on you tightens instinctively, then immediately softens again, like he’s afraid of holding you too hard in this state.

"I know- Fuck. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." His lips are everywhere, pressing them wherever he can reach, his hands smoothing over your sides. "But you did so good. You did so fucking good." You hiccup on a sob and he sighs, pushing your hair away from your neck before pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. "Can you walk ?"

"Hmm- What ?" You sniffle.

"Can you walk, mama ?" He asks again. "I need to get you out of here." You choke on a sob.

"Please, please, get me out of here." Without second guessing it, Frank stands up with you still clinging to him like a baby monkey, side stepping around Billy.

"I called Madani the second the call dropped." He hums. "Homeland'll be here soon. With NYPD." You nod, burying your face in his neck, refusing to look up from him. You hear the sirens getting closer, the sound of the street, the sound of people shouting and Frank telling them to go upstairs. You don't even realise you're somewhere else until Frank is lowering himself into his car and the door closes behind him.

The sudden quiet feels wrong. Not peaceful. Just… muffled. Like the world has been wrapped in thick blankets. You blink slowly.

The interior of Frank's car comes into focus piece by piece. The worn dashboard. The scent of leather and gun oil. The rain streaking down the windows. Frank. You're practically folded into his lap in the driver's seat, still clinging to him with both hands. Neither of you says anything for a moment. You can hear the distant chaos outside.

Sirens. Radios. Doors slamming. People moving around your apartment building. But it sounds far away now. Like it belongs to another world. Frank reaches up and carefully brushes blood-matted hair away from your face.

Not his blood. Not yours.

Billy's.

The realization makes your stomach lurch. Immediately, Frank notices. His hand cups the side of your neck.

"Hey." Your eyes squeeze shut.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Make me think about it." The words come out broken. Small. Frank's face softens instantly.

"Okay." No argument. No lecture. Just okay. His thumb strokes slowly beneath your ear. You realize he's checking you again. For bruises. Cuts. Anything he missed. The realization almost makes you cry. Again.

Frank notices that too. Of course he does.

"You hurt anywhere?" You shake your head. Then pause.

"My shoulder." His jaw tightens. "From when I fell." A beat. "And my wrist." Another beat. "And my—"

"Sweetheart." His voice is gentle. You stop immediately. Frank exhales slowly. "You don't gotta apologize for bein' hurt." Fresh tears spill over. Because somehow that's worse. The kindness. The concern. The fact that he isn't angry. Isn't disappointed. Isn't looking at you differently.

"I killed somebody." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. Frank goes quiet. Not cold. Not distant. Just careful. Outside, red and blue lights flash across the windshield. He studies you for a long second. Then reaches up and cups your face.

"You didn't." You choke on a sob.

"I did, Frank. I pushed that knife into his chest, I-"

"Baby." He rasps, his voice low and dangerous. "He signed off on his own death the second he went into our apartment. If you hadn't done it, I sure would have- and trust me when I tell you it wouldn't have been a slip of a hand." His hand reaches up into your hair and slolwy massages your scalp. "You wanna know what I see?" You don't answer. Frank continues anyway.

"I see my girl." Your breath catches. "I see somebody who was alone." His thumb brushes away a tear. "Somebody who was scared." Another tear. "Somebody who fought like hell to stay alive." Your lower lip trembles. Frank's forehead touches yours. "And somebody I almost lost." The last words come out rough. Raw. Like they hurt him to say. For the first time since he arrived, you realize something. Frank is shaking too. Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But you're pressed against him. You can feel it. The tiny tremor running through the hand holding your face. The slight unevenness in his breathing. The way he keeps touching you. Like if he stops, you'll disappear.

"Frank…" His eyes close. Just for a second.

"You scared the fuck outta me." The confession slips out before he can stop it. When his eyes open again, they're shining. Not tears. Close. But not tears. "I got there and all I could think was…" He swallows hard. His voice drops lower. "I was too late." Your chest caves in.

"Frank…"

"I thought he killed you." The words are barely audible. Honest in a way Frank rarely allows himself to be. You make a broken sound and immediately reach for him. His arms lock around you so fast it's almost desperate. Like he was waiting for permission. "I thought Billy Russo took away my family again."

The words hit you harder than everything else.

Harder than the blood. Harder than the fear. Harder than Billy.

Because Frank doesn't say things like that. Not easily. Not often.

Your face crumples immediately.

"Oh, Frankie…" The nickname breaks apart halfway through. His eyes squeeze shut. Just for a second. Then he's pulling you closer. Closer. Like he can't physically get enough of you against him.

"I walked into that apartment," he says quietly, his voice rough against your hair, "and I saw all that blood…" His hand slides up the back of your neck. "You weren't answerin'." A pause. "I couldn't find you." Another pause. His breathing goes uneven. For the briefest moment. The kind of crack only somebody holding themselves together by sheer force of will would make.

"And I thought…" He swallows hard. You feel it. "I thought I was gonna have to live through that again. I thought I was going to have to pick your cold body off the floor like I did with Maria. And my babies." Your chest caves in completely.

"Frank." His arms tighten.

"No." The word comes out instantly. Like he doesn't want comfort. Like he doesn't want you apologizing for something that isn't your fault. "You don't gotta fix it. You don't gotta fix me." His hand cups the back of your head. "You don't gotta do anything right now." Another kiss presses into your hair.

Then another. And another. Small. Absent-minded. Like he can't stop himself.

"I'm just glad you're here." The confession is barely audible. You start crying again. Not the violent sobbing from before. Just tears. Quiet ones. The kind that come when the danger's over and your body finally realizes it survived.

Frank lets you. Doesn't rush you. Doesn't try to stop it. He just holds you. One hand slowly working through your hair. Massaging your scalp in slow circles. Patient. Grounding. The way you'd do for somebody after a nightmare. After a long while, you feel him press his cheek against the top of your head. His beard scratches softly against your hair.

"I'm so sorry you had to go through that. He was in there, looking for me." He sighs. You sniffle.

"It's not your fault."You mutter. He groans, running his hands down his face.

"I should've protected you more. I should've- fuck." You lift your head enough to look at him. Frank rarely looks lost.

Angry? Sure.

Tired? Constantly.

Haunted? Every day.

But lost? Almost never.

And right now he looks like a man standing in the wreckage of something he can't fix with his fists.

"Frank." His eyes stay fixed somewhere beyond the windshield.

"I knew this was a possibility." The words come out rough. Like he's confessing something. "I knew anybody close to me became a target." Your chest tightens.

"Frank—"

"No." His jaw clenches. "I should've moved you." A bitter laugh escapes him. "I should've put you somewhere safer." His hands flex uselessly. "I should've—"

"Frank." Stronger this time. Enough to make him finally look at you. You reach up and grab his face. Both hands. Forcing him to focus. The same way he'd done to you earlier. Immediately, his eyes soften.

"Baby."

"No." Your voice wobbles. But you keep going. "If you keep talking like that, I'm gonna get mad at you." A tiny huff escapes him.mNot quite a laugh. Close.

"You gonna get mad at me?"

"Yes." His mouth twitches.

"That's scary." You glare at him through your tears.

"Frank."

"Okay. Okay." One of his hands settles over yours. Big. Warm. Steady. But you can still feel the tension in him. Still feel the guilt. Like a living thing.

"I mean it." His gaze drops briefly. Then comes back.

"I know."

"No, you don't." You sniffle. "Wanna know what would've happened if you'd been there?" Frank raises an eyebrow.

You point vaguely toward the apartment building.

"You would've gotten shot." His expression actually softens a little.

"Maybe."

"No."

"Maybe."

"Frank." Another tiny twitch of his mouth. You know he's doing it on purpose. Trying to get you to argue. Trying to get you out of your own head. You know all his tricks. Unfortunately.

"You absolutely would've gotten shot."

"Well." His shoulders lift. "I do that sometimes." Despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes you. Frank immediately latches onto it. A real smile appears this time.

Small. Tired. Beautiful.

"You got a cute laugh."

"Oh my God."

"There it is again." You shove weakly at his chest. Frank catches your hand before it gets very far. Brings it to his mouth. Presses a kiss against your knuckles. Then another. Then just holds it there. For a long moment neither of you speaks. Rain continues tapping softly against the roof. The flashing lights outside paint brief streaks of red and blue across Frank's face. Eventually his thumb brushes across your wrist.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like he's reassuring himself you're still here.

"I don't know what I would've done." The words are so quiet you almost miss them. Your breath catches. Frank stares at your joined hands.

"If I'd gotten there and…" He swallows. Doesn't finish. Can't finish. You don't make him. Instead you slide closer. Until you're moulded to him. Frank immediately wraps both arms around you. Like breathing. Like instinct. Like he can't help it. You tuck your face into his neck. Feel his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

Still too fast. Still scared. Just like yours.

"Frank?"

"Yeah, baby?" You close your eyes.

"I'm really glad you're here." For a second, he doesn't answer. Then you feel his arms tighten. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to say everything he can't quite get out loud. A kiss lands against your hair. Then another. Then another. And when he finally speaks, his voice is thick. Warm. Full of something fierce and aching.

"Yeah." His nose brushes your temple. "Me too, sweetheart." Another kiss. "So fucking much." You look up at him, kissing your way up his throat and jaw, sniffling.

"You're a good man, Frank Castle. You came to save me. Even if you were a little late." You mutter. He snorts, shaking his head at your attempt to loosen the mood, his hand softly squeezing your ass. Frank snorts. A real one this time. Low and rough. The sound vibrates through his chest beneath your cheek.

"Oh, is that right?" You nod solemnly against his jaw.

"Absolutely." His hand gives your hip a squeeze.

"Little late, huh?"

"A little."

"A little." You pull back enough to look at him.

"Maybe if somebody wasn't workin' himself into an early grave—"

"There it is."

"—and maybe if somebody answered his texts faster—"

"There it is."

"—and maybe if somebody actually listened when I told him to take a day off—" Frank's mouth finally twitches into a proper smile. Small. But there. You haven't seen one all night. The sight of it makes your chest ache.

"There she is," he murmurs. You blink.

"What?"

"My girl." His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching another tear. "The one that bosses me around." You roll your eyes.

"I do not boss you around." Frank actually laughs. The nerve of him. The absolute nerve.

"Baby."

"I don't."

"Sweetheart."

"I don't."

"You absolutely do." You poke him in the chest.

"You carry military-grade weaponry."

"Mmhm."

"You break into buildings."

"Sometimes."

"You have approximately seventeen concussions."

"Probably more."

"And somehow I'm the problem?" That earns you another laugh. Warmer this time. The kind that makes the tension in his shoulders finally ease. Just a little.

"You know," he says, pulling you closer again, "you stabbed a guy tonight." Your eyes widen.

"Frank!"

"What?"

"You can't just say that!" A grin flashes across his face. Gone almost immediately. But it's there. For a second. And somehow that's enough.

"Pretty sure I can."

"Oh my God."

"I'm just sayin'." You hide your face in his shoulder. Mortified. Traumatized. Exhausted. And somehow still arguing with him. Frank presses a kiss into your hair. Then another.

"You know what else?"

"No."

"You were scary." You let out an offended noise.

"I was not."

"Baby."

"I wasn't."

"I found a dead Billy Russo." Your mouth falls open. Frank raises an eyebrow. "I think that qualifies." Despite yourself— Despite everything— A laugh escapes you. Small. Broken. But real. Frank immediately closes his eyes. Like hearing it physically relieves something inside him.

"There it is." You smack his shoulder weakly. He catches your hand. Kisses your palm. Then laces his fingers through yours. Holding on. Like he's been doing ever since he found you. Like he can't quite stop. For a while, neither of you speaks. You just sit there. Curled against him. The sirens outside quieter now. The nightmare finally beginning to feel distant. Not gone. Never gone. But farther away.

Frank rests his forehead against yours. His eyes half-lidded. Tired. Relieved. Still a little scared. You can see it now. The fear he keeps trying to hide. The one he felt when he thought he might have lost you.

"You okay?" he asks quietly. The question is ridiculous. You both know it. But you understand what he means.

Are you here? Are you safe? Are you still with me?

You look at him. Really look at him. At the man who drove like hell to get back to you. The man who's been holding you together for the last hour. The man who still looks like he might break if you let go of him. And your heart softens.

"Getting there." Frank nods. Accepting that answer. Then he presses one last kiss to your forehead.

"Good." His arm wraps tighter around your waist. Keeping you tucked against him. Exactly where he wants you.

"And sweetheart…" His voice drops lower. Softer. " It's okay, if you're not. Because i'm not." You sniffle agaonst his chest.

"Wow, who are you and what have you done with my husband ?" You mutter. He laughs, shaking his head.

"You wanna know why it's okay ?" He asks, pushing your hair away from your face. You nod, your eyes wide and brimming with tears. "Because as long as I'm holdin' you, I can deal with the rest."

taglist !

“Why aren’t you listening to me?” You heard Matt’s voice from outside of their office. You had just came back into the office, after looking more into a few cases you were all working on. You were eager to share the information you acquired to both your boyfriend, Matt, and Foggy.

“You are in a relationship, Matthew. This is insane.” Karen soon spoke up. You raised your ears in curiosity. Were they talking about you? You leaned into the door, trying to listen into their conversation.

You have been in a loving relationship with Matt for about two years now. You met him while working at his law firm, and ultimately fell for him. Who wouldn’t? Matt is a dream come true. It didn’t make you uncomfortable to know that his ex girlfriend, Karen, also worked along side Matt, since you knew he loved you. He reminded you every single day of how much he loved and appreciated you. He never gave you a reason to doubt him.

“Y/N? God, Karen. Can’t you see? She means nothing— not next to you.” Matt said, your heart sinking at his words. No, this isn’t the Matt you knew. The Matt you knew and fell in love with would never speak of you like this. No.. he loved you. He told you every day.

He loved you… right?

“You don’t mean that, Matt.” Karen replied softly. You could sense pity in her voice for you.

“Y/N… she’s lovely. She really is— she’s so good to me, but she’s not you. She will never be you.”

You heard Karen reply, but you weren’t paying attention anymore. You bit your bottom lip, hiding your silent cries, and shuttering breaths. You started to walk away from the office, not daring to even look back. You were grateful it was usually noisy around the office during that time, so Matt wouldn’t have been able to hear you.

You stood in the middle of the sidewalk, finally allowing yourself to hurt. Tears streamed down your face, painful sobs leaving your throat. The stares of people didn’t matter to you. How could he? How could you have been so naive? It was all too good to be true, and you knew this. You knew it was, yet you brushed it off. Just thinking this was the universe finally letting you be happy, for once. How naive.

You walked around the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. not having a place to go. You shared the apartment with Matt. You couldn’t go to Karen, or Foggy. Gosh, where were you going to sleep for tonight? Those were the only people you truly trusted and knew. You didn’t have any family left in Hell’s Kitchen. No one.

As you walked around town, flashbacks kept replaying in your head. Walking past that italian restaurant Matt loved so much, the small bar Matt liked playing pool in, the park Matt loved taking walks with you at, everything reminded you of him. You closed your eyes in defeat, as you felt small rain drops fall on your skin.

Just what you needed.

But even then, it was comforting. You always liked how the city looked during rainy nights. It brought you peace and now, consolation. You walked around the streets you loved so much, an emotionless expression in your face. You felt empty. You felt so pathetic, and like you had wasted two years of your life. Two years of nothing but what you thought was happiness and love. But it was just a fantasy. A delusion. Fiction. It just wasn’t real, nothing was real. You weren’t Karen. You didn’t have as much history with Matt as Karen did. You just weren’t her.

While you continued to walk, your tears now hidden in the rain, giving you the freedom to let go, to cry as much as you pleased, you heard a name you hadn’t heard in a while.

The Punisher.

Frank Castle. The man who once saved your life. The man who seemed to care so deeply about you. A long lost friend. You lost communication with him a few months ago. It was nothing new, Frank traveled a lot, he never truly stayed at one place for too long. You didn’t know he was back, as he hadn’t told you. He’d always find a way to contact you, to let you know he was alive and well. Most of the times, he simply got you flowers. He knew how much you liked them. So he wanted to be associated with something you liked so much.

You soon found yourself at his front door. Terrified he wouldn’t be home. After composing yourself, or at least trying to, you knocked twice on his door. You bit your lip, looking down anxiously.

Please be home, Frank. Please.

After a few minutes of silence, that sense of hope inside of you started to die down. He wasn’t home. Of course he wasn’t home. You let out a breathy chuckle, shaking your head. Again, how fucking naive. You wiped your teary, swollen eyes, and turned around on your heels, starting to walk away from his door. You began thinking of where you could spend the night. If anything, you could wait under they all leave the office, and you could sleep there.

“Y/N?” You heard a deep, raspy voice call out behind you, interrupting your thoughts. You could have sworn your heart stopped. You turned around slowly, finding Frank.

“You’re home…” You managed to whisper, earning a cautious nod from Frank.

“Everything okay, doll? What’s goin’ on?” Frank asked, his eyes scanning you, looking for any injuries on you. His expression softening at the sight of a broken you.

You opened your mouth to speak, yet nothing came out. You faked a smile, wiping your eyes once again. Frank’s heart tightened. He slowly began making his way to you. Your smile soon turned into a frown, small sobs leaving your lips. You couldn’t stop yourself from breaking down in front of him. Loud, and sore wails filling the hall you both were standing on.

Frank didn’t say a word either, he only embraced you into a tight hug. His strong arms stroking your back lovingly, as he held you together, knowing that if he let go, you’d fall apart right in front of him. Once he noticed your cries had calmed down, he finally spoke up.

“Let’s change you out of these wet clothes.” He spoke lightly, guiding you into his apartment. He closed the door behind him, leading you into the bathroom. He brought some of his clothes for you, and a towel.

“Take a warm bath, and then we’ll talk if you want to, alright?” Frank said, before offering you a small, pitiful grin, and closing the door. You took off the damped clothes and jumped into the shower, instantly relaxing as soon as the hot water touched your cold skin.

Frank could hear your whimpers and cries from his living room, where he impatiently waited for you. He had never seen you like this. His heart felt heavy while looking into your blood red, swollen eyes, your quivering lips and broken expression. He sighed harshly, remembering how cold you felt when he held you into his arms, how much you were shaking. He quickly stood up, gathering warm blankets for you. He also prepared warm chocolate for you, your favorite kind, in hopes of lifting your spirits, even if it’s just a little.

He must have gotten too caught up in trying to make you feel comfortable, that he didn’t notice you. You stood by the counter of his kitchen, wearing one of his t-shirts and long pants, which were most definitely a little big on you. He smiled just a bit, once he locked eyes with you. You returned the kind smile, watching him as he poured the hot chocolate into a cup for you.

Soon, your eyes drifted to a flower arrangement, carefully sitting by the end of the counter you were leaning on. You sighed quietly, in relief.

“Those are yours, sweetheart. Was gonna have them delivered to you tomorrow, or somethin’.” Frank said, handing the cup to you. You smiled, genuinely this time. Of course he was going to. How dare you doubt him? He cares about you. Truthfully. You brought the cup to your lips, softly blowing it, before drinking from it.

“See, I just didn’t know where to send ‘em to.” Frank continued, looking at the flowers he got for you. Tulips. “Didn’t know you moved in with Matt.” He said. You sighed at the mention of his name, a frown appearing once again.

“Yeah, well. Definitely don’t send them there.” You replied, so soft it was almost a whisper. Frank nodded, not wanting to push you. He didn’t want to pressure you into telling him anything.

“Are you alright, doll? Talk to me.” Frank said, as softly and tenderly as possible. You sighed shakily, recalling what you heard. Frank bit the insides of his mouth. “Let’s go sit, okay?” He offered, a hand lightly on your waist, leading you to his living room. Frank sat across from you, giving you all the space you needed. You looked down at the cup in your hands, trying to find the right words.

“It’s Matt, he—”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No! Of course not— I mean, yeah? Kind of?” You replied, placing the cup down on the coffee table in front of you, before your hands ran to caress your temples in frustration.

“I’m sorry.” Frank said after taking a deep breath. “Didn’t meant to interrupt ya.” He finished, his eyes never leaving yours. Your heart almost melted. Frank has always been this kind, this attentive.

“It’s fine, Frank. It’s just—” You continued, running a hand through your damped hair, trying to find the best way to explain your situation. “I don’t even know how to explain it, he just— he just doesn’t love me.”

“What?” Frank asked, truly baffled at your words. Because how can anybody not adore you?

“I heard him speaking to Karen. And he told her I was nothing compared to her, and that he only wanted her.” You continued, your voice breaking. “He doesn’t love me, Frank. Simply because I’m not her.” You finished, your head dropped in embarrassment and hurt. You held back your wails, yet there was not point in stopping the tears that now ran down your face. You heard Frank sigh.

After a few minutes of nothing but your silent cries, Frank had now moved to sit next to you, an arm wrapped around you, as you cried into his chest. His fingers traced circles on your skin, attempting to comfort you as much as he possibly could. A few more minutes passed, yet Frank hadn’t said a word.

“Why haven’t you said anything?” You finally spoke up, your voice sore and tired from all the crying. Frank shrugged his shoulders, looking down at you.

“Just can’t understand how anyone would want anybody else but you.” Frank said, his eyebrows furrowed in utter confusion. He was dumbfounded. “You’re it for me, sweetheart.” Frank continued, his face showing utter bewilderment.

“Didn’t know Red could be so goddamn stupid.” Frank said, looking down to stare into your eyes. Your eyes glassy and overflowing with tears. He sighed, his rough fingers wiping away the small teardrops on your cheeks.

“I’m sorry I can’t comfort ‘ya any better, I’m just bamboozled.” Frank confessed, making a small giggle leave your mouth. He offered you a small grin.

“Don’t you dare doubt yourself ‘cause of him. You know your worth and how fucking amazing you are— he’s missing out on you, pretty girl.” Frank continued, his rough hand felt warm and even soft against your skin. You bit your lip, killer butterflies filling your stomach while you heard Frank speak so softly and lovingly to you.

“I just don’t understand— if it were me, I would’ve put a ring on your finger ages ago. Fuck, I would’ve made you a mom by now.” Frank rambled on, your eyes softly widening at his sudden confession. Frank seemed to realized what he said, since he quickly looked into your eyes in panic.

“I mean— I would’ve never exchanged you for anyone or anything. I’m telling ‘ya, you’re it for me.” Frank finished, his hand leaving your cheek. You frowned at the loss of his warmth.

“You should be exhausted, go to sleep, alright? We’ll talk more in the morning.” Frank said softly, before planting a tender kiss to your forehead. You nodded, mostly speechless by what just happened. You made your way to then vacant room Frank had offered you, looking back once in a while, locking eyes with Frank. You smiled timidly, before walking into the room, and closing the door behind you.

“‘I would’ve made you a mom.’ ‘The fuck were you thinking?” Frank cursed under his breath, cleaning up his living room. His eyes going going over to the room you were sleeping at, wondering if you needed anything, and most importantly, if you were okay.

Inside, a smile had formed in your lips, remembering the words Frank had said to you. You couldn’t help the obvious attraction and love you felt towards him, from the very first day you met him. Matt hated Frank, probably because of how fondly you spoke of him and how excited you used to get when a bucket of flowers would get delivered to you. You used to reassure Matt to not worry about Frank, that you two were just friends.

"What?" He mumbles, the word falling soft out of his cotton mouth.

You stir slightly in response to the grazing of his touch, and it kicks Peter-Tingle on high-alert that this was not a figment of his imagination. He's quick to un-hand you, scooting backwards towards the edge—and tumbling harshly onto the floorboards with a loud thump, snatching the sheets with him.

The noise echoes in his eardrums, curls splaying out over the floorboards, and Peter is completely frozen. In absolute cold, drowning terror, he watches you stir fully, turning around and stretching at your limbs—a dissatisfied frown perched in your lips at the sudden loss of warmth.

What has he done?

"Spider-Man?" You mumble, voice groggy, almost muffled as your nose dips deeper into the pillow, the one he occupied seconds ago.

Your gaze finally peers open, one palm coming to rub at your undereyes—before meeting his own widened, nearly terrified expression.

"You're awake." You state, as if his existence within the walls of your apartment is a daily, common occurrence. Even if he hasn’t stepped foot into his most favourite apartment, in years. "Hm, you've got brown eyes, who would've thought?"

Why is he here? Why are you so calm about this?

“I’m—so, so sorry.” His words fumble over each other, ears reddened at the tips. Feeling awfully exposed, he wraps his arms around his knees as he lifts himself into a sitting position, caving in on himself as he averts his gaze. “I don’t know why—or how—oh god. Was I hugging you? How did I even—I’m so sorry, I swear I have no clue on how I ended up here.”

Worse, he wasn't wearing a mask. Or much of anything really, aside from an old t-shirt, and Hello Kitty shorts that barely fit his thighs. As his fingers grip at the edge of the shirt, running over the hem, it hits him that these are his clothes. Ones he never stole back from your place, that he had merely assumed was lost to time.

Nothing could have prepared him for this situation, no prep-time or warnings from E.V.I.E.. He didn't have the protection of being Spider-Man and the mask that's become his second skin. No, he had landed bottom-first as bare-faced, shell-shocked Peter.

"You really don't remember how you got here?" You question, lashes fluttering shut as you struggle to stir awake. "Damn, I was wondering if you could tell me."

"No—I swear, I completely blacked out." He scrambles for a response. "Next thing I knew, I was in your bed—I can't believe I just said that."

Running a hand past the bridge of his nose, he hides pathetically behind his fingers, his best attempt of a mask against the chaotic churn of nerves bundling through his gut. He had promised to keep you safe by staying as far away as he could—aside from the daily checking of your social media pages and the occasional swing down your usual coffee shop just to see if your favourite order remained the same, but this? How was he ever going to forgive himself for it?

He hears shuffling, in the normal sense and not the heightened echoes he’s used to ever since his arachnid side started spinning out of control. Strangely, his senses have been dialed down to normal since he regained consciousness—and he can’t dumb it down to just a good rest. It has to be cause of you.

His lashes flutter against the pads of his fingers as he meets your gaze through the gaps. You face him head-on, sitting cross legged right in front of him, head tilted in innocent curiosity.

“You’re a cuddler.” You hum in acknowledgment.

He was genuinely going to be the first Spider-person to ever die of shame, not that he's met many, but he's sure Peter 1 and Peter 2 have never unknowingly climbed into the bed of their special someone because they couldn't control their own DNA evolution. A low sound escapes his throat, clenched through his teeth—completely at a lost for words.

He has no clue on what he’s supposed to do, not when there's no routine or steps to fall back on. Be Spider-Man (Mask's gone). The man the city actually wanted (One who preferably doesn't have panic attacks wearing Hello Kitty pants). Stay far away from his previous life (Scored a huge FAIL here). Get flowers for May (Done). Scroll through your social media pages (..Done). Feel the thrumming vibrations of the washing machine after patrols (Skipped, was too nauseous). Rinse and repeat.

There’s no coming back from this, and it wasn’t even in his control. He hadn’t meant to find you. The last thing he could recall before passing out in his apartment was—he had just wanted to go home. He swore that was all he intended.

“Hey.” Your voice, soft and warm, finally coaxes him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t even realised just how tight he had been clenching his eyes shut—as his gaze takes a few seconds to adjust back into colour with you in his full view.

Slowly and gently, your own fingers raise to pry his away from his face. He’s sure he has hand marks all over his skin, but you look at him with such a soft expression—he nearly keens.

“I got you. You're safe.” You reassure, repeating it as a mantra. “You’re safe here.”

His Adam’s apple bobs harshly, and he feels the tightening of his chest nearly burst at the seams. God, he missed you. All he wanted was to hug you, and tell you he was sorry—for all of it. That he hadn’t gone a single day without wanting to hear your voice, to be exactly where he was right now—that this was all he needed if he wasn’t so weak. If he wasn’t cursed.

“Sorry.” That’s all that comes out, a croak in his voice that he failed to swallow back.

Your lips quirk into a soft smile, and you look like home. He feels his muscles physically deflate in tension at the sight, something no inhibitor or invention could ever replicate. His life has been spinning out of control, and you've just set the needle aside without even blinking.

“You’re all good, Spidey.” Your voice is warm, comforting. “Aside from hogging the blankets, it wasn’t half-bad for my first sleepover with a vigilante.”

His lips part, a laugh caught in his throat—half shattered, half hopeful.

“Could you—I don’t know, explain to me what happened?” He raises his hands, gesturing to your apartment. “I can’t believe I lost control—I don’t remember anything.”

Your lips part, a small grin tucked between your lips. "If you insist."

A loud crash resounds behind you, kick-starting your frightened senses. Head whipping to the window, you spot your window ledge shoved half-way with brutal force, and a body covered in deep reds and blues on your wooden floorboards.

"Holy shit." You mutter to yourself, skillet pan still in hand, the oil coating its surface bubbling into tiny pops.

Spider-Man is in your living room. Spider-Man is spread out across your floorboards, seemingly knocked out cold, in your apartment.

Another sizzling pop snaps you out of your stump, and you realise the collapsed vigilante is your responsibility. Your fingers fumble to switch off your stove with a click, skillet haphazardly placed over the stove burner—apron still hanging around your neck as you rush towards the body. God, you hope it wasn't an actual body.

"Spider-Man?" You call out tentatively, and you're struck by how his body moves in response, the stretch of his back with that familiar logo disappearing to reveal a mop of dark brown curls.

He wasn't wearing a mask. You didn't know what you expected from a hero who seemed nearly indestructible on the news, even when in the process of being smashed into buildings by tanks, but Spider-Man looks much younger than you expected, ahead of you by at most a couple years—bearing a youth that is almost frightening.

He certainly did look battered. Bruises littered his cheek, as if he had slammed himself into bricks or concrete on the way, before he had landed himself in your apartment. Dark circles pooled as a dark shadow under his eye-bags, and his hair was a wet, clumped mess from the rain.

You didn't know where to begin—if you were even allowed to touch him to check if he's hurt, or to call a professional. Did the professionals even know who he was, of his true identity? What if you doomed New York City's most beloved vigilante to his fate, just because you made the wrong call?

Your knees meet carpet, hands trembling in indecision and nerves, coming to rest on his shoulder. At your touch, a hiss escapes his lips and you immediately snatch your hand back, clutching it at the wrist. Who were you kidding, you were the last person equipped to save a person's life—much less a hero's.

You rise halfway, head swinging around to locate your phone—when you feel an insistent pull of your apron, tripping you back to land on the carpet.

"Don't go." He whispers.

Your gaze snaps back to his face, and find his eyes open. Or at least, that's where his pupils should've been. He must be half-unconscious, with the way his eyes are blown into a darkened void, lips parted in some sort of daze.

"I'm going to get help." Your words form despite the panic arising in your chest at the state of him. Is this poisoning? What else could explain the blackened sclera, the way darkened veins coated his skin in an almost bluish-purple. "I'll be right back." You promise.

He shakes his head, almost insistently stubborn, jaw clenching in panic. "No, don't go." His grip tightens almost instantly, and you're swept by his abnormal strength with a sudden tug, tumbling on top of him. "Please."

You freeze, feeling the wet raindrops from his suit seep into the cotton of your apron. Before you even have a chance to push yourself off, his arms wrap around you protectively. Squashed between his broad chest and the tight grip of his hold, your nose is buried into the crook of his shoulder. You smell fresh detergent, sweat, and something so achingly familiar—it churns your senses into mush that it takes you a few seconds to register.

He's shaking, and almost feverishly warm.

"Spider-Man." You plead. "Listen to me. You don't look good. And I do not want a dead Spider on my conscience, so please—you have to let me go so I can find some professionals, just someone to check if you're alright."

His touch is a sizzling heat as the warmth envelopes you, almost like a weighted, heated blanket.

"No. Stay." He pleads. "Please, I don't want—I just need you."

He sounds so exhausted. Why wouldn't he be? Before he had suffocated you into this strange circumstance of a hug, his entire face had been dull in colour, sweat pooling at the curls over his forehead, and he just looked—fragile. Completely unlike the hero of the city you're used to seeing on screen, whether it be receiving the keys to the city or those cheerful quips that make its frequent rounds through the internet when he swoops in to save the day.

"Spidey." You call him gently, trying to think of how to persuade him. "—I won't leave you alone, I promise. Just let me get up, to at least fetch you a change of clothes. You're soaked."

The seconds passing by without a response, or the loosening of his muscles, feel like the longest beats of your life. Your own heart thumps along with the rise and fall of his chest, waiting with bated breath.

"Promise?" He murmurs weakly.

"I promise." You whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."

You feel the slow release of warm breath against your skin, the way his fingers tremor over the small of your back. Something in him relaxes just enough, and his arms give in, thumping heavily at his sides. You rise instantly, palms pushing at his chest and falling back onto the carpet. Feeling the wet residue of the rain coat your apron, and the side of your cheek that had been buried in his shoulder—your cheeks grow impossibly hot.

You need to snap out of it. He needs clean clothes. Yeah, that's a start.

Stumbling in your step, you rush towards your wardrobe—digging through the unorganised mess for a bag of clothes you had kept hidden in the most corner nook. One you hadn't thrown out since your first discovery of its existence, containing Hello Kitty shorts, some old, faded T-shirts—choices you would've never purchased for yourself but had for as long as you could remember.

You had run through a list of reasons for its existence, seemingly packed for an overnight guest. Maybe from that house-warming party you had thrown once before deciding you much preferred your space being reserved for only you, and someone had left their clothes mistakenly. Despite whatever plausibility or excuse—you never found the strength to throw them away. Even when you had every reason to, your mind instinctively buries the thought and the bag remained exactly where it was, kept in a zip-locked bag for it to be used by someone.

Apparently, today was its much-needed day.

Hoisting the bag over to the living room where he still laid, cheek pressed to the carpet, you’re relieved that the tension that previously consumed his expression has faded somewhat, with his lips parted slightly in slow exhales. His body seemed to be recalibrating, instinctively calming down right in the centre of your home.

Your hand comes to rest on his cheek, tapping it gently. Although his eyes with that dark void don't open, a low rumble escapes his throat—convincing you that he's still somewhat conscious.

"Hey, Spidey." You whisper. "I brought some clothes. Do you have the energy to change?"

He doesn't respond, and you poke your tongue into your cheek, analysing the length of him with dawning dread. It's no big deal, you just have to peel off this ridiculously tight suit with no zipper in sight without making it weird, and attempt at successfully pulling a T-shirt over his head.

Making your choice of a 'I Survived My Trip To NYC' graphic tee found at the top of the pile inside, your gaze switches back to the sprawled vigilante. From how heavy his arms had been earlier, rendering you immobile when pinned under them, you wouldn't dare make the mistake of assuming his weight would be easy to flip over. You could attempt to at least expose his back for you to take off that suit—assuming the costume even had a zipper.

Your long calculation apparently does the job for you as Spider-Man senses you near, and his arm curls protectively around your thigh, burying his nose into the crook below your knee. Your entire body stills, a tight grip over the tee as he gently rests his head over your knee, the soft texture of his curls brushing goosebumps against your skin. HIs body turns just enough to expose the expanse of his back—and the sight of a hidden zipper beneath that familiar symbol is a good sign.

Okay, sure. You could work with that.

He was ripped. You should've expected that, but the slow rise and fall of his chest expands the muscles across his exposed torso. You force yourself to tear your gaze away from the sight, reassuring yourself that your eyes were purely looking for possible injuries. You wouldn't go that low to check out a vigilante who was passed out in your living room.

Your fingers press into the sides of his cheeks, maneuvering his head so you could fit the opening of the tee over his head. Curls run through the white fabric before landing over his shoulder blades. It's strangely intimate, the way he's easily pliable in your hands—trusting you so completely. His lashes flutter once every few seconds, but he remains exactly where he is, body wrapped almost completely around yours—acting as a human barrier to you and the outside world—as you dress him in something soft and clean.

He's not supposed to be here, and you're not supposed to feel this protective over a stranger who dresses in two primary colours. Yet, seeing him at rest—makes you feel calm. The quiet of the apartment is a low hum rather than the empty chasm you’re used to, and your fingers run through his hair almost habitually.

You can't just leave him on the floor. There's also the latter half of his suit you don't want to deal with.

"Spidey." You whisper.

He lets out a low groan, wincing as his eyes shut tighter—burying himself deeper into your skin.

"No-no." Your hands come up to gently cup his cheek, coercing him.

His lashes part, and you're met with that same, expansive void, finding your own reflection in his gaze. He's still not quite himself, you believe—but he is able and willing to listen to you.

"I need you to put on these shorts." You gesture to the Hello Kitty pants you laid out for him. "Then, I need you to come to bed."

His brows furrow, lashes fluttering slowly as he processes your request. "Bed."

"Yes." You repeat. "You're exhausted, and I'm not leaving you on my floorboards. It's not too far, so please—help me out a little, Spidey."

His gaze doesn't blink, but you feel the shift in his muscles at your command. He stumbles as he raises himself, body slumping into you—but you steady him with your own grip. His nose buries itself once more into a crook to inhale your scent, this time being your shoulder.

"Okay." You mutter. "That's progress. Come on, up."

It takes you a couple minutes, mostly because he clings to you with every step and he is made of heavy weight. Whatever they feed the heroes of New York, it was clearly something out of limits from your measly grocery bill. By the time he managed to slip himself into those Hello Kitty shorts while you kept your gaze heavily fixated on the ceiling, making sure only to look when the waistband was tight around his torso, it wasn't long before he tripped himself face-first into your blankets. Your own body collapses beside him—equally tired as he is.

You attempt to form a pillow fort in your daze, a barrier of sorts. More for him than you, as you're sure in the morning once this side of him disappears—he'll have a much different reaction to waking up in an apartment with a stranger he doesn't know.

It gets demolished within seconds.

As if the pillows have formed a personal vendetta against him, they're thrown aggressively onto the floorboards. Your hand reaches out to grab them because you had just put them in the laundry—but your wrist is snatched too and you're tugged into his embrace.

You land back into the sheets, cheek smothered against his chest, and there he goes again, wrapping himself around you like a cocoon.

Here in your bed with his arms wrapped around you like you're his only anchor, brows furrowed tight—Spider-Man looked so human. Soft, and incredibly vulnerable. His arm still grips limply onto you even if you can feel his consciousness fading, as if the lack of contact would have you disappearing completely from his reach.

"Those pillows were meant for you, y'know." You mutter, unable to hide your amusement.

His lips curl into a stubborn pout. "Don't want them." He grumbles, words nearly incoherent with the small parting of his lips. "In my way."

You snort softly, before noting the dirt that coats his cheeks. With such a close proximity, you see everything. The soft lines at the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and just how beautiful he was.

"You've got dirt on your face." You whisper softly. "I should help you with that."

His grip tightens considerably, and you're dragged up so close to his face that your noses nearly bump into one another.

"Okay-okay. I'm not going anywhere." You feel the need to remind him, hand slowly lifting to press against his bruised cheek.

If the press of your finger-pads against the bruise was painful, he didn't show it—only burrowing his face deeper into the curve of your palm, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. The crease between his brows finally unfolds, and the years coated on his expression fades with it—leaving him looking impossibly young.

"Smells like you." He grumbles lowly, pressing the tip of his nose deeper into your palm.

Your heart skips a beat, traitorously even when you're sure he won't remember any of this by the morning.

“Do you have anyone?” You ask gently. “Someone I need to call?”

It’s heart-breaking, the way he immediately shakes his head, his curls ruffled against the sheets. For someone so beloved by the city, even in such a weakened state, he still believes that he has no one.

"Why are you here?" You murmur more for yourself, gazing openly over the fanning of his lashes over his darkened circles.

If it weren't for the expansive heat seeping from his broad chest through the cotton tee you tugged over his head, you would've believed yourself to be in the thick of a sweet, non-sensical dream.

You expect him to be fully asleep, but you hear it, low and almost inaudible. "Home."

Your heart tremors, barely able to comprehend it. "What?"

His words grow muffled against the sheets, the mess of his curls sinking deeper into the pillows—but you hear it. “Wanted to come home.”

Peter watches as you wring a cloth of its excess water over the sink, and the familiarity is dangerously luring. How many times has he sat here on your couch, watching as you prepped a medicine kit or a towel after his patrols? It’s almost unfathomable how quickly the new routines, rigorous with repetition and duty, all that control—that responsibility that leashed him tight falls apart the second he is in your proximity. Where old overpowers the new, because there is nothing he craves more than this. The past—the memories that became more present than reminder, when his own life had pressed ‘pause’ the moment he lost you.

He should’ve insisted on leaving when you offered to clean up the dirt that still coated his face. He should’ve shattered the hope that gleamed in your eyes when he gave you the barest nod, knowing how dangerous that fleeting belief could be when his own had never held value.

He did none of what he was supposed to do—and he didn’t even have the gull to feel ashamed for it, taking in the sight of you with unconditional hunger, absorbing every trace of movement and the way your voice resonated in the hearth of your home. He belonged in your life once, the same way the remains of his old t-shirts were kept in your wardrobe, or how the bathroom door still has the replaced hinges he fixed once on your third home date. There’s him all around, and the sight was its own guilty pleasure that the universe hadn’t completely stripped away the parts of him that used to exist in your life.

"You didn't do anything." You reassure him from across the kitchen counter. "Trust me, when you showed up in my apartment—you weren't in a state of anything other than being near-collapse."

His expression contorts. As if he needed more reasons to hate these new changes to his body—messing up all that is predictable. Predictable is good. It's safe. What isn't within even the remote levels of safe, is forcing you to look after him the entire night because he isn't even in control of his own body.

You stop in front of him, brushing some magazines and half-littered candy wrappers to the side as you sit on the coffee-table, knees brushing against his.

"Breathe." You murmur softly, eyes crinkling with a soft teasing expression.

He hadn't even realised he was holding his breath, being so close to you that it makes him feel faint. Oxygen swoops back into his lungs, his chest rising and falling as he stares at you openly with his mouth slightly gaped.

The cloth in hand raises to press against his cheek, and he feels the slight sting of its cool temperature against the warmth of his skin, the bruise above his cheekbone.

It doesn't truly register for him, not when you're staring at him so keenly he feels the need to ask. "What?"

"I just didn't expect Spider-Man to be so—" You struggle to find the words. "Human. I don't know. I suppose that sounds stupid, but you could pass by me in a coffee shop and I'd just sum you up as a cute stranger I'd never see again, not an actual crime-fighting vigilante."

The two of you were together, so it shouldn’t have struck him with elated surprise to hear it, but the admission that you still found him—he feels sixteen again, taken back to when you had first pressed a kiss onto his cheek and he understood immediately on what it meant to fall in love so completely that you could never look back.

You're too focused on dapping the wet cloth to notice his widened gaze, or the way he swallows dryly—licking at his lips. "You think I'm cute?"

"I mean—this entire time, I half-expected Spider-Man to be at least half-spider. Plus, I have eyes." You tease, your fingers gently brushing the wet cloth over the darkened soot across his cheek, rubbing off the marks. "I meant to do this last night, but you kept protesting when I tried to leave the bed. Clinging onto me—"

"Okay, okay." He raises his hand, catching you by the wrist. He's definitely flustered now. "I don't need to hear the details. I believe you."

You snort softly. "Thought you wanted the full story."

"Yeah, summed up—minus the details." He splutters. "I'm already dying inside from shame, and I've definitely ruined my impression with you forever."

"That's not true." You hum.

He blinks slowly, processing your words.

"There's no shame in reaching out for help, hero or not. I know you’re under a lot of public scrutiny but—it doesn't change who you are, y'know? You're deserving of support, just as much as everyone else. Even if the world expects you to be a hero—" You state. "You're still a person, and it seemed like you really needed someone."

He stiffens, jaw tightening as his eyes avert from yours to pinpoint his focus elsewhere—anywhere but you.

"You're not just someone." He mumbles lowly.

The press of the cloth against his cheek falters. "What?"

"You're—" His voice trails off, jaw clenching tight. “You weren’t scared of me?”

He understands how he can get when he loses control. The way his vision blacks out, and how his mind caves into silence—with his body moving on instinct rather than command. The reflection of a monster in the mirror, everything he swore not to be. The version of him that snuck into your apartment, clinging onto you as a lifeline—was stripped of the rules and promises he had made to keep everything together.

It was him at his most selfish—doing what his instincts pleaded—no, begged for him to do, and he had caved in for all of it. That's why he's here, and why you're staring with an expression he didn't dare uncover.

“I think you’re a lot more scared of yourself right now than I am.” You answer truthfully. “You were in a lot of pain. The last thing I would be was scared, when all you needed was someone to look out for you. Even if it's just for a little while.”

"I—" What is he supposed to say to that? That you're right on, and you've always been even without knowing who he is, and that he's been losing himself ever since he lost you? He swallows thickly. "I haven't been myself lately."

Your fingers tighten imperceptibly, grounding him. "You're still you, maybe you've just been putting aside what reminds you of that. I'm no vigilante, but working yourself to the bone and collapsing in a stranger's apartment—I think that's a signal for a horrible work-life balance."

"I have been resting." He argues. "I get enough hours, I have proof."

"Yeah, that's definitely why you slept like a log last night."

His lips part, gaze finally meeting yours, staring at you wordlessly. Eventually, a laugh escapes his lips, deepening the lines near the corners of his eyes. It's a little sad, and you wonder just how much he had to carry on his own—for a laugh to sound that broken.

"This is hard. I'm not supposed to—" He mutters, and that's the closest thing to raw honesty that you've pulled out of his mouth. "You're way too good for me."

Your smile deepens, and your fingers trace gently over his cheek where the bruise was finally fading. That must've been the mistake of it—the familiarity of muscle memory after a long patrol. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek in thank you.

It’s only when he spots your frozen expression that he realises what he's done.

"I was not supposed to do that." He mutters to himself, widened eyes locked onto the spot where he left the kiss.

You blink, and he follows the movement—staring at each other in complete silence. His expression contorts, and you can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you.

"That was—wow." You choke back on your laughter. "I think you're running out of things you're not supposed to do, Spidey."

His own gaze crinkles into a smile, abashed. "I'm sorry, I just—I wanted to thank you. It was out of habit."

"Habit—you crash into people's apartments often and give out these free kisses?" You tease. "Is it part of the job description?"

He shakes his head immediately, terrified by the suggestion. "No—no. I swear this is my first time ever doing anything like this. I got the habit from my aunt, she used to—um..."

His expression dampens considerably. "Kiss my cheek for good luck."

Your gaze softens. "She sounds sweet."

"Yeah." His laugh churns awkwardly with a wince. "You would've loved her."

You watch him, and you sense it again—that chasm that ran deeper than the surface of his winced smiles. The way he shook his head when you asked if he had anyone, and even now, the way he fumbled with his fingers as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself in your gaze—and how he hadn't suggested once since waking up that he wanted to leave.

He was waiting, the way one waits for permission to exist in a room when they haven't been invited in one for years.

"Spidey." You call out.

He whips his head to look at you, pupils still widened in some perpetual disbelief, over the fact that he was in your apartment—that you were right in front of him.

"I'm going to make breakfast." You start, not leaving room for argument. "And you're going to help me."

He blinks once, then twice in astonishment. He swallows dryly. "O-Okay."

Your smile loosens into something reserved for a vigilante you had stayed up all night checking his temperature for.

You find that Spider-Man is pretty good in making pancakes, and that he easily maneuvers himself around your kitchen as if he had already memorised the layout. Of where your favourite mugs are, and how he didn't question twice when taking out the ice-cream tub without you needing to say it.

You could narrow it down to Spidey-senses, or whatever theories that's come up on your feed for his inhuman capabilities—but could it really just be that? Could his super-human abilities be the only reason behind why the warm hazel of his eyes light into the tiniest fireworks as he watches you scourge on your pancake, smiling at him with butter at the corner of your lips—as if the sight of you eating breakfast was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen?

Or why he picked you as his destination for home, or the slip of his tongue on how you meant a great deal more to him than just a someone who so happened to let him stay the night.

You have so much to uncover, but for now, he's just a boy in a NYC graphic tee that’s his exact size, and fluorescent shorts that do nothing for his thighs. He catches your gaze on his peculiar outfit, and his own lips purse in amusement.

"Any reason for the outfit choice?" He murmurs, a knowing smile covered by his fist as he rests his chin over his wrist, head tilting slightly as he gazes at you. "It's inventive."

"Oh—" You blink. "I don't know. I kinda always had them. They don't belong to me, but I just didn't see a need to throw out free clothes."

Your lips quirk up, teasing. "Suits you though. Think you'll keep it?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I think I'll have to return it."

"Why?"

"So I can borrow it again." He suggests slowly.

You stare at him, unable to hide your growing grin. "Smooth, Spidey. Real smooth."

His gaze lights up. "Better than the cheek kiss?"

"Tons better. You could try it again—I'll see if I can adjust the scores." You tease.

"Really?" He stutters, akin to a flustered high-schooler.

"Yeah, but you'll have to tell me your name." You gesture with a point of your fork. "Can't go around giving free kisses without ID."

You meant it as a joke. You're no expert in superhero protocols, but you're sure the codenames meant no personal information spilled outside their work-life. Even when you've already seen his face, and shared a bed with him, and let him take your second favourite mug though he can't possibly know that last one. There's lines you've certainly crossed, but his name?

You part your lips to take back your impulsive request, to brush it off—only to find genuine consideration forming in his expression. Your smile falls slack in wonder. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't possibly.

Yet, he looks at you, almost peering deep into your soul. He looks at you as if he knows you, all boyish and unguarded. Whatever he sees, past the bed-hair and ice-cream smothered lips—it's worth it to him. It's worth something honest, and sacred—a truth he'll never be able to take back. It's a genuine, soft thing—a precious smile that lifts his lips, one you have no idea how brave he is for keeping. He has made his choice, and you're a part of it, always.

Peter looks at you, and he sees the only present he'll ever want. Past spells and starting-overs and stupid choices—at the centre of it all, it all becomes so simple. You—who his body sought out of instinct, who inhabited his mind with your own personal island, who had taken his heart from the first time he saw you. You're home, and no rules or lines drawn could've stopped him from returning back to you. His everything.

"Peter. Peter Parker."

likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3!!