꒰𑁬 gigi ໒꒱

A/N: so. sorry for like….vanishing. i probably will do again for a bit because exams and exams and UCAT. sorry if this is buns i forgot the plot for a hot min xx

taglist: CLOSED

You sigh, admitting defeat. “Yeah, I am.” You grab the cereal Nicky had picked up specifically for moments like these. “Froot Loops instead?”

She nods, her leg hair bouncing around her. “Yummy.” 

You grab a bowl from the cabinets, along with a spoon, clattering across from where she’s now sitting, having moved to a stool. 

“You should ask my uncle Pope for help.” She speaks with a mouthful of cereal. “He likes to clean.” 

The grin falls to your lips easily at the mention of Pope. “You, Lena Blackwell, are a genius.” You press a kiss to her temple, whipping your phone out. You send him a text that reads, ‘NEED HELP ASAP.’ 

He doesn’t rush downstairs, not like you thought he would. His eyes are immediately on Lena, even with his calmed demeanor, making sure she’s not injured. And then, to you. You’re grinning as you lean against the counter, “funny story, handsome,” you hum. “There was a robbery! Wasn’t there, Lena?” 

The little girl nods with a mouth full of cereal, scooping some more in her spoon. 

“That right?” He asks roughly, unamused. 

You nod, “yes. And you know what’s so horrible? They tried to take the expensive stuff but then they changed their path to the kitchen. And then, they tried to make pancakes.” 

“Tried?” He asks as he makes his way to the countertop, lifting a spoon that’s in a puddle of the white sludge. 

“No. They succeeded because they were really smart and knew how to cook.” You watch as he takes the mess in, carefully moving around the countertop, circling you and Lena. “And then, they took the cooked pancakes and told Lena she could only have Froot Loops. It was sick.” 

Lena nods, speaking with a mouthful of food. “It’s true, uncle pope!” 

Pope shakes his head, grabbing a towel from the sink, ready to get to cleaning. “Lena, don’t follow in her footsteps. Lying is bad.” 

You grin, turning to Lena who’s already watching you, waiting to hear what your argument is. You shake your head at her, silently telling her to forget his words. She’s content with that response, going back to her cereal. 

“It’s not lying. It’s story-telling.” You defend playfully, letting him clean the mess you’ve made. “I’m building up her imagination. She’s going to write best-selling novels.” 

He scoffs, “says the liar.” 

“Not a liar.” Both you and Lena speak at the same time. You two fall into fits of giggles. 

“You’re copying me.” You tease her. 

She grins, “no, you’re copying me.” 

“Nuh-uh.” 

“Yuh-huh.” 

“Children.” Pope chastises, both of you turning to look at him as he’s moving the used plates and utensils into the sink. “Lena, go get ready for bed. You,” his glare isn’t tense as usual but it’s directed to you. “Wash the dishes.” 

You groan as Lena runs off with a giggle to her temporary bedroom. “Come on, it’s not my fault. It’s the robbers.” 

“Yes.” He repeats, “it was the robbers fault but they left and you’re here. Wash.” 

Despite the attitude that you have, you do decide to do it as he does the rest. You two clean in silence. It’s not horrifically awkward but silence means you overthink. And overthinking is bad. You have to keep going or it’ll be too much to handle. 

“Pope?” 

He doesn’t speak, a simple hum tells you to keep going. 

You don’t respond immediately, and you can feel the way he turns to face your back, “what?” His voice seems to be naturally harsh so you don’t flinch or stress over the tone. 

You put the plate down, turning to face him, wiping your wet hands with the dry rag beside the sink. 

You’re not nervous around men often. Most don’t hold a candle to you. To how great you know you can be. To how great you know you are. But Pope isn’t just any man. From the second you saw him three years ago at the grocery store, you know this was it. You knew even then, that Andrew Cody is the guy you’re going to end up with. And yet, you still don’t speak. 

The air is charged with tension. No, not tension. Softer. You can’t quite put your finger on it as you two stand there, barely a few scuffles apart, staring at each other. 

Your breath hitches, itching to say these words out loud. “I really like you.” You admit, a little too easily, because of how intensely you mean them. Wholeheartedly. Irrevocably. In any way to describe how truthful you're being. 

He doesn’t hesitate, “you’re lying.” 

Your eyebrows furrow, a scoff bubbling out of you. “Excuse me?” 

He shrugs, swinging a clean rag over his shoulder, arms crossed as he leans against the countertop. “That’s your hobby, right?” 

Now you’re offended, crossing your arms over your chest as well, “is that why you never take me seriously? You think that, because I like to lie, that my feelings for you are a lie, too?” 

“Would I be wrong to think so?” 

It’s your turn to not hesitate, “yes.” Breathily, “I wanted you the second you walked into the store.” 

“What?” His face scrunches in confusion, in that same cute way that makes you smile. 

“Nothing.” 

“No,” he takes a single step forward. “What store?” 

You wanted to hang this over him longer but you can’t. The excitement is burning through you. You need to tell him just how long he’s been invading your thoughts without even knowing his name. You need to tell him how much worse this need for him has intensified since getting to know him. 

“You really don’t remember me?” 

“Of course I remember you.” He sounds offended by whatever accusation you’re throwing at him. “I think about you all the time.” 

You take a step towards him as well. “You do?” 

He rolls his eyes, “don’t let it get to your head.” 

You laugh, “you’re letting it get to yours.” 

“What? It’s not.” 

“Not that one.”  You hum. 

He grabs the towel on his shoulder and covers his crotch as you cackle. “Shut up.” 

You shrug, still grinning. “Helen’s.” You speak the name of the grocery store. It’s a small, family owned grocery store, one where the owners are always over and chitchatting with the customers. A staple in the tight-knit community. 

“That your mother or something?” 

You shake your head, “the grocery store.”

“Okay… you want me to go to Helen’s? What do you need?” 

You groan, eyes shutting momentarily, trying to keep your emotions intact. You open them to his body much closer to yours, closing the distance. His hand is ghosting over your cheek, scared to touch you. “Do it…” your voice is small and desperate. 

It happens so fast. His hands fall to your cheeks, forcing your face up as he pushes you to lean against the sink, knee slotting between your thighs. His nose is nudging against yours, breath heavy against your lips. 

You’ve had his thumb in your mouth and his fingers in you. And not a single kiss. A forehead kiss but you’re not counting that. You need to kiss him. Have to. You’re desperate for it. You try to push your face to his but he holds your face back. “No.” His voice is whiney as he speaks, forehead against yours. “No.” Neither of you pull away. 

The camera linked to the doorway chimes, reading the license plate out loud in its robotic and monotonous voice. A button beeps and a familiar voice is heard as the machine asks to state his name. “Barry Blackwell.” 

He doesn’t fully pull away, not until the front door opens and in comes Baz. 

You clear your throat, fixing your shirt as Pope goes back to cleaning. You smile politely at Baz, “Mr. Blackwell.” You greet. “Welcome.” 

His smile toward you is seen as charming by most. And you don’t hate it, but you don’t care for it. “You can call me Baz.” 

You grimace softly with a laugh, shaking your head. “No… my step-dad tells me to never put my boss at my level.” 

Baz ignores this, turning to his brother, watching him carefully. “You good, bro?” 

Pope nods stiffly, “good.” 

It’s awkward. Pope clearly isn’t good and his brother knows this. You know this. And Baz is about to push, about to ask again, when you jump in. “I’ll show you to your room.” You push off the sink. “It’s right across Lena’s. Come on.” 

Baz nods, grabbing his bags again and following behind you as you lead him out of the kitchen. You don’t turn to look at Pope, scared to see how upset he is. Not for fear, but because the disappointment in his features will make you want to rush back to him in front of their company. 

“This is a really nice place.” Baz chimes as he inspects the walls and furniture around. 

You hum, nodding. “Yeah. Sammy’s parents are really well off.” You tell him. “He’s a stockbroker or something like that, I don’t know, some boring stuff. Mother’s a lawyer.” 

He whistles softly, “fuck. Should’ve picked a different career.” 

You huff a small laugh, opening the door to his bedroom for the next few days. “Property manager isn’t cutting it?” You joke. 

“Not even close.” He drops his bag as she leads him into the sleek and clean room. “They happily married?” 

You smile softly, “very happily.” You answer, unsure of what to say next. “Uhm… it’s late. I’m gonna go put Lena to bed and—“ 

“How is she?” He cuts you off. “Lena? Was she… upset?”

It almost warms you to know that he does care, which gets harder and harder to believe the longer you take care of the little girl. “At first, yeah. But she got over it. She’s having fun here. She picked some fruit with the gardener and Nicky when we got in. We’re thinking of making a pie tomorrow.” 

He lets out a breathy little laugh, nodding as he slumps onto the edge of the bed, taking a much needed seat. You’re slowly sliding back to the door, needing a quick escape. “So, you—“ 

He interrupts you again, “thank you, by the way.” He hums. “Allison’s boyfriend doesn’t want her to watch kids anymore while pregnant. And her mother…” he trails off for a moment. “She doesn’t care for being a mother any longer, clearly. Know you weren’t fond of kids at first, heard J mention it to Nicky. But youre good with her.” 

You take the compliment, “thank you. She’s… she’s a really great girl.” You add, “so, can—“ 

Again. “You are too.” You tense at his words. “You’re a great girl.” 

“Oh… uhm…” you wipe your sweaty palms against your bottoms, drying them as best as you can. “Tha-thank y—“ 

You almost want to yell when you’re interrupted again. But you feel relief wash over you when Lena rushes into the room, “daddy!” She jumps into her fathers arms, cheering happily and rambling away about what she did today.

This gives you the chance to slip out of the room, a heavy breath leaving you once you’re in the clear. “Fuck…” you mutter softly, anxious from the too long moment. 

You push off the wall you were leaning against, eyes falling onto Pope’s as he stands at the stairway, watching you with a cup of warm milk at hand. For Lena, of course. He’s watching you carefully, worried. You send him a small smile and walk to your bedroom, embarrassed. 

authors note . . . hiiii sorry for the lag!! hope you guys like it <3

It's been over a year.

Over a year since you stood in the pouring rain, your black dress clinging to your body in uncomfortable places. You vaguely remember Karen trying to drag you under an umbrella, but you couldn't move. All you could focus on was his casket, getting lowered into the ground with mechanisms, people around you crying- who you swear hadn't even known your big brother. The picture you had chosen- one where he still had his stupidly long hair- was getting soaked in the rain, the edges of it drooping inside the frame, the rain created dots and splatters along the ink.

Dots and splatters that reminded you of the way his blood pooled on your face after that gunshot echoed around you in that street.

The way he dropped.

The way his eyes slowly gave up, their spark dulling. The way his breathing grew more gargled, more choked and heavy. until it eventually stopped.

Or the way Karen had to drag you away from his headstone, because you were clawing at the dirt, convinced you had just buried a perfectly healthy - perfectly alive- man in a pinewood box, six feet below ground.

But the headstone was clear that day, and it still is now.

In loving memory of

FRANKLIN NELSON 1980-2026

Brother, Son and Friend.

Your brother is dead.

And there's nothing you can do about it.

There was nothing you could do about coming home from that funeral either and find that your in the span of those two hours, your boyfriend had packed up all his shit- cleared out his drawers, his favorite mug, his toothbrush, anything that proved he had ever been there- and left.

That morning, you remember it so clearly, he had said he didn't want to impose. That Foggy was your brother- that he didn't know him that well- and that Matt would probably chase him out of there if he even came close to Foggy's final resting place. You thought he was being reasonable.

He was just planning his escape.

No letter. Not explanation.

Just a note, stuck to the fridge with a magnet.

"I'm sorry."

The note stayed on the fridge for three months.

Not because you wanted it there.

Because every time you tried to take it down, your hands started shaking too hard to touch it.

“I’m sorry.”

Two words.

That was all you got after three years together.

Three years of half-finished takeout containers in the fridge because neither of you remembered to grocery shop properly. Three years of falling asleep to the sound of Frank pacing your apartment at three in the morning after patrols because he thought you were asleep and didn’t want you hearing the nightmares. Three years of coffee made too strong because he could never taste bitterness quite right anymore. Three years of bruises hidden under dress shirts and blood in the sink and his tired little smiles every time you patched him up.

Gone.

Like he’d never existed there at all. You hated him for how cleanly he left.

You hated him for picking The Punisher over you.

Karen tried at first. The first few weeks after the funeral, she came by almost every day. Sometimes with groceries. Sometimes with wine neither of you drank. Sometimes just to sit beside you in silence while the television flickered unwatched across the apartment. Neither of you talked about Foggy much. Because the second you did, it became real again.

Eventually she stopped coming every day. Then every week. Then mostly just texts. You didn’t blame her. Grief made ghosts out of everyone. And Matt— Matt vanished completely. You heard about him sometimes through other people.

Karen mentioning he’d taken a case. Cherry casually dropping that Matt was working himself into the ground again. Whispers online about Daredevil reappearing in Hell’s Kitchen after over a year gone. You ignored all of it. You closed yourself off.

From Karen.

From Matt.

From Hell’s Kitchen.

From the world.

Your apartment became smaller over time. Darker. Quieter. You stopped answering calls first. Then texts. Then eventually the door. Work became the only thing that forced you outside, and even then barely. You learned how to move through life hollowed out. Mechanical. Wake up. Work. Come home. Sleep for three hours. Repeat. Some nights you still dreamed about the gunshot. Foggy collapsing. Blood everywhere. Matt screaming somewhere behind you. And every single time you woke up gasping, there was always one horrible disorienting second where you reached across the mattress expecting warmth beside you.

You tried to tell yourself you were just reaching for warmth, but really you were reaching for Frank.

And found cold sheets instead.

Eventually, even that stopped hurting sharply. It just… settled inside you. Permanent.

Like scar tissue.

—

The knocking starts around two in the morning. At first, you ignore it. Whoever it is knocks again. Harder this time. You groan softly into your pillow, exhausted already. Outside your apartment windows, rain lashes against the fire escape in vicious waves. Typical New York weather. Your alarm goes off in four hours. The knocking comes a third time. You roll your eyes, lifting yourself out of bed. You pad your way to the door and push onto your tiptoes to look through the peep hole, when a voice echoes into your entrway.

"Hey.” Your entire body freezes. as you stagger backwards and hit the coat rack with your back. No. No, absolutely not. For one insane second, you think you imagined it. Some cruel half-asleep hallucination dredged up by grief and exhaustion. You lean up, pressing yourself to the door, squinting as you look through the peep hole.

Oh god.

Oh god, it's him.

"Sweetheart, I know you're in there." Another knock. Then again, weaker this time: “Please open the door, baby.” Your heart slams violently against your ribs. You take a small step back. staring toward the apartment entrance like it might disappear if you look too hard. Silence stretches for half a second. Then you hear it. A small sound. Pain. Like someone trying very hard not to make noise while suffering. You’re moving before you can stop yourself. Anger floods you so fast it nearly chokes you alive as you wrench the locks open. The door swings inward—and Frank fucking Castle nearly collapses into your apartment.

“Oh my God.” He catches himself against the doorframe at the last second with a rough gasp. Blood immediately smears across the wood beneath his hand. So much blood. Your stomach drops. Your stomach drops straight through the floor. Frank’s breathing is ragged. Wet. One hand clutches hard against his side, blood slipping steadily through his fingers and dripping onto your apartment floor in thick dark spots. Rainwater soaks through the shoulders of his jacket. His face is pale beneath the bruises already blooming along his jaw.

And somehow—somehow—his first instinct when he sees you is still that crooked little half-smile.

“Hey,” he rasps again. You stare at him in absolute disbelief. Then anger slams back into you so violently you almost shake with it.

“No.” You step backward immediately, pointing toward the hallway. “No. Absolutely fucking not.” Frank blinks slowly, swaying slightly where he stands.

“…C’mon.”

“No!” you snap. “You do not get to show up here after a year covered in blood like some stray goddamn dog—”

“Technically,” he mutters weakly, “think I’m more shot than stabbed this time.”

“Are you insane?”

“Probably.”

His knees buckle. Your reflexes betray you instantly. You lunge forward with a sharp curse, grabbing him before he can hit the floor completely. The second your hands touch him, heat floods your chest in a way that feels dangerously close to grief. He’s real. Heavy. Warm. Bleeding all over your apartment. Real.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe, struggling under his weight as you drag him farther inside. He groans, barely able to lift himself off the floor. Frank’s eyes flutter shut for half a second like even standing upright is becoming too much effort.

“M’sorry,” he breathes, rough and slurred around the pain. “M’so sorry, baby. I—fuck—I didn’t know where else t’go.” You don’t answer him. Because if you do, you might scream. Instead, you tighten your grip under his arm and drag him farther inside the apartment, kicking the door shut behind you with enough force to rattle the frame.

“Move,” you snap. Frank obeys immediately. Or tries to. Mostly he stumbles where you push him, boots smearing rainwater and blood across your floorboards. By the time you get him to the couch, he’s breathing hard through clenched teeth.

“Sit down.” He lowers himself heavily with a muffled groan, one hand still clamped to his side. You disappear into the bathroom without another word. The whole time you can feel him listening to your footsteps. You come back with the old med kit under your arm and a stack of towels you immediately throw onto the coffee table harder than necessary. Frank watches you carefully. Not defensive. Not angry. Just… wary. Like he knows exactly how badly he deserves this.

“You get followed?” you ask flatly.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” You glare at him. Frank swallows once.

“Checked twice.” You nod once and crouch in front of him, already pulling scissors from the kit.

“Take the jacket off.” He hesitates. You look up sharply.

“Frank.” That old instinct kicks in immediately. He shrugs the soaked leather from his shoulders with visible effort, jaw tightening as pain flashes across his face. The sight underneath almost knocks the air from your lungs. Blood everywhere. His black shirt is stuck to his skin, dark and wet around his ribs. Bruises crawl across his chest and shoulder, angry purple beneath old scars you remember tracing with your fingertips years ago. You harden instantly against the memory.

“What happened?”

“Couple dirty cops,” he mutters.

“Of course.”

“Was handlin’ it.” You shoot him a look while yanking the shirt upward harder than necessary. Frank hisses sharply.

“Christ.”

“Good,” you snap. “Maybe pain will improve your decision-making skills.”

“Hasn’t so far.” You peel the fabric away enough to expose the wound and immediately curse under your breath. Bullet graze. Deep enough to bleed like hell. Not deep enough to kill him. Unfortunately.

“You need stitches.”

“Mhm.”

“You could’ve gone to a hospital.”

“Couldn’t.”

“Why?” Frank looks away. That answer tells you enough. You exhale hard through your nose and start cleaning the wound. Frank jerks immediately.

“Jesus—”

“Oh, now you care about pain?”

“You’re bein’ rough on purpose.”

“You noticed?” Another sharp wipe across the wound earns a low grunt from him. Good. Part of you hates how familiar this feels. The alcohol. The blood. Frank sitting half-dead in your living room while you patch him back together. Your hands remember him too well. You hate that most of all. The apartment falls quiet except for rain hammering against the windows and Frank’s uneven breathing. Every once in a while your fingers brush his skin accidentally and both of you go still for a second too long. Neither of you acknowledges it. You finish disinfecting the wound and reach for the suture kit. Frank notices immediately.

“Nah.” Your eyes narrow.

“Excuse me?”

“Ain’t necessary.”

“It literally is.”

“I’ll live.”

“You’re bleeding onto my couch.”

“M’sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.” That shuts him up. You thread the needle with practiced hands. Frank watches you for a long second before speaking again, quieter this time.

“Shouldn’ have come here.” Your hands pause for only half a second. Then keep moving.

“But you did,” you say flatly. He nods once.

“Yeah.” Silence again. You stitch him up carefully despite your irritation, fingers steady from years of practice. Frank barely reacts beyond the occasional tightening of his jaw. Typical. Always trying to act tougher than the situation. By the time you finish bandaging him, exhaustion is pulling visibly at his face. His head tips back briefly against the couch cushions, eyes half-lidded. He looks older than he did a year ago. More tired. Like life’s been chewing him apart piece by piece. You stand abruptly before that thought can settle too deeply.

“That’s all you’re getting tonight.” Frank immediately pushes a hand against the couch, trying to stand.

“Alright,” he mutters. “I’ll get outta your hair.” You stare at him like he’s genuinely lost his mind.

“You can barely stand.”

“I’ll manage.” He gets halfway upright before his knees threaten to buckle again. You swear viciously under your breath and shove him back down onto the couch by the shoulder.

“Sit the fuck down.” Frank blinks up at you, startled mostly because you physically shoved him. “You’re staying here tonight.”

“Nah.”

“Yes.”

“You already did enough.”

“Frank.”

“I mean it.” His voice roughens slightly. “Don’t wanna make more trouble for you.” Something ugly twists in your chest at that. More trouble. Like that’s what he thinks he is. You cross your arms tightly.

“You’re not walking out of here bleeding through fresh stitches at three in the morning during a thunderstorm.”

“I’ve done worse.”

“I don’t care.” Frank looks like he’s gearing up to argue again, but exhaustion finally wins. You can see it happen in real time. His shoulders sag. His eyes lower.

“…Couch is fine,” he mutters eventually. You nod once.

“Good.” Another silence settles. Strange. Heavy. Not quite hostile anymore. You grab a blanket from the hallway closet and toss it at him. It lands against his chest. Frank catches it automatically, looking down at it for a second like he doesn’t quite know what to do with kindness anymore. Neither do you.

“I’ll get you water,” you say stiffly. As you turn away, his voice stops you quietly.

“…Thanks, baby.” You freeze for half a heartbeat. Then keep walking anyway before he can see how much that one word still affects you.

Keep walking before he can't see the relief crossing over your face, relief at seeing him alive and near you, despite him only showing up because he's bleeding.

Sleep doesn’t come easily.

You tell yourself it’s because there’s a heavily armed vigilante bleeding out on your couch.

Not because every creak of the apartment has your ears straining toward the living room.

Not because part of you still can’t fully believe he’s here.

Twice during the night you wake up disoriented and listen for movement. The first time, you hear the low scrape of boots against the floorboards and the muffled clink of a glass in the kitchen. The second time, there’s only silence and steady rain against the windows.

Still there.

Both times, relief settles in your chest before you can stop it.

You hate that. By the time morning drags itself through the blinds, pale gray and miserable, your body feels heavy with exhaustion. You drag yourself out of bed, your limbs heavy. You throw the blankets off yourself and step into the hallway. You yawn as you rub your eyes, crossing into the living room and going straight for the fridge.

"M'gonna make some coffee. You should eat somethin'. You lost a lot of blood last night." You mutter, grabbing the milk out of the fridge and reaching for your cup.

No answer.

"Frank ? Did you hear me ?" You spin around. The couch is empty. Your stomach drops so hard it makes you dizzy. No. No no no. The blanket you gave him is folded messily over the armrest. The glass from last night sits half-empty on the coffee table.

But Frank is gone.

Something sharp and panicked tears through your chest so violently you stop breathing for a second.

The cup falls out of your hands and shatters upon impact on the floor. The porcelain shards scrape ugly gashes along your legs and you jump back in surprise. Your eyes snap back up to the couch as if trying to see something new.

Still no Frank.

“No.” Your voice comes out small. The fire escape outside the window rattles softly in the wind and your heart lurches so hard it physically hurts. He left. Again.

Of course he did.

Your breathing turns shallow immediately, panic building too fast to stop. Suddenly the apartment feels too small again. Too quiet. Too much like that day after Foggy’s funeral.

The empty drawers.

The missing toothbrush.

The note on the fridge.

Your vision blurs.

“No, no, no..” You move through the apartment too quickly, chest tightening painfully as you check rooms you already know are empty.

“Frank?” Nothing. The panic gets worse instantly. Your hands start shaking.

Not again.

Not again not again not again—

“Frank!” you call louder this time, voice cracking apart halfway through his name. Still nothing. Your lungs refuse to pull in enough air. Tears sting your eyes before you even realize they’re there.

You hate yourself for this.

Hate how quickly your body falls apart over him. You stumble back into the living room, frantic now, breathing too hard. Blood is running down your legs, and your can barely breathe.

“Frank!” His name breaks completely this time.

Your hands are shaking so violently now you can barely grab onto anything. The apartment blurs around the edges as tears spill faster down your face. Your pulse is roaring in your ears.

You can see it again so clearly.

The empty half of the closet.

His missing boots by the door.

The fucking note.

Your stomach twists hard enough to make you gag.

The bathroom door SLAMS open so hard it cracks against the wall.

You jump violently just as the door flies open hard enough to slam against the wall. Frank comes barreling out looking alarmed as hell, one hand braced against his stitched side, damp hair sticking out in every direction like he’d barely had time to shove a towel away.

“Whoa—hey, hey—!” Frank barrels out barefoot and half-dressed, one hand still braced against his freshly bandaged ribs, confusion written all over his face before it instantly twists into alarm. “Baby?” You spin toward him so fast Your vision tunnels immediately at the sight of him standing there.

Alive.

Still here.

The panic doesn’t stop. It gets worse. A broken sound tears out of your throat as your knees nearly give out beneath you. Frank’s expression changes instantly.

“Hey. Hey, no, c’mere—” You can’t breathe. Your chest is locking up completely now, lungs pulling in useless little gasps that never feel like enough. Tears spill hot down your face as you stagger backward into the kitchen counter hard enough to rattle the mugs hanging beneath the cabinets.

“You weren't here—” you choke out. Frank freezes. And suddenly he understands.

“Oh, sweetheart—no.” You shake your head violently, crying harder now because it’s humiliating and uncontrollable and you can’t stop it.

“The couch was empty and I thought—” Your voice snaps apart completely. “I thought you left again—”Frank is across the room before you finish the sentence.

“Hey. Hey, no.” His hands catch your arms carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll break apart completely if he grabs too hard. “No, no, I was in the bathroom, baby. Look at me.” You can’t. Your body is fully spiraling now, breaths sharp and uneven as old grief crashes over new panic so hard it makes you dizzy. Before you can stop yourself, shove hard against his chest.

“You asshole!” you choke out. “You absolute fucking asshole—”

“Whoa—hey—” He catches your wrists, frowning. “Easy, easy—”

“No!” You rip one hand free just to shove at him again, tears pouring harder now out of pure panic and humiliation and fury all tangled together so badly you can’t separate any of it anymore. “You can’t just disappear on me like that!”

“I was gone for two minutes!”

“Last time you left was longer than two fucking minutes!” The second the words rip out of you, the room goes dead silent. Frank stills completely. Your breathing is coming too fast now, bordering on hysterical. You can’t stop. Everything’s spilling out ugly and raw and humiliating. “I woke up and you weren’t there and all I could think about was that fucking note and the empty closet and—” Your voice breaks violently. “God, I hate you for doing that to me—” Frank’s grip on your wrists loosens instantly. Not letting go. Just softer now. His expression changes into something awful. Something wrecked.

“Baby…”

“No, don’t ‘baby’ me!” you snap through tears. “Do you know what that did to me?”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t!” Your chest heaves painfully. Frank looks like he wants to pull you closer and run at the exact same time. “I woke up every day for months thinking maybe you’d come back,” you choke out. “Every single fucking sound outside that door—” Your voice folds in on itself. “And then eventually I stopped hoping because it hurt too much.” Frank flinches like you hit him.

Good. Part of you wants him hurt. You shove hard at his chest again and this time he lets you.

“I thought you were dead!” you sob suddenly. “For months, i thought-”

Your lungs lock again. Too fast. Too much. You bend forward sharply trying to breathe and Frank immediately grabs your shoulders.

“Hey. Hey, c’mon.” His voice drops low and rough instantly, all panic now. “Breathe for me.” You shake your head violently.

Can’t.

Can’t can’t can’t—

“Look at me.” His hands slide up to cup your face despite your struggling. “Look at me, sweetheart.” Your eyes finally meet his for half a second. Enough. Frank nods immediately.

“That’s it. There y’go.” Your breaths still come broken and ragged. “I ain’t gone,” he says firmly. “Hear me? I’m right here.” Tears blur him anyway.

“You left me,” you whisper. And that— That finally breaks something in Frank’s face completely. Not anger. Not defensiveness. Just guilt so deep it looks unbearable to carry.

“I know,” he says quietly. You start crying harder at how quickly he admits it. No excuses. No argument. Just the truth sitting ugly between you both. Frank’s thumb brushes helplessly under your eye, wiping tears away faster than they can fall.

“I know, baby,” he repeats hoarsely. “I know.” Frank glances down suddenly and swears harshly. “Jesus Christ, you’re bleeding.” Only then do you feel it properly—the sting along your calves from the shattered mug. Thin lines of blood trail down your skin onto the tile. Frank immediately guides you backward toward the kitchen chair.

“Sit down.” You barely register obeying him. He crouches in front of you with a pained grunt, one hand still pressed protectively against his own side while the other carefully brushes porcelain fragments away from your feet.

“You’re gonna reopen your stitches,” you whisper shakily, still crying.

“Don’t care.”

“Frank—”

“Don’t.” His voice comes rough and immediate. “Don’t do that right now.” Your breathing still won’t steady properly. Frank notices instantly.

“Look at me.” You try. Fail. He softens immediately. “C’mon, sweetheart. There y’are.” His thumb brushes beneath your eye automatically, wiping tears away before he seems to even realize he’s doing it.

“I’m here.” Another shaky breath leaves you. Frank swallows hard as he looks up at you from where he’s crouched between your knees on the kitchen floor. And for the first time since he showed up at your door last night, he looks genuinely shaken. Not from blood loss. From you.

“I didn’t know,” he admits quietly. “Didn’t know you’d…” He stops, jaw tightening hard. “Shit.” You press a trembling hand over your mouth. You hiccup on a sob, the feel of his hands so fucking gentle on your skin makes you want to throw up. You want to beg him to stop touching you, and at the same time, ask him to never stop. You close your eyes, tears slipping out of them quietly.

"Why did you leave me ?" You whisper, your voice hoarse and broken. "Why did you come back ?" You rasp. Frank’s face goes still. Not blank. Worse. Like every answer he could give is the wrong one. For a second all you hear is the rain against the windows and your own uneven breathing. Frank stays crouched in front of you, broad shoulders tense beneath the thin gray shirt he must’ve found in your bathroom sometime during the night. His hands are still around your calves, careful around the cuts, like he’s forgotten he was cleaning blood off you at all.

“Why did you leave me?” you whisper again. Frank lowers his head. You’ve seen this man stare down armed gangs without blinking. Seen him walk into impossible situations with blood on his hands and fury in his eyes.

But this? This makes him look devastated.

“I thought…” His voice catches rough in his throat. He swallows hard. “Thought I was doin’ the right thing.” A broken laugh tears out of you immediately.

“By disappearing?”

“By not destroyin’ what was left of your life.”

“You were my life.” That hits him hard enough you physically see it. Frank’s eyes shut briefly. His hand tightens once against your ankle before he forces himself to loosen it again.

“After Foggy…” He exhales shakily through his nose. “Christ.” His jaw flexes hard. “You were already drownin’. And me bein’ there—” He shakes his head once. “Everywhere I go, people die. People get hurt. Dirty cops were already sniffin’ around me back then. Fisk’s people too. I kept thinkin’ eventually somebody was gonna connect you to me and—”

“So you left first.” Frank looks up at you then. Straight on. No hiding.

“Yeah.” The honesty of it hurts worse somehow. You wipe furiously at your face, but more tears just keep replacing them. Frank watches you do it with this awful helpless expression like he’d rather take a bullet than sit here through this conversation.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“I tried not to.”

“I know that too.” Your fingers twist together in your lap.

“I thought maybe you got killed somewhere,” you admit quietly. “Because that made more sense to me than you just… not wanting me anymore.” Frank’s entire face breaks.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. You look away immediately, ashamed now. Ashamed of the panic attack. Ashamed of the crying. Ashamed that after a year, one missing man on a couch still turned you into this. Frank notices anyway. Of course he does.

“Hey,” he says softly. You shake your head.

“No.”

“Sweetheart—”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracks again. “Don’t be gentle with me now.” That silences him. You stare at the floor while he carefully pulls the last porcelain shard from your skin. His hands are impossibly steady for a man who got shot twelve hours ago.

“You asked why I came back,” he says after a long moment. You laugh weakly through your tears.

“Yeah.” Frank sits back slowly on his heels. Thinking carefully. Like the truth costs him something.

“Because I got hurt,” he says first. You flinch. Frank sees it immediately. “Not what I mean.” He scrubs a hand down his face tiredly. “I mean— yeah, I came here ‘cause I was bleedin’ and half outta my damn mind and you’re the only person I trust to patch me up.” His mouth twists bitterly. “But there were other places I could’ve gone.” Your eyes finally lift to his. Frank holds your gaze this time. “I came here because when i was in that busted alleway, and thinkin' i was gonna die…” His voice roughens. “The only thing i could think of was telling you fucking sorry I am, and how much I love you.” The room goes completely silent. Your breath catches painfully. Frank looks almost angry at himself for admitting it. “I tried stayin’ away,” he mutters. “Tried tellin’ myself it was better for you.” His eyes flick down briefly before returning to yours. “Then I got shot and all I could think about was gettin’ back here. To you.” He gulps, looking down as he continues wrapping up your legs. "I left thinkin' I was protecting you but really.. I was just protecting myself." Your chest tightens painfully at that. Frank keeps his eyes on your legs while he tapes fresh gauze carefully against one of the deeper cuts, jaw tight enough to crack teeth.

“I told myself I was leavin’ because it was safer for you,” he says quietly. “But truth is…” He lets out a humorless breath. “I couldn’t stand watchin’ you lose your brother while I was sittin’ there knowin’ damn well people around me don’t get happy endings.” Your eyes burn again instantly. Frank shakes his head once, disgusted with himself. “So I ran first.” His fingers still briefly against your skin. “Coward move.”

“You are not a coward.” A rough laugh leaves him immediately.

“Sweetheart, I disappeared instead of talkin’ to you.” His eyes finally lift to yours. “That’s coward shit.” You don’t know what to say to that. Because part of you still remembers waking up to those empty drawers. Part of you still remembers sitting on the kitchen floor clutching that stupid note so hard it tore in your hands. Frank looks wrecked just remembering it. “I kept thinkin’ if I stayed gone long enough,” he says slowly, “you’d hate me enough to move on.” Your throat closes.

“And did it work?” you whisper. Frank stares at you for a long moment.

“No,” he says hoarsely. The air leaves your lungs all at once. He drops his gaze again like he regrets every word coming out of his mouth but can’t stop now that it’s started. “I tried, alright?” His voice roughens. “Tried stayin’ away. Tried buryin’ it.” He swallows hard. “Tried tellin’ myself you were better off without me.” His hand curls unconsciously against your knee. “But you’re…” He exhales shakily, searching for words that don’t seem to come naturally to him. “Christ.”

You’ve never seen Frank struggle like this. Not in a fight. Not bleeding out. Not facing down men twice his size.

But feelings? Feelings unravel him completely.

“You’re in me,” he says finally, frustrated by the inadequacy of it immediately. “That ain’t even— fuck.” He drags a hand over his face hard. “You’re in the very fabric of my fuckin' soul, sweetheart.” The words hit you so hard your breath catches. Frank looks almost furious at himself for saying them out loud. “I leave,” he mutters, eyes glassy now, voice low and rough, “and you’re still there. Every goddamn place I go. Every bad night. Every fight. Every time I think I might die.” His chest rises unevenly. “You’re the last thing I think about.” Tears spill down your face silently. Frank notices and immediately softens.

“Hey,” he whispers. You shake your head once, overwhelmed.

“No, don’t—” Your voice breaks apart. “Don’t say things like that if you’re just gonna leave again.” That destroys him. You see it happen in real time. Frank’s face crumples into something so raw it almost scares you.

“I don’t wanna leave again,” he admits quietly. The honesty in it is terrifying. Because Frank Castle does not say things he doesn’t mean. Your fingers tremble in your lap.

“Then why does it feel like you already got one foot out the door?” He goes silent. And that silence tells you everything. Frank looks away first.

“There are people lookin’ for me,” he says eventually. “Bad people. Worse than before.” His jaw tightens. “If they know about you—”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.”

“You don’t get to make decisions for me!”

“I know!” he snaps suddenly. The force of it startles both of you into silence. Frank exhales immediately afterward, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus.” His voice drops again. Tired. “I know.” He looks back at you helplessly. “But I can’t lose another person because of me.” Something inside you softens then. Not completely. Not enough to erase the hurt. But enough to finally see him clearly beneath all the armor and violence and guilt. Frank isn’t pulling away because he stopped loving you. He’s pulling away because loving you terrifies him. Your voice comes out small when you finally speak.

“You already lost me once. You made that decision.” Frank closes his eyes like that sentence physically wounded him. "How am I supposed to trust you ?" Frank doesn’t answer immediately. That alone feels honest. Because there isn’t a good answer to that question. Rain taps softly against the apartment windows while he sits there on the kitchen floor between your knees, one hand still resting lightly against your bandaged leg like he forgot to move it. Finally, quietly:

“You probably shouldn’t.” Your face crumples. Frank sees it and immediately looks furious with himself. “No— shit, that ain’t—” He drags a hand over his face hard. “I mean… I don’t expect it.” His voice lowers roughly. “I ain’t earnin’ trust back with one conversation and a couple apologies.” You stare at him through blurry eyes.

“Then what are you doing here?” Frank looks up at you. And for once, there’s no mask on him at all.

“No clue,” he admits. You shake your head at him, exhausted beyond words. Frank watches you carefully for a second before his expression softens again into something almost unbearably fond. “You look tired,” he says quietly.

“So do you.”

“Yeah.” A beat. “Got shot yesterday.” Despite everything, another broken laugh slips out of you. Frank smiles properly this time.

Not the sharp dangerous grin people in Hell’s Kitchen know.

Not the bitter one.

Just Frank.

Crooked and tired and so fucking soft looking it nearly breaks your heart all over again.

The silence after that feels different. Still fragile. Still bruised. But warmer somehow. Frank’s thumb brushes absently against your knee once before he seems to realize what he’s doing. His hand immediately starts to pull away. You catch his wrist before he can. Both of you freeze. Frank stares down at your fingers wrapped around him like he can’t believe you touched him first. Your throat tightens.

“You really hurt me,” you whisper. His eyes close briefly.

“I know.”

“And I’m still angry.”

“You should be.”

“And part of me still wants to throw you back out into the hallway.”

“That’s fair.”

“But…” Your voice weakens. “Part of me wants you to stay.” Frank goes completely still. Carefully, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal, his eyes lift back to yours.

“Yeah?” he asks softly. You hate how much love is still sitting there in his face. You hate that yours probably looks the same.

“I don’t know what this is now,” you admit shakily.

“Neither do I.”

“You can’t disappear again.” Something flickers across his expression. Fear, maybe. Or guilt. Maybe both.

“I can try,” he says honestly. You let out a disbelieving breath.

“That’s a terrible answer.”

“Only one I got right now.” Frank shifts carefully, wincing slightly at his stitches, and before you can think too hard about it, your hand moves automatically toward his side. Checking. Protective. His eyes drop to your hand instantly. Something tender breaks open between you both.

“C’mere,” he says quietly. Your breath catches. Frank lifts a hand slowly toward your face, giving you plenty of time to pull away. When you don’t, his fingers settle against your cheek with devastating gentleness.

“You don’t gotta forgive me today,” he murmurs. “Or tomorrow.” His thumb brushes beneath your eye. “Hell, maybe not ever.”

“Frank—”

“But I’m here now.” The words settle deep. Heavy. Real. You lean forward before you can second-guess yourself. Frank meets you halfway instantly. The kiss is nothing like the desperate ones you remember.

It’s slow. Careful. A little broken. He kisses you like he’s still apologizing. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he pushes too hard. Your fingers slide into the damp hair at the back of his neck and Frank makes this rough quiet sound in his throat that nearly undoes you completely. When you finally pull apart, neither of you moves very far. His forehead rests against yours. Your breaths mix together.

“I still love you,” you whisper miserably. Frank’s eyes shut.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I still love you too.” It doesn’t fix anything. Foggy is still gone. The hurt is still there. Frank is still Frank— bruised and dangerous and carrying violence around in his bones like a second skeleton. And you still don’t know if loving him will destroy you.

But when Frank pulls back just enough to look at you, there’s something different in his face now. Not fixed. Not healed.

Just… open. Like he finally stopped running for one second. Your eyes burn with exhaustion. The adrenaline crash is hitting hard now, leaving your whole body shaky and heavy. Frank notices immediately. Of course he does.

“C’mere,” he murmurs again, softer this time. You shake your head weakly.

“I’m mad at you.”

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“Yeah.” His thumb brushes your cheek gently. “Still c’mere.” Something inside you finally gives out. A quiet, miserable sound escapes your throat as you fold forward into him. Frank catches you instantly, arms wrapping around you with a sharp inhale like he still can’t believe he’s allowed to touch you. The second his arms close around your back, you break completely. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just exhausted, aching sobs pressed into his shoulder while his arms tighten around you like he’s trying to hold together every shattered piece at once.

“Hey,” he whispers roughly into your hair. “Hey, sweetheart. I got you.” His hand slides up and down your spine slowly. Steady. Careful. “I got you.” You cry harder at that. Because you used to believe him so easily.

Because part of you still does.

Frank holds you through all of it without trying to stop you. Every shaky breath. Every angry little shove against his chest. Every tear soaking into his shirt. He just keeps one arm around your shoulders and the other cradling the back of your head, murmuring quiet nonsense under his breath like he’s talking you down from a ledge.

“Tha’s it. You’re alright. Breathe for me, sweetheart.” Eventually the sobs wear themselves out into trembling little hiccups. Your entire body feels wrung dry. Frank leans back enough to look at you, eyes soft and wrecked all over again.

“You’re exhausted,” he says quietly.

“So are you.”

“Yeah, well.” One corner of his mouth twitches faintly. “I’m always exhausted.” You almost smile. Almost. Frank carefully stands despite the obvious pull of pain across his face. Before you can ask what he’s doing, one arm slides behind your back and the other beneath your knees.

“Frank—”

“Don’t start.” He lifts you easily despite the stitches in his side protesting immediately. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t put you down. “You’re runnin’ on fumes.”

“You got shot yesterday.”

“And you had a panic attack bad enough t’nearly pass out.” He starts carrying you toward the bedroom. “Think we’re both havin’ a rough week.” You let your head fall against his shoulder because fighting suddenly feels impossible. The bedroom still smells faintly like him underneath the dust and old laundry detergent. Maybe it always had. Maybe you just stopped letting yourself notice. Frank lowers you onto the mattress carefully, like something fragile. The second he starts pulling away, panic flashes hot through your chest again before you can hide it. His expression changes immediately.

“Hey,” he says softly. “M’just grabbin’—”

“Stay.” The word leaves you too fast. Too desperate. You close your eyes immediately, ashamed. But when you open them again, Frank is just standing there looking at you like you hung the damn moon.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Okay.” He strips off his boots first, then hesitates only briefly before lowering himself beside you with obvious care for his ribs. The mattress dips beneath his weight. For a second neither of you move. Then his arm opens slightly. An offering. Tentative. You slide into him before fear can stop you. Frank exhales shakily the second your head settles against his chest. His arms wrap around you slowly, almost reverently, like he’s relearning something sacred. One hand settles at your waist while the other slides into your hair. Your eyes sting again.

“You better still be here when I wake up,” you whisper against his shirt. Frank goes very still. Then you feel his lips press softly against the top of your head.

“I’ll be here,” he says.

And this time— this time you decide to try believing him.

When you wake again, sunlight is spilling golden and sleepy through the blinds. For one horrible second, your heart jumps. But before panic can fully take hold, you feel it. Warmth. Solid weight beside you. You turn carefully.

Frank is still there.

Fast asleep on his side facing you, one arm still draped loosely across your waist even in sleep. His face looks softer unconscious. Younger somehow. The hard lines smoothed away by exhaustion. His hair is still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends.

And taped crookedly to the headboard just above him— written in messy black sharpie on one of your yellow sticky notes—

i’m still here.

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