Matt Murdock Is A Catholic Whore

Frank treated your pregnancy like you were made of spun glass and holy water. Not in an overbearing way.

Okay—sometimes in an overbearing way.

But mostly in the kind of way that made your chest ache every time you caught him looking at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Like he still couldn’t believe this was real. Like every kick, every ultrasound picture taped to the fridge, every tiny onesie folded in the nursery felt borrowed from somebody else’s life. Some nights you’d wake up at three in the morning to find him sitting beside you in bed, one massive hand spread carefully over your stomach while the baby kicked against his palm. And every single time, Frank would look just as stunned.

“She’s strong,” he’d whisper once, voice thick with something emotional enough to make your throat burn.

“How do you know it’s a she?”

“Because she’s already beatin’ my ass.” You laughed so hard you snorted. Frank looked devastatingly pleased with himself for hours afterward.

But God, the pregnancy itself?

Absolute hell.

Your ankles were swollen.

Your back constantly hurt.

You cried once because the grocery store was out of the popsicles you wanted and Frank nearly threatened a minimum wage employee before you dragged him away mortified.

Then came the complications. The hypertension first. Frank took one look at the blood pressure monitor and immediately transformed into the world’s most terrifying personal nurse. Suddenly you weren’t allowed to carry groceries. Or stand too long. Or stress about literally anything.

“You need water?” he’d ask before you even realized you were thirsty.

“You hungry?”

“You dizzy?”

“Baby, when’s the last time you sat down?” It became constant. And the anemia somehow made him worse. The first time you nearly fainted in the kitchen, Frank caught you before your knees fully gave out, panic washing over his face so fast it scared you.

“Hey. Hey—look at me.” His hands cupped your face tightly. “Talk t’me.”

“I’m okay,” you mumbled weakly.

“No, you’re fuckin’ not.” After that, he watched you like a man trying to hold the world together with bare hands. You’d catch him hovering in doorways.

Watching to make sure you ate.

Watching to make sure you slept.

Watching your chest rise while you rested beside him at night.

Like he still believed happiness could disappear if he looked away too long. And through all of it—through the nausea and headaches and exhaustion and hormones so bad you once sobbed because Frank bought the wrong pasta sauce—he never made you feel difficult. Not once. Even when you snapped at him. Even when you cried over nothing. Even when your body hurt so badly you didn’t wanna be touched. Frank just took it. Softly. Patiently. Like loving you through this was the easiest thing he’d ever done.

By month eight, you were done.

Absolutely done.

You waddled into the apartment one miserable July afternoon, kicked your shoes off violently, and announced:

“I want this baby evicted immediately.” Frank looked up from cleaning one of his guns at the table.

“…That bad today, huh?”

“She’s sitting directly on my spine.”

“Mm.”

“And my feet look medically concerning.” He nodded solemnly.

“They do look pretty tiny.” You stared at him.

“…Frank.”

“What?” he asked innocently. “Tryin’ t’boost morale.” You burst into exhausted laughter despite yourself before immediately groaning and clutching your stomach.

“Ow.” Frank was beside you instantly.

“Hey.” All humor vanished from his face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you sighed. “She just kicked me in the ribs again.” His expression softened so fast it nearly hurt to look at.

“C’mere.” You let him guide you carefully down onto the couch with one hand braced at your lower back. The second you settled against the cushions, Frank crouched in front of you automatically, both hands spreading gently across your stomach. “Alright, tiny terrorist,” he muttered toward your belly. “Quit beatin’ up your ma.” Right on cue, the baby kicked hard enough for both of you to see it through your shirt. Frank froze. Every single time. No matter how often it happened, he still reacted like it was the most miraculous thing he’d ever seen.

“…Jesus,” he whispered. You smiled tiredly down at him.

“You say that every time.”

“Yeah, well.” His thumb stroked slowly over the curve of your stomach. “Still can’t believe she’s real.”

---------

You don't register the pain at first.

It's late, and you're making yourself a snack in the kitchen while Frank watches TV.

You've been having weird practice contractions all week, so when your gut twists painfully, you brush it off and keep on slathering the peanut butter on the celery stick, getting read to get your dried raisins to make your ants on a log- one of your more tame cravings. Another cramp rolls through you. Sharper this time. You pause with the raisin box halfway open, sucking in a slow breath through your nose.

“Y’alright in there?” Frank calls from the living room immediately.

“Fine,” you answer automatically. A beat passes.

“…You don’t sound fine.”

“I’m pregnant,” you call back. “None of me sounds fine anymore.” That earns a soft snort from the other room. You smile faintly to yourself and shake a few raisins into your palm. Then the pain hits again. Hard. Your fingers tighten against the counter instantly.

“Oh,” you whisper. It wraps low around your stomach and back this time, squeezing so tight it steals your breath for a second. Not like the weird tightening you’ve been getting all week. This hurts. Deep and mean and hot enough to make your knees feel strange. You brace both hands on the counter until it eases.

Okay.

Okay maybe that one sucked a little.

You glance toward the microwave clock. The contractions have been random for days. Everybody said that happened at the end. Braxton Hicks. Practice. False labor. Your doctor literally warned you not to panic over every cramp. So you don’t. You pop a raisin into your mouth stubbornly and reach for the peanut butter again. From the living room, Frank raises his voice slightly.

“Baby?”

“Mhm?”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, dad,” you tease weakly. Frank appears in the kitchen doorway so fast it’s honestly alarming. Before you can recover from that emotional catastrophe, another pain crashes through you so violently your smile vanishes.

“Fuck—” Frank is beside you instantly.

“Hey.” His hands find your hips automatically. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I dunno.” You breathe hard through it. “Just hurts." His expression sharpens immediately.

“Contraction?”

“Maybe?”

“How long apart?”

“I wasn’t timing them.”

“You weren’t—” Frank cuts himself off with visible effort. “Okay. Okay, sweetheart, sit down for me.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are bent over a counter holdin’ celery like it personally betrayed you."

You almost laugh.

Almost.

Then something suddenly gives low in your stomach. A strange popping sensation. And warmth gushes down your legs. You freeze. Frank freezes too. The silence lasts exactly one second.

“Oh, shit,” you whisper. Frank looks down. Then immediately back up at you with eyes wide as hell.

“Did your water just break?”

“I think so?”

“You think so?”

“I’ve literally never done this before, Frank!”

“Right. Right, okay.” He’s already panicking. You can hear it under every word even while he tries to stay calm. “Hospital bag. We need—” Another contraction slams into you before he can finish. This one is unbearable. Pain rips straight through your spine and lower stomach so hard your knees buckle instantly.

“Oh my God—”

“Hey!” Frank catches you before you hit the floor, both arms locking around you. “Easy, easy—breathe, baby, c’mon.” You clutch his shirt hard enough to wrinkle it in your fists.

“It hurts,” you gasp.

“I know.”

“No, Frank, it really hurts.” The pressure in your stomach keeps building instead of fading. Your entire abdomen tightens painfully hard, sharp enough to make tears spring instantly into your eyes.

This must be normal.

Right? Everybody talks about how bad labor hurts. Nobody describes it specifically because apparently women enjoy being cryptic about childbirth for some reason. So this is probably fine.

Probably.

“Okay,” Frank says quickly, voice tight now. “Okay, we’re goin’. Can you walk?”

You nod automatically. Then another wave crashes into you before you even fully straighten.

“Oh, fuck—” Frank’s face drains of color.

“That close together?”

“I dunno—” Your breath stutters painfully. “Maybe?” Your legs feel weak. The pain is everywhere now, wrapping around your back and hips so intensely it almost feels like your body is splitting apart from the inside. You cling harder to Frank without thinking.

“Hey, hey.” His hand cups the side of your face instantly. “Look at me." You try. “You’re okay,” he says, even though he sounds terrified now too. “I got you.” You nod shakily. Another cramp twists through your stomach before the last one fully leaves, and this time a broken sound slips out of you before you can stop it. The whole way from the apartment to car is a blur. The ride to the hospital is even foggier. All you can focus on is the sharp pain blooming on your pelvis, and the way your whole body is shaking.

At first, it’s almost weirdly normal.

Terrifying. Painful. Chaotic.

But normal.

Frank stays beside you the entire time, one massive hand wrapped around yours while the other rubs your back through every contraction. His hair’s a mess already from dragging his hands through it for hours, exhaustion written all over his face, but every time you look at him he straightens immediately.

“You’re doin’ good,” he keeps saying. You hate him a little for it.

“Don’t patronize me,” you snap through clenched teeth as another contraction rips through your spine. Frank blinks.

“I’m not patronizin’ you.”

“You did this to me.” That actually makes one of the nurses laugh. Frank looks deeply offended.

“I did not do this alone.”

“You looked me in my eyes and got me pregnant.”

“Sweetheart, that is biologically not how—” Another contraction hits.

“Oh, fuck you,” you gasp, nearly crushing his hand.

“Okay, yeah, there she is,” Frank mutters immediately, relief flickering across his face despite everything. “That sounds more like you.” Hours pass like that. Pushing. Breathing. Crying. Threatening Frank’s life. At one point you grab the front of his hospital gown and hiss,

“If you ever touch me again after this, I’ll kill you.” Frank nods solemnly.

“Fair.” Then ten minutes later you’re clutching him again because the contractions hurt too badly to let go. The nurses keep reassuring you everything’s progressing.

“She’s almost here.”

“Baby’s doing good.”

“Just a little more.” Frank lives off those words. Almost there. Almost done. He kisses your forehead every chance he gets.

“You’re so strong,” he whispers against your sweaty temple while you cry through another push.

“I hate you,” you sob weakly.

“I know, baby.” Then suddenly— Something changes. Frank notices it before anyone says anything.

Your screams stop. Not because the pain stopped. Because you physically can’t make noise anymore. Your entire body goes rigid beneath his hands, face drained white while you pant shallowly through clenched teeth.

“Hey,” Frank says immediately. “Hey, look at me.” You don’t. Your eyes are glassy now. Panicked.

“It hurts,” you whisper. Not angry this time. Terrified. One of the nurses checks the monitor again. Her expression shifts. The doctor frowns.

“Okay,” he says carefully. “Baby’s not descending.” Another contraction hits and you scream hard enough to make Frank’s heart stop.

“Oh my God—get her out—” Frank’s stomach drops.

“What’s wrong?” The doctor doesn’t answer right away. He checks again. Then looks up.

“The baby’s shoulders are too broad. She’s stuck.” Everything in Frank goes cold.

“What does that mean?”

“It means your wife’s pelvis may be too small for vaginal delivery.” The doctor’s voice stays calm, but the room suddenly moves faster around them. “We need to move quickly.” You’re crying openly now.

“It hurts,” you gasp again. “Frank, it hurts so bad.” He’s instantly at your face again, both hands cradling your cheeks.

“I know. I know, sweetheart.” Then your monitor spikes. The baby’s heartbeat drops. The room changes instantly. Nurses moving faster. Machines beeping harder.

“We need to prep for emergency C-section.” Frank barely hears him because you suddenly go limp against the bed, exhausted beyond words.

“Baby?” His voice cracks immediately. “Hey—look at me.” Your eyes flutter weakly toward him. The doctor turns to Frank. And says the words that rip the floor out from under him.

“If complications worsen during surgery, we may have to prioritize one life.” Frank just stares at him.

“What?”

“The baby or your wife.” The answer comes before the doctor even finishes speaking.

“My wife.” Immediate. Absolute. The doctor nods once. Then they wheel you away. Everything after that feels unreal. Bright operating lights. Blue scrubs. Cold air. Frank stands beside your head while they work behind the curtain. Your hand is limp in his now. Medication makes your eyes heavy.

“You okay?” he whispers desperately.

“M’tired.” His chest physically hurts hearing that.

“I know, baby.” Then suddenly— A cry. Tiny. Sharp.Alive. Frank’s head jerks up instantly. One of the nurses lifts your daughter briefly over the curtain and Frank actually stops breathing.

She’s real.

His daughter.

Dark hair plastered to her tiny head. Red-faced and screaming. Alive.

“Oh my God,” he whispers. The nurse carefully places her into his arms. Frank looks down at her like the entire world just cracked open. His hands shake violently around her tiny body.

“Hey there,” he says softly, voice wrecked beyond repair. “Hey, sweetheart.” You choke on a sob, reaching for him weakly.

"Frank." You rasp. "Is- Is she okay ?" You manage. Frank’s head snaps toward you instantly. You look barely conscious. Pale. Exhausted. Sweat-damp hair stuck to your forehead while your eyes struggle to stay open through the medication and pain. But the second you hear the baby cry, you still reach for her. For him. For your family. And that absolutely destroys him.

“She’s okay,” Frank says immediately, voice shaking hard. He moves closer to your head carefully, cradling the baby against his chest with one arm while his free hand catches yours. “She’s okay, baby. She’s perfect.” Your face crumples. A tiny broken sound leaves your throat as you look at her. Frank lowers her carefully so you can see. And for one impossible second, everything else disappears.

The monitors. The doctors. The fear.

It’s just you staring at your daughter with tears sliding silently into your hairline.

“She’s so little,” you whisper. Frank laughs once through tears.

“Yeah.” His voice breaks completely. “Yeah, she is.” The baby squirms weakly in his arms, making tiny angry noises. Frank looks at her like she personally hung the moon. You smile faintly.

“I love you,” you whisper suddenly. Frank looks at you immediately. Your eyes are heavy again. Too heavy.

“I love you too,” he says fast, squeezing your hand. “Hey—stay with me, alright?” You nod faintly. But your grip is weaker now. The nurse beside Frank suddenly goes still. Then looks toward the monitor. Everything changes instantly.

“Doctor.” The tone makes Frank’s stomach drop. Another nurse moves quickly toward your bed. Then another. The beeping starts speeding up. Wrong. Too fast. Frank straightens immediately.

“What’s happening?” Nobody answers him. The doctor appears beside your body again, expression tightening as he checks something beneath the curtain.

“Her pressure’s dropping.” You blink slowly toward Frank, confused now.

“…Frank?”

“I’m here.” He’s at your side instantly again, clutching your hand harder. “I’m right here, baby.” Another alarm starts. Shriller this time.

“We need more blood in here now.” Frank’s heart stops.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s bleeding.” The room explodes into motion. Nurses rushing. Machines screaming louder. Doctors talking too fast for him to understand. Your eyes start slipping shut again.

“No.” Frank leans over you immediately. “No, hey—look at me.”

“M’tired,” you whisper again. Terror rips straight through him.

“Baby, stay awake.” You try.

God, you try.

But your eyes keep fluttering. The doctor swears quietly under his breath.

“We’re losing too much—” Frank’s entire body goes ice cold. The nurse carefully lifts the baby from his arms. He barely notices. Because suddenly your hand goes limp in his.

“…Baby?” No response. “Hey.” Panic floods every word now. “Hey, c’mon, look at me.” Nothing. The monitor drops sharply.

“Pressure crashing.”

“Move.”

“Get him out of here.” Frank jerks violently when someone grabs his shoulder.

“No.”

“Sir—”

“No!” His voice breaks apart completely. “That’s my wife!” You’re not responding. Doctors swarm your body fast enough that Frank can’t even see your face anymore. All he catches is blood. So much fucking blood. Then someone physically pulls him backward while he fights hard enough to nearly stumble.

The last thing he sees before the OR doors slam shut is your hand hanging limply off the side of the table. And for the first time in years, Frank Castle feels completely fucking helpless.

It's only when those doors close does Frank realise he's covered in blood.

Your blood - that covered your daughter as he held her.

A sign of her life.

A sign of your potential death.

He rips the blue scrubs off, and throws them to the floor.

"Frank ?" Frank's entire body goes rigid. Curtis's voice feels loud in the waiting room, and Frank can't bring himself to turn around and face his friend. His hands are shaking as he desperately tries to pick dired blood from out under his finger nails.

"Frank." Micro.

God.

Frank can’t answer them.

He can barely hear them over the sound of the monitors still echoing in his skull.

Pressure crashing.

We’re losing too much.

His wife lying motionless under operating lights while people shoved him away from her.

His breathing turns sharp and uneven. He scrubs harder at the blood beneath his nails like he can somehow dig the memory out with it.

“Frank,” Curtis says again, gentler this time.

Still, Frank doesn’t look up.

Because if he looks at them, this becomes real.

The baby becomes real.

You dying becomes real.

And he can’t—

He finally lifts his head then. And Jesus Christ, he looks destroyed. Eyes bloodshot. Face pale beneath the scruff. Still covered in your blood from chest to wrists.

Curtis reaches for him instinctively, but Frank jerks away immediately and surges to his feet.

“No.” He starts pacing now. Fast. Agitated. Like he’s trying to outrun his own skin. “No, this is—this is what happens.”

“What happens?” Curtis asks softly. Frank looks at him like the answer should be obvious.

“To people like me." The words land heavy. Certain. “I shoulda known better.”

“Frank,” Micro says firmly, “that is not—”

“I got greedy.” That shuts everybody up. Frank drags both hands over his face hard enough to pull at the skin. “She was already too good for me.” His voice drops quieter now. Worse somehow. “Then she loved me anyway.” His chest hitches once. “And the universe let me keep her.” For a second, his face almost softens remembering you. The way you laugh half asleep. The way you curl into his side automatically every night. The way you looked at him when you told him you were pregnant. Then his expression caves right back in.

“But a baby too?” he whispers.His eyes shine suddenly. “Family?” A wrecked little laugh escapes him. “Nah. That’s too much. Universe don’t let men like me have that twice.” Curtis stands slowly.

“That’s not true.” Frank finally snaps.

“It shoulda been me!” The shout cracks through the waiting room hard enough that a nurse startles down the hall. Frank’s breathing turns ragged instantly afterward.

“She was scared an’ I couldn’t fix it,” he says hoarsely. “I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t—” His voice breaks completely. Curtis grabs him then. Hard. One hand gripping the back of Frank’s neck while the other braces against his shoulder before he can completely come apart.

“This is not your fault.” Frank folds forward slightly with a strangled sound somewhere between rage and grief.

“I can’t lose her.” The words are small. Nothing like Frank Castle at all. Just a husband terrified out of his mind. Curtis’s grip tightens.

“You hear me?” Curtis says firmly. “She is still fighting in there.” Frank nods once. But it’s shaky. Unconvinced.

Then— A baby cries somewhere down the hall. The sound cuts straight through him. Frank freezes. Because his daughter is alive. Your daughter. Tiny and helpless and real. And suddenly the thought hits him hard enough to make him nauseous:

If you die— He has to go tell your little girl about you someday. Frank physically doubles over at the thought.

“She’s in there dyin’ because of me.” The waiting room goes dead quiet.

Curtis’s face tightens immediately.

“Frank—”

“No.” Frank shakes his head violently, stumbling backward out of Curtis’s grip. “No, don’t—don’t do that thing where everybody pretends this ain’t exactly how this was always gonna end.” His voice sounds shredded raw now.

“She loved me and now she’s payin’ for it.”

“That is not what’s happening,” Micro says sharply. Frank laughs again. Jesus, it sounds awful.

“You didn’t see her.” His eyes are glassy and distant now, fixed somewhere far beyond the waiting room walls. “She was lookin’ at me while they cut her open an’ she was scared outta her fuckin’ mind but she still kept askin’ if the baby was okay.” His throat works hard. “Always takin’ care of everybody else first.” The image clearly hits him again all at once because he abruptly drags a hand over his mouth like he’s trying not to throw up.

“She trusted me.” Curtis steps closer carefully.

“You love her. That’s not a crime.” Frank’s eyes snap toward him instantly.

“For me it is.” Silence. Heavy. Brutal. Frank starts pacing again before anybody can answer. Fast uneven strides across the cheap hospital tile.

“She shoulda had somebody normal,” he mutters. “Somebody safe.”

“She chose you,” Curtis says quietly.

“Yeah, well.” Frank’s jaw clenches hard enough to twitch. “She deserved better judgment.” Another cry echoes faintly down the hall. His daughter. His little girl is out there somewhere breathing for the very first time while you fight for your life behind those doors. Frank presses both hands hard against the back of his neck.

“I didn’t even get t’hold her right.” Micro blinks.

“What?” Frank looks wrecked.

“I was too busy watchin’ my wife die.” The confession lands like a bomb. “She was in my arms for maybe thirty seconds an’ all I could think was your mother’s bleedin’ out.” His chest caves inward slightly. “I didn’t even look at her proper.” Curtis exhales slowly.

“That doesn’t make you a bad father.” Frank’s face twists immediately.

“How the fuck would you know?” Regret flashes across his face the second the words leave him. Curtis just nods once. Because this isn’t really about him. Frank drags his fingers through his hair violently.

Nobody answers.

Because nobody has an answer for that.

Hours pass before the waiting room doors swing open suddenly.

Frank is on his feet before he even realizes he moved. The doctor looks exhausted now. Cap gone. Surgical mask hanging loose around his neck. For one horrible second, nobody speaks.

Then— “She’s stable.” Frank’s entire body locks.

“…What?”

“Your wife is stable.” The doctor’s expression softens slightly. “The bleeding is under control. She’s awake.” Awake. Frank actually sways. Like the word physically hits him.

“And the baby?” he asks immediately, voice shredded raw. The doctor smiles faintly.

“Your daughter is completely healthy.” Something in Frank’s face breaks. Not dramatically. Quietly. Like tension pulled too tight finally snapping apart. He covers his mouth hard with one hand and turns slightly away, shoulders shaking once. Then again. Curtis exhales behind him like he’s been punched in the chest with relief. Micro mutters,

“Jesus Christ.” But Frank barely hears them. Awake. You’re awake. He’s already moving before the doctor finishes explaining where they moved you. Long fast strides down the hallway like if he stops for even one second the universe might change its mind. The nurse barely gets the room number out before he’s there. Frank pushes through the door hard enough it almost rebounds behind him. And there you are.

Pale.

Exhausted.

An IV in your arm and monitors still clipped everywhere.

But alive. Your eyes lift slowly toward the door at the sound. The second you see him, your expression softens weakly.

“…Hey.” Frank stops breathing. Because you sound sleepy. Normal. Alive.

“Oh, baby.” The words leave him wrecked. He crosses the room so fast he nearly trips over the chair beside your bed. “Jesus Christ.” His hands are on you instantly. Your face. Your hair. Your shoulders. Like he needs physical proof you’re real. You blink up at him tiredly.

“Frank?” And then he completely falls apart. A broken sound rips out of him before he bows over you, forehead pressing hard against your stomach while his arms wrap carefully around your waist. You’ve never heard him cry like this before. Not once. Not even after nightmares. Not after funerals. Not after gunshots. Pure relief tears through him so violently it almost sounds painful.

“You scared me,” he chokes out. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, you scared me.” Your own eyes sting instantly.

“I’m okay,” you whisper weakly, fingers slipping into his hair automatically. Frank shakes his head against you like he still doesn’t believe it.

“They told me you were crashin’,” he says hoarsely. “I saw all that blood an’ they shoved me outta the room an’ I thought—” His voice breaks completely. “I thought I lost you.”

“Oh, honey.” Your throat tightens painfully. Frank lifts his head then, eyes red and swollen and absolutely devastated. And guilty. Still guilty. Like some part of him genuinely believes he caused this. “She okay?” you ask softly. “The baby?” Frank’s expression crumples all over again.

“She’s perfect.” A tiny shaky smile pulls at your mouth instantly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He laughs weakly through tears. “Got hair like you. Loud as hell already.” You smile wider. Frank just stares at you for another long second like he still can’t process the fact you’re here. Then suddenly his face tightens hard.

“No more.” You blink.

“What?”

“No more babies.” The words come out immediate. Raw. Terrified. Frank grabs your hand carefully against the blankets and presses it hard against his chest. “Not unless we talk about it first. Not unless a whole fuckin’ team of doctors tells me you’re not gonna almost die again.” Your chest aches at the fear still bleeding through every word.

“Frank—”

“I can’t do that again.” His voice cracks instantly. “I can’t stand there watchin’ you disappear in front of me while everybody tells me to pick between you an’ our kid.” Your eyes widen slightly.

“They asked you that?” Frank goes pale. For a second he looks like he regrets letting it slip. Then he nods once.

“They asked who to prioritize if things got worse.” His jaw clenches hard enough to shake. “Didn’t even take me a second.”Your throat burns instantly.

“Frank…”

“You hear me?” His eyes lock desperately onto yours. “We can make another baby someday if we want one. I cannot make another you.” That one completely destroys you. Your face crumples immediately. Frank sees it and softens all at once, climbing carefully onto the side of the hospital bed just enough to gather you gently against his chest despite all the wires.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your hair immediately. “I know that sounds awful.”

“No,” you cry softly. “No, it doesn’t.” His arms tighten around you.

“I got lucky once,” he murmurs shakily. “With you. Thought maybe the universe was lettin’ me keep somethin’ good again.” He kisses the top of your head hard enough to linger there. “But I can’t bury another person I love. I can’t.” You hold him tighter as best you can with weak arms.

“You’re not gonna have to.” Frank doesn’t answer right away. Just buries his face against your neck and breathes. Like he’s still convincing himself you survived. A soft knock thuds on the door. A nurse enters the room, carrying a swaddle. She smiles, bouncing up and down.

"Hey, mom and dad." She hums, walking over to your bedside. Frank goes completely still. Not tense. Not panicked. Just still. Because for one terrible second, his brain doesn’t understand what he’s looking at. The nurse smiles warmly, stepping closer with the tiny bundle tucked against her chest.

“Thought somebody might wanna meet their little girl.” And Christ. That does something to him. Frank slowly lifts his head from your shoulder. His eyes drop. And there she is. So small. Swaddled tight in hospital blankets with a pink knit cap slipping crooked over dark hair.

Your dark hair.

His breath catches so hard it almost hurts. You make a soft sound beside him.

“Oh…” The nurse moves carefully toward the bed.

“She’s been checked over twice,” she says gently. “Healthy as can be. Strong lungs too.” She laughs quietly. “You’ll notice.” Frank doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares. Because suddenly she isn’t an idea anymore.

Not an ultrasound. Not kicks against your stomach. Not fear and blood and monitors. She’s real.

His daughter.

And God help him—he looks terrified. The nurse notices immediately.

“You wanna hold her, dad?” Frank physically freezes. His gaze snaps up like she just handed him a live grenade.

“I—" His voice fails.You look up at him weakly from against his chest.

“Frank.” He swallows hard. His hands—those huge scarred hands that have held rifles and knives and broken bones—suddenly look uncertain.

“I don’t…” His jaw tightens. “I dunno if—”

“You held her already,” the nurse reminds softly. His face twists.

“Yeah.” His voice drops rough. “Didn’t exactly do a good job.” The room goes quiet. Because underneath the joke is that same guilt still eating him alive. The same thought:

I wasn’t looking at her. I was looking at blood.

You squeeze his hand weakly.

“Frank.” His eyes lift to yours. And your heart breaks a little. Because he still looks like he’s waiting for somebody to tell him he doesn’t deserve this. You smile tiredly. “She’s your baby.” Something in his face cracks. The nurse steps closer and very carefully places the bundle into his arms. Frank inhales sharply.Like he forgot how breathing works.

And suddenly— Silence.No pacing. No fear. No shaking anger. Just Frank Castle staring down at something impossibly small in his arms. He holds her like she might disappear. Like the whole world might.

“Oh,” he whispers.

God. Your chest aches watching him. His hands look absurd around her tiny body. One palm supporting her back. The other cradling her head so carefully it almost hurts to see.

And your daughter— Your loud, furious little girl— is asleep.

Perfectly content. Frank looks wrecked. Absolutely ruined.

“She’s…” He swallows. “Jesus.” The baby shifts slightly. Tiny mouth opening. One little fist escapes the blanket. Frank’s eyes widen.

“Oh, hey.” His voice softens instantly into something you’ve never heard before. “Easy, sweetheart.” The fist brushes against his thumb. And Frank breaks. Not loudly. Just tears spilling suddenly and helplessly down his face while he stares at her.

“She got your nose,” he whispers. You laugh softly through tears.

“Already judging her?”

“M’bein’ objective.” The nurse quietly slips out of the room. Leaving the three of you alone. Frank lowers himself carefully onto the edge of the bed beside you. Still holding her. Still staring. Like he physically cannot stop.

“She’s real,” he says quietly. You smile.

“Yeah.” His throat works.

“She’s ours.” That one nearly kills you. You shift carefully despite the soreness pulling through your body.

“Lemme see her?” Frank looks up immediately. And for a split second— Just a second— Something tightens in his expression. Fear. Not of you. Of letting go. Because he almost lost both of you tonight.

And some terrified part of him still thinks if he loosens his grip, the universe might take this back. Then he catches himself.His face softens.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. Carefully—so carefully—Frank helps settle her against your chest. And the second she touches you— Your daughter opens her eyes. Tiny. Sleepy. Dark. You suck in a breath.

“Oh my God.” Frank watches the two of you like a man witnessing religion. His hand comes up automatically to cup the back of your head. Then gently brushes one finger over the baby’s cheek.

And for a moment— Just one moment— The fear quiets. No machines. No blood. No grief. Just this. Then Frank leans down and presses his forehead softly against yours. Still watching her.

“I spent half my life destroyin’ things.” His voice stays soft. Honest. “Men like me don’t usually get…” His eyes flick between you both helplessly. “This.” Your throat tightens. So you reach out. Weak but steady. And cup his face. He finally looks at you. You can still see it there. That fear. That old wound. Like he thinks love is borrowed time.

"Frank Castle." You whisper. "You deserve every bit of this." You hum, shaking your head. Frank just stares at you. Like he wants to believe you. Like he’s trying to. Your thumb brushes gently through the dampness still clinging beneath his eye. “You hear me?” you whisper softly. “You deserve her.” Your gaze drops briefly toward the baby curled against your chest. “You deserve us.” His face folds inward for a second. Not grief this time. Relief so deep it almost looks painful. Frank leans into your hand automatically, eyes falling shut for one tiny moment like he’s exhausted all the way through his bones. Then your daughter makes a tiny squeaky noise between you both. Immediately, both your heads snap down. Frank huffs out a startled laugh through the remnants of tears.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

“She sounds like an angry guinea pig.”

“She sounds like me before coffee.”

“God, don’t curse her like that.” Frank grins weakly for the first time all night. It changes his whole face. Your daughter stretches one tiny fist up toward him again, and Frank immediately gives her his finger like it’s instinctive.

“She’s got your attitude already,” he says softly.

“You literally met her twenty minutes ago.”

“An’ she already screamed at three nurses. That’s you.”

“I was in labor for fourteen hours, Frank. I earned the right to yell at medical staff.”

“You threatened t’bite me.”

“You deserved it.” His eyebrows lift.

“You called me a dramatic little raccoon.”

“You were breathing too loud.” Frank laughs again. Quiet and helpless and still a little disbelieving. God. You love him so much it physically aches. The room settles around the three of you slowly after that. Monitors humming softly. City lights glowing dim through the hospital window. Your daughter warm and impossibly tiny against your chest while Frank keeps one hand on her leg like he needs constant proof she’s still there. Still real. Still his. After a long quiet moment, he clears his throat.

“So." You narrow your eyes immediately.

“Oh no.”

“We gotta name her eventually.”

“There it is.” Frank looks offended.

“That’s a reasonable concern.”

“You tried to name the dog ‘Shotgun.’”

“Great name.”

“It was a pug, Frank.”

“He had the spirit of a Shotgun.” You laugh softly, careful of your aching stomach. Your daughter squirms sleepily at the sound. Frank melts instantly. Completely gone for her already.

“What about something normal?” you murmur. “Something sweet.” Frank pretends to consider this very seriously.

“Alright.” He nods once. “How ‘bout Beatrice.” You blink.

“…Beatrice?”

“Yeah.”

“You hated that name.”

“I do.”

“Then why would you suggest it?”

“Compromise.”

“That is not what compromise means.” Frank shrugs with absolutely no shame whatsoever.

“Well, you almost died. Feels like that gives you an advantage."

taglist !

You’re usually the one in control.

Even when he’s on top, inside you, it’s your voice that guides him. Your hand in his hair, your lips against his ear telling him how good he’s doing. And Matt lives for that. Even now, a few months after that disastrous first time where he lasted all but 30 seconds before spilling into you. He needed it. Needed your direction and approval. But tonight? Something’s different.

You’re underneath him panting, your thighs shaking, and he’s got a rhythm going that he knows is working. Deep, steady strokes, hips grinding just right against your sweet spot with each thrust. He has a hand on the back of one of your knees, pushed up towards your chest to change the angle just enough that every thrust makes you both gasp.

And then he starts talking.

“Taking me so well,” he groans into your ear. “F-Feel so good around me, baby.” You let out a quiet whine. Not one word, no teasing remark. He keeps going. “Such a pretty pussy,” he grunts, a little shy but unable to stop himself. “God, you feel unreal.”

Your head falls back. Your fingers clutch the sheets. You try to say something, maybe Matty or fuck, but it comes out a broken and pathetic cry that barely counts as a syllable. And Matt stiffens slightly. Not with panic but disbelief. He pants, hips still rolling, “Are you...?”

You whimper again. Eyes lidded, mouth open, seemingly unable to even think. “Oh God,” he breathes, voice shaking. His thrusts stutter. He’s trying so hard to keep his rhythm, but he’s losing it, because the way you feel right now? Your eyes glazed over, your chest heaving, your breath caught in your throat like you’ve forgotten how to speak. And God, those whines. He’s never heard anything better.

“Fuck,” he groans, thrusting deeper, harder now, chasing it. “That’s so hot. That’s so hot," he whines, "Baby, are you even here?” You blink up at him, glassy-eyed, lips parted like you’re trying to form a word but can't. Matt loses his mind. He leans in, kisses you messily, you part your lips further allowing him to slip his tongue in. After thoroughly exploring your mouth, he presses his forehead to yours. “You always do that to me,” he whispers. “Always make me stupid. Thought I’d never get to see you like this.”

You clutch at him, nodding frantically. He's not sure if you're agreeing about his usual behavior or about also enjoying this state he's somehow reduced you to. “Want me to keep going?” he asks, voice low and unsure. “Want me to... to make you come like this?”

You manage one word.

"Please."

──────── ୨୧ ────────

You’re still blinking up at the ceiling, mouth parted, chest rising and falling like you just ran a mile. Your legs feel like lead, muscles twitching, hair stuck to your neck with sweat. Matt’s still hovering over you. His adorable cheeks are flushed and glowing. Smiling like he’s trying to be cool, but his dimples are giving him away. “So…” he says, brushing your hair back gently. “That was… something.” You blink at him. Still barely there. Fuzzy. Boneless.

He smirks a little, “You okay, baby?” You nod slowly. “I think… I saw stars.” He beams. “Yeah?” he says, trying for casual. But it comes out a little breathless, “Like… actual stars?” You laugh weakly and cover your face. “Oh my God.” He leans in and kisses your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder. Matt pulls back enough to face you again, eyes bright, biting his lip like he’s trying not to beg for approval. “Was it…” He pauses, cheeks turning just a little pink. “I mean, was it me? That did that?” You peek up at him through your lashes, “Matty.”

“I just...” He scratches the back of his neck. “I felt you. Your, your legs were shaking. And you weren’t talking. And you always talk.” You huffed a little, your hand weaving its way into his hair and stroking absently. “I was trying,” you mumble, tugging him down on top of you. “You broke my brain.” His breath catches. “Oh,” he says. Voice gone small. “Cool. That’s… that’s cool.” But his hips twitch against yours like he wants to do it again already. You feel it. And you laugh, tugging gently at his hair, “You’re smug.”

“I’m not!” He grins, ducking into your neck. “Okay. Maybe a little.” You chuckle, wrapping your legs around his waist lazily. “Gonna get cocky now?” He pauses, then mumbles, "Can I?” You bark a laugh, “Absolutely not.”

“Okay. That’s fair.” A pause. “But also I kinda want to try that again. For science.” You raise a brow. “You wanna try to break me again?” He lifts his head out from its hiding place in your neck. “Not break,” he says sweetly, kissing your lips. “Just, you know." Take care of you the way you always take care of him.

And then you moan a little into his next kiss.

The apartment door shuts harder than usual.

Not slammed.

Frank doesn’t slam doors.

But enough force behind it that you look up immediately from the couch.

“You okay?” you call out. Silence answers first. Then heavy boots across the floor. Frank rounds the corner a second later still wearing his jacket, shoulders tight beneath worn black fabric, jaw clenched hard enough to twitch. There’s fresh rain caught in his hair. A bruise darkening along one cheekbone. Your stomach drops a little.

“Frank?” His eyes land on you. And something in his expression shifts instantly. Not fixed. Not gone. Just… softer. Enough that your chest tightens.

“Hey,” he says quietly. You sit up fully now, blanket falling into your lap.

“What happened?”

“Nothin’.” You stare at him. Frank stares back for exactly three seconds before exhaling through his nose.

“Long night.”

“That bruise says otherwise.” His hand comes up automatically toward his face like he forgot it was there.

“Looks worse than it is.”

“Frank.”

“I’m okay.” He says it gentler this time. Tired instead of defensive. You study him another second before patting the spot beside you on the couch.

“C’mere." Frank hesitates. Which tells you immediately something’s wrong. Usually the second you ask for him, he comes. Now he just stands there looking exhausted. Wet from the rain. Big enough to fill the whole room with tension without even trying.

“Baby.”

“I know.” His voice is rough. “Lemme just…” He gestures vaguely toward himself. Blood. Bruises. The mood hanging off him like smoke.“You don’t gotta deal with me like this right now." Your face softens instantly.

“Oh, sweetheart.” That look crosses his face again. That awful wrecked little flicker he gets whenever you’re kind to him at the exact moment he thinks he deserves it least. You stand slowly and walk toward him. Frank watches every step.

“You think I care about a bruise?” you murmur.

“It ain’t the bruise.”

“Then what is it?” His jaw shifts once.

“You ever have one’a those nights where you feel like maybe there’s somethin’ wrong with you?” The honesty of it punches straight through you. You stop directly in front of him now.

“Frank.” His eyes stay fixed somewhere over your shoulder instead of your face.

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are.”

“You shouldn’t have t’pull me back together every time I come home like this.” Your throat tightens painfully. So that’s what this is. Not anger. Shame. You lift your hands carefully to his jacket collar.

“Look at me.” Frank does. Slowly.

God.

There’s so much exhaustion in his face it hurts to see.

“You wanna know what I see?” you ask softly. His mouth twitches bitterly.

“Probably a mess.”

“I see my favorite person.” That lands visibly. His eyes close briefly like the words physically hurt him.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothin’.” His hands settle automatically at your waist now. Big. Warm. Familiar. “You just…” He shakes his head once. “Don’t know what you do t’me sometimes.” You smile faintly.

“Probably because you never tell me.” Frank huffs quietly at that. Then his thumbs move against your hips absentmindedly. Back and forth. Back and forth. Grounding himself through touch.

“You eat?” you ask.

“Mm.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Ate enough.”

“Frank.” He finally looks properly guilty.

“…Had coffee.”

“Coffee isn’t food.”

“Depends how desperate you are.” You roll your eyes softly and start tugging his jacket off his shoulders. Frank lets you. Always lets you.

“You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, watching your face instead of your hands now. “Still here though.” That pulls your attention up immediately. There it is again. That insecurity buried under all the muscle and violence and sharp edges. Still here though. Like he’s waiting for the day you won’t be. Your expression softens without meaning to.

“C’mere,” you whisper. Frank goes instantly. Like he was holding himself back before and finally ran out of strength to do it. One second there’s space between you. The next his arms are around your waist and your back hits the wall softly behind you as he folds himself into you with a low rough exhale.

Not rough. Never rough with you. Just close. Desperate for it. His forehead drops to your shoulder. You feel the tension bleeding out of him slowly beneath your hands.

“Better?” you murmur into his hair.

“Little.” You smile faintly and run your fingers through the damp strands at the nape of his neck. Frank makes this quiet sound deep in his chest. Not quite a groan. Not quite relief. Something warmer.

“You smell good,” he mutters after a minute. You laugh softly.

“That’s your opening line?”

“M’tired.”

“Clearly.” His hands flex once at your waist. Then still. Then flex again. Your breath catches slightly. Frank notices immediately. Of course he does. His head lifts just enough to look at you. The mood changes all at once. Subtle. Dangerous. Not from aggression.

From attention.

The kind only Frank knows how to give — complete and heavy and impossible to ignore.

“You okay?” he asks quietly. The concern in his voice almost makes it worse somehow. You nod once.

“Yeah.” His eyes flick briefly to your mouth. Then back up.

“You sure?”

“Frank.”

“Mm?”

“You’re staring.”

“Can’t help it.” Heat crawls slowly up your throat. Frank notices that too. His mouth twitches faintly at one corner.

“There she is,” he murmurs softly. Your fingers tighten slightly against his shoulders.

“You come home all bruised and exhausted and somehow I’m the flustered one.”

“Not my fault you like me.” You snort softly.

“Your ego is unbelievable.”

“Earned it.”

“Oh my God.” Frank finally smiles then. Small. Crooked. Real. And suddenly the whole room feels warmer for it. Before you can protest, he has you lifted and he's flopping down on the couch with you straddling his lap. In a single smooth motion he pulls you down flush against him, your knees bracketing his hips, his big battered hands slow and deliberate as they peel the blanket the rest of the way off your lap. He’s still rain-damp, the heat of him radiating through your shirt. You know what he wants. You’ve gotten better at reading the way his hands settle—sometimes gentle, sometimes not. Tonight they’re careful. Not because he wants to be, but because he’s making himself be.

“Comfortable?” he asks it deadpan, like you haven’t been in his lap a thousand times before. His voice thrums against your thigh, the steady warmth of his body working the last of the chill out of you. You lean in close, your chest pressed to his still-necked t-shirt, and tangle your fingers in his damp hair.

“Better,” you whisper, and the hunger in his face is gone, replaced by something softer. Wanting, but not desperate. Not yet. He slides his hands up under your shirt, the calluses on his fingertips catching along your ribcage. Always so gentle when you’re like this, like he’s still trying to talk you out of belonging to him all the way. You’ve never let anyone else touch you when you’re hurting. Frank figured that out fast. And he never asked questions about it. Not even once.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, but it’s not a command. It’s that low hush of his when you’re both off-balance, when it matters that you get it right. He drags his mouth along your jaw, delicately, and you angle your head back for more, hungry for it. He grinds his hips up into you just enough that the bruised part of him brushes your thigh. He grunts, barely, keeping his eyes open. Watching your face instead of his own pleasure. You’re already warm everywhere. He’s never made you ask for anything, so you don’t start now. Just shift in his lap and let your hips roll forward, finding that careful friction, your panties damp and hot between you already, the thin cotton of his sweats doing nothing to dull the heat of him. His hands have found their way inside the waistband of your pants, palms bracing the small of your back, steadying you in place.

“Frank,” you breathe, and he’s got a mouthful of your collarbone, his breath shuddering out as he catches your scent. It’s suddenly so intense you have to cover your own mouth, biting down on your knuckles to keep from making noise. He pries your hand away, brings your fingers to his mouth, sucks at them soft, then hard. You want him all at once. Want him until you’re shaking with it. His hand slips beneath your underwear, slow, careful. You’re so wet already it’s embarrassing, but Frank’s never made you feel ashamed of it. It’s almost like he likes it. Like every desperate sticky slick part of you is proof you want him as much as he wants you. He slides one thick finger in and you whimper. He’s so big that you feel it everywhere, a deep insistent pressure that’s almost too much. It’s almost funny. You know he knows it.

“Easy,” he whispers, and you almost laugh at how well he reads you. You let him curl his finger inside you, let him coax your legs open wider across his lap. It hurts a little, but the ache is good. It’s supposed to be good, the way he does it—careful, incremental, always waiting for your breath to catch before he gives you more.

“Frank,” you mumble. He just nods into your neck, like yeah, he knows, that’s how it is for him too. Somewhere between the steady stretch of his palms and the slow, hot pressure gathering in your center, everything else falls away. You can almost forget about the rest of the world. The crummy apartment. The busted boiler. Even the bruise along his jaw. It all dissolves into the rhythm of his hand working you open and the neat, even slide of his wrist against your skin. You can hear him breathing against your shoulder, steady, measured, like he’s counting out every pulse of sensation you give him. A minute passes. Maybe more. You press your face into the slope of his throat and let the smell of rain and sweat and blood ground you right there in the present.

“Holy fuck,” you gasp, almost more air than sound. He pulls back to look at you, eyes half-lidded.

“You want more?” he murmurs, not a tease, just a question. You nod, but then he does it—he adds another finger, thick and slow, and you feel the burn start up sharp and hot across your hips. You suck in a breath, grip at his forearm.

“I want- I need you inside me.” He keeps his palm splayed low on your back, like a promise to anchor you through. His breath stutters when you say it, and for a beat he just…looks at you, lashes low over his cheekbones, the blue shock-clear of his eyes almost guiltless with how badly he wants you. Wants to fix something in himself using this.

“C’mere,” he says rough, nudging your hips up and forward. Lifts you just enough that he can wriggle his sweatpants down, bare to you and already impossibly hard, that first heavy brush of him against your thigh making your stomach bottom out. His skin is so warm it feels dangerous. You’re vibrating with nerves and want and something that tastes like anticipation, metallic in the back of your tongue. He’s so unfair. That’s the narrative you settle on, even as you reach down, embarrassingly eager, and wrap your hand around him. The weight—absurd. Sometimes you wonder how a person gets made that way. How whatever god or biology was in charge decided Frank Castle needed to be built like a goddamn tank everywhere. He’s leaking already, thick and wet; you run your thumb over the head, and in response he shivers, jaw going tight. His forehead drops to the hollow of your throat. He mutters something that sounds like “Fuckin’ hell, baby, you’re killin’ me.” You breathe out, try to steady yourself, let him angle you how he wants. His hand’s gentle but firm; he lines you up, rubs himself slow through your slick, getting you used to the idea, maybe, or just getting himself off on the wet suck of your body. It’s involuntary, the way you whimper—Frank hushes you soft into your neck, teeth scraping where your pulse jumps. Then he’s pushing in. Slow.

Too slow, you think, but then you realize he’s only a quarter in and it’s already—God, how is anyone supposed to take all of it? You dig your nails into his shoulders, bite his collar out of self-preservation. The stretch feels raw and greedy and delicious at first; you squirm, desperate for more, and Frank grips your hip with an iron clamp to hold you steady.

“Easy, baby. Slow, like this. You gotta let me in, okay?” His words are slurred, reverent. He keeps his face buried in your shoulder like he can’t look at you, or maybe he’s just that close to unraveling. You try to breathe through it. Try to unclench, force your body open around him. Another inch, and you gasp—pain-bright, almost electric—and he stops, instantly, just holding you there. His thumb paints slow circles into your skin.

“You got it,” Frank whispers. “You always do.” He rocks you a little, just a hitch back and then in again, and you can feel yourself melting, a little at a time, until he’s halfway in and you can barely remember your own name. There’s so much of him. It’s not fair, you want to laugh, except the tension’s too thick in your throat for sound. He fills you up in a way that makes you gasp for air. You’re shaking by the time you take half of him and you know it, and Frank knows it, so he keeps whispering to you, soft and low and steady, like if he keeps talking you through it you’ll remember why you want it so bad.

“Doing so good,” he says, like it hurts to get the words out. “You take it so fuckin’ good, sweet girl. S’a lot, I know.” His mouth finds your ear, brushing the shell with every word. “Y’okay?” The praise makes it easier, somehow. You nod, a wild little jerk of your chin, and work yourself lower onto him, your body protesting in that way you crave. By the time he’s all the way inside you, you can’t do much more than breathe hard against his neck and let the bright white edge of the ache melt into raw heat. He holds you there, unmoving, just this enormous presence inside you, chest rising and falling. You could almost cry, from the intensity. You want the ache until it becomes something else. He keeps murmuring, stroking your sides, kissing your hair, saying things you barely process but know you’ll carry with you for days. Sometimes you think Frank needs this even more than you do—needs to see you take every inch of him, needs to know you’ll let him in all the way. He starts slow and steady. Always does, even if half the time he’s gritting his own teeth about it. Lets you get there together, lets you rock yourself down inch by inch, all the while his hands keep you steady and his voice keeps you anchored, soft filthy praise dripping into your ear until you feel—ridiculously—like you can do anything.

Then you’re there. All the way, you think. Except it almost doesn’t feel like it could possibly be all the way—there’s just too much, the end of him pressed snug up against your insides, propped open around the root, the stretch of it pulsing and hot. You breathe. You shake. You clutch at the thick line of his neck and you can’t help but whine, just a little.

“Too much?” he asks, and you know the tremor in his arms is him holding himself back, not wanting to push, not wanting to lose you. You shake your head.

“No, I—just—” He twitches his hips up, barely moving, and your vision goes white and spotty for a second.

“Holy fuck, Frank.” He laughs rough, squeezing at your waist.

“You like that?” You’re not sure you can answer out loud, but you nod, jaw gone slack. Your nails dig in and he keeps moving, tiny little thrusts, each one dragging a shivery shock up your spine. He’s watching you again. Always watching. Watching for pain, for pleasure, for the moment you tip from one to the other. It’s almost too much, that kind of attention. Makes you want to hide and bask in it all at once. The slow body-crawl of heat builds, wrapping itself low in your belly. You find a rhythm in his lap, rutting down onto him, greedy for the friction. Frank lets you take the pace, lets you fuck yourself down on him even though you know it’s probably killing him to keep still. You know he wants to flip you over, to drive into you so hard you see through time, but he never does. Always gives you control. Always makes it about you. He hums in your ear, sweet and dark.

“God, you’re perfect. Beatiful little thing, takin’ me so deep. Look at you.” He palms your ass, squeezes, bounces you gently on top of him. “So fuckin’ full, huh?” You whimper.

“Can’t—can’t—” He rocks up to meet you, catches your mouth on his, swallows the noise you make.

“You can. Always do. Makes me so proud, babe.” It should be embarrassing, how easily he can undo you with just words and a handful of slow, deep thrusts. But it isn’t. It’s grounding, real. The rest of the world fades around the two of you—the busted lights, the ticking wall clock, even the ache in your own hips. There’s only Frank, heat and power and patience, his hands guiding you around him like a prayer. You’re close. Closer than you should be. A coil of heat in your belly, tight and ready to snap. You chase it, grind down harder, until a sharp pinch of pain ricochets through your body. You body stutters, and you gasp in pain, your movements slowing. The pain spikes again—sharper, brighter—and suddenly you can’t breathe through it. Frank begins to move faster, lost in you, his mouth open against your neck, heartbeat stuttering in your own chest in time with the insistent rut of his hips. You brace yourself, try to ride over the sensation, swallow down the tears pricking hard at the corners of your eyes, but then the burn turns cold and wrong. Your thighs start to tremble, not with want but with the pure animal shock of a body pushed too far. You dig your nails into his shoulders, hard. It’s supposed to mean please, supposed to mean more, but right now it just means stop—your whole body screaming at you to pull back, to close up, to end it.

"W-Wait, Frank, stop-"But Frank’s so deep in his own wanting, he barely notices.

“Frank, just—slower—” you try, but your own voice scraps out small, swallowed by the ragged panting between you. He doesn’t hear it. He’s moving you up and down in his lap, huge hands bracketing your hips, eyes half-lidded, sweaty lashes against the bruised swell of his cheek. He keeps talking to you, low and thick, saying things you can’t process through the static in your head.

"Wait, Frank, stop, please-" Your vision’s gone a little blurry. He feels like too much, not just physically, but all of it—the weight, the heat, the way he needs you to be okay so badly he doesn’t see when you’re not. The pain flares, deep, and suddenly you’re crying. Not a pretty, slow leak, but a reckless overflow, hot and stinging at your chin. You try to push off of him, to get purchase against his chest, but your arms have all the strength of wet laundry. You try to speak, but it comes out a crushed, keening little sob.

“Frank, stop! Stop-” It hits him all at once. He freezes, muscles going rock-still under your palms. His hands leave your hips so fast you nearly slide off him; he fumbles you upright, like he thinks you’re about to faint.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay, hey.” His voice goes from dark velvet to pure panic, the kind of sound that would be terrifying if it weren’t Frank, if it weren’t so desperate. He tries to pull out but you grip at his wrist, too disoriented to untangle yourself from him. He’s breathing hard—like he’s been gut-punched—and now he’s holding you suspended in his lap, his hands trembling, his face a mess of confusion and guilt and horror.

“Shit. Oh, baby, what—? Did I—? Fuck.” You shake your head—don’t know what you’re denying, just need him to not move, not right now. He pulls you in close, rocks you like he used to rock his daughter, you bet, gentling you with shushing sounds and muttered apologies that taste sour against your ear. He wraps you up, big arms closing around you, framing you in meat and heat and nothing else. The second he realizes you’re crying, Frank goes white. Not pale. White. Like all the blood in his body evacuated at once.

“Oh my God.” The words fall out of him shredded raw. He’s trying to pull back without hurting you, hands shaking so badly he can barely coordinate them. “Fuck—fuck, baby, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” You can’t stop crying. And that’s the part that terrifies him. Not because you’re loud. You’re not. You’re trying so hard to keep it quiet that it hurts worse somehow. Little broken sobs caught in your throat while you curl instinctively inward, arms wrapping around yourself the second he finally manages to pull out and get you settled properly against his chest.

“Hey, hey, hey.” Frank’s voice is frantic now. “Look at me, sweetheart. C’mon. Look at me.” You can’t. Your face is buried against his shoulder, shaking too hard. Humiliation crawls hot and sick through your stomach.

Of course this happened. Of course.

You knew better than to ruin it.

Frank’s still talking, panicked apologies tumbling over each other while one hand cups the back of your head and the other rubs helpless circles between your shoulder blades.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks shakily. “Baby, talk t’me. Please.” You nod before you can stop yourself. Frank goes dead still. Not angry. Not annoyed. Destroyed.

“Oh, Christ.” His forehead drops against your hair. “I hurt you.”

“I’m sorry,” you choke out immediately. Frank freezes. Actually freezes.

“…What?” The word comes out dangerously soft. Your chest caves in harder instantly.

“I tried, I just— I thought I could—”

“Stop.” Frank pulls back enough to look at you, hands gentle but firm around your face. “Why’re you apologizin’?” Because that’s what you do. Because every other person before him taught you that needing a second was inconvenient.

That discomfort was normal. That stopping midway was selfish. Too sensitive. Too dramatic. Too much. You can’t even look him in the eye now.

“I didn’t mean to ruin it,” you whisper. Frank stares at you. And slowly—slowly—something awful settles across his face. Not anger at you. Understanding.

The horrible kind.

“Baby…” His voice cracks around the word. You shake your head, sobbing.

"God, i'm so sorry, Frank !" You whine, hiding your face in your hands. You climb off of him sniffling as you pull your clothes back on, not daring to look at him.

“Hey.” Frank catches your wrist before you can get far. Not hard. Never hard. Just enough to stop you from bolting completely. “Hey, no. Don’t do that.”

You can’t breathe.

The humiliation is swallowing you whole now, hot and familiar and awful. You know this part. Know it down to the bone. The shift afterward. The disappointment. The frustration hidden behind reassurance. The inevitable distance that comes after you become difficult.

Too emotional. Too sensitive. Too much work.

“It’s okay,” you say automatically, voice wrecked. “I’m okay, I’ll just—” You tug weakly at your shirt with shaking hands. “I just need a minute.” Frank stares at you like you’ve started speaking another language.

“A minute?” he repeats faintly.

“So you’re not—” Your throat closes hard around the words. “So you’re not stuck dealing with this.” Something on Frank’s face breaks. Not anger. Not irritation. Heartbreak.

“Dealin’ with this?” he echoes hoarsely. You still can’t look at him. Because if you do and he looks annoyed even for one second, you think it might kill you.

“I know it’s frustrating,” you whisper quickly. “I know I ruined the mood, I just thought if I could push through it a little longer—”

“Push through?” Frank sounds physically sick now. Your hands shake harder trying to pull your clothes back into place. You can feel yourself spiraling, words falling out too fast now because silence was always worse before. Silence usually meant somebody getting angry.

“I really did want to, Frank, I swear, I wasn’t trying to—”

“Baby.” Sharp now. Not mean. Desperate. “Stop apologizin’." You flinch anyway. And that— That does something catastrophic to him. Frank’s entire body stills as he watches you recoil from just a change in his tone. His breathing turns uneven immediately.

Your face crumples instantly.

“Oh, baby.” Frank gathers you against him again immediately, palm spanning the back of your head. “C’mere. C’mere, sweetheart.”

“I don’t know why I’m like this,” you whisper miserably into his chest.

“Who made you think this was somethin’ you had t’push through?” Your throat closes completely. That’s answer enough. Frank exhales once. Shaky. Like he’s trying very hard not to explode.

“Hey.” He waits until your eyes finally flick toward his. His own are glassy now. Furious and heartbroken all at once. “Listen t’me real careful.” His thumb brushes under your eye, catching tears before they fall. “You never— ever— gotta endure me.” That word breaks something open in you.

Endure.

Because that’s exactly what it felt like before. Something to survive until it was over. Frank sees it happen on your face and looks genuinely sick.

Silence.

Then quietly:

“One of my exes used to sigh whenever I asked him to stop.” The words feel rusted coming out. “Like I was ruining something.” Frank’s entire body goes rigid beneath you. You keep staring at his shirt instead of his face. “And if I cried he’d tell me I was making him feel guilty on purpose.” Frank exhales once. Slow. Controlled. Dangerously controlled.

“Another one used to just…” You swallow hard. “Keep going until he was done.” The room goes completely still. Frank doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. For one terrifying second you think maybe you finally said too much. Then his arms tighten around you with startling force. Not painful. Protective.

Violent in its tenderness.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice sounds wrecked beyond repair now. “Jesus Christ.” You finally look at him then. There are tears in his eyes. Actual tears.

Not pity. Not disgust. Just devastation on your behalf.

“That wasn’t okay,” he says roughly. “None’a that was okay.”

You blink hard. You feel awful.

“You were already upset,” you whisper brokenly. “I just wanted t’make you feel better and now I’m—” You shake your head unable to speak. Your whole body is shaking, and you can barely breathe. You shake your head. You sniffle, wiping at your cheeks. "I'm okay. I-I'm okay, we can-" You reach for your shorts, ready o tug them down again, "We can keep going, i'm okay. "

Frank looks at your hand reaching for your shorts like it physically hurts him.

“Hey.” His voice breaks immediately. He catches your wrists gently before you can tug them down any further. “No. No, sweetheart.” Panic flashes across your face instantly.

“I can, really, I’m okay now, I just freaked out for a second—”

“You are cryin’ so hard you can barely breathe.” Not harsh. Not accusing. Just devastated. “Baby, look at yourself right now.” That humiliation spikes all over again. You yank your hands back automatically.

“Great.” Your voice shakes violently. “Now I’m making a huge deal out of nothing.” Frank’s entire expression twists.

“Nothing?” he repeats softly, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. You can’t stop now that the spiral’s started.

“I should’ve just kept going,” you whisper miserably. “I almost had it under control.” Frank goes dead still. Then very carefully, like he’s handling something shattered, he reaches for your face again.

“No.” Firm this time. Certain. “You listen t’me right now.” Fresh tears spill immediately. “You bein’ in pain is not somethin’ t’‘get under control.’” Your chest caves inward harder.

“But you wanted—”

“You think I wanted you hurtin’?” His voice cracks around the words. “Sweetheart, I would rather never touch you again than have you force yourself through somethin’ because you’re scared’a disappointing me.” That knocks the air clean out of you. Frank sees it happen. And suddenly he’s pulling you fully back into his lap again despite your weak protests, wrapping the blanket around both of you until you’re cocooned against his chest.

“Nope,” he mutters when you try to squirm away again. “Not lettin’ you run from me right now.”

“I’m embarrassing myself.”

“No, baby.” His hand smooths through your hair carefully. “You’re havin’ a trauma response.”The words hit weirdly. Too clinical. Too real. You laugh shakily through tears.

“That sounds dramatic.” Frank actually leans back enough to stare at you incredulously.

“You just told me multiple men treated you like your pain was inconvenient.” His jaw flexes hard. “That ain’t dramatic. That’s fucked.” You flinch faintly at the sharpness in his voice—not directed at you, but still sharp. Frank notices instantly.

“Hey.” Immediate regret floods his face. “Shit. Baby, not at you.” His hands cradle your jaw carefully. “Never at you.” Your breathing turns uneven again.

“I keep waiting for you to get tired of this,” you admit quietly. Frank looks poleaxed.

“Of what?” You gesture helplessly between the two of you.

“This.” Your voice gets smaller and smaller. “Me needing too much reassurance. Ruining things. Crying all the time—”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Frank pulls you closer so fast your forehead bumps lightly against his collarbone. “Who told you you ruin things?”You laugh once. Broken.

“Nobody had to say it outright.”

“Yeah,” he says darkly. “They did.” Silence. Then quietly:

“One guy stopped touching me for like… a week after I asked him to stop once.” The confession spills out before you can stop it. “Wouldn’t yell or anything. Just acted cold until I apologized.” Frank’s arms tighten hard around you. Another memory surfaces ugly and unwanted. “Another used to finish and then get annoyed if I cried after because it ‘killed the vibe.’” Frank shuts his eyes. You can literally feel anger radiating off him now—not explosive, but terrifyingly deep. Ancient. Protective.

“You know what kills the vibe for me?” he says finally, voice rough as gravel. You shake your head weakly.

“You thinkin’ you gotta offer your body back t’me while you’re still cryin’.” That one makes your face crumple completely. Because you hadn’t even realized that’s what you were doing. Frank brushes both thumbs under your eyes gently. “Baby, sex with me is never gonna be somethin’ you survive.” His forehead presses against yours again. “It’s supposed t’feel safe.” You stare at him through blurry vision. Frank groans, running his hands down his face. "For fucks sake." He rasps. "Can't believe I fuckin' hurt you." You shake your head immediately.

“No, Frank—”

“Yes.” His voice cracks hard over the word. “Yeah, I did.” He looks genuinely shaken now. Like this has cracked something open inside him he doesn’t know how to fix. His hands keep moving over you compulsively—your hair, your shoulders, your back—like he needs constant confirmation that you’re still here and not afraid of him.

“This’s never happened before,” he whispers more to himself than you. “Never with you.” And somehow that makes you cry harder. Because he sounds devastated by it. Not inconvenienced. Not irritated. Devastated. Frank notices instantly and curses softly under his breath.

“Shit, no, sweetheart, I ain’t upset with you.” He cups your face quickly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” You sniff hard. “I know.” But he still looks haunted. His eyes keep darting over your face like he’s searching for damage he missed. You sniff miserably.

“You’re not disappointed?” Frank actually lets out a disbelieving breath of laughter.

“Sweetheart, I got a beautiful girl sittin’ in my lap trustin’ me enough t’tell me this stuff.” He shakes his head gently. “Why the hell would I be disappointed?” Your face crumples all over again. Because he means it. Completely. Frank watches another wave of tears spill down your cheeks and immediately shifts, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders like he can shield you from the whole world if he wraps you up enough.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly. “Hey, c’mon. Look at me a second.” You do. Barely. His expression nearly breaks your heart. There’s still guilt all over him, heavy and ugly, but underneath it is something even stronger—care. The kind that settles deep into his bones. The kind that makes him hold you like something precious instead of fragile. “You know what I’m disappointed about?” he asks quietly. You shake your head. “That somebody taught you love was somethin’ you had t’earn by ignoring your own pain.” Your breath catches hard. Frank brushes your hair back carefully, fingertips feather-light against your scalp.

“That’s it,” he says. “That’s the only thing breakin’ my heart right now.”You stare at him for a long moment before whispering:

“You’re really not mad?” Frank looks almost offended by the question.

“Baby.” He cups your face in both hands. “You could stop me a hundred times in one night and I still wouldn’t be mad at you.” Your lip wobbles again.

“I don’t know why this feels so scary.”

“Because people made it scary.” Immediate. Certain. “That ain’t your fault.” You look down at your hands curled against his chest.

“I thought if I was easy enough nobody would leave.” Silence. Then Frank makes this awful quiet sound like the words physically hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His arms tighten around you again, and suddenly you’re tucked completely against him, your head under his chin while he rocks you slowly without even realizing he’s doing it. “You do not gotta make yourself small t’keep somebody,” he murmurs into your hair. “Especially not me.” Your eyes burn.

“But what if one day it’s too much?” Frank pulls back just enough to look at you directly.

“You cryin’ in my arms is not too much.” His thumb strokes under your eye again. “You needin’ reassurance is not too much.” A kiss to your forehead. “You gettin’ scared because people hurt you before is not too much.” Another kiss. Slower this time. “You are not too much.” You break completely after that. Not loudly. Just this soft, devastated collapse against him while years of tension seem to leak out of your body all at once. Frank holds you through every second of it. No impatience. No discomfort. Just one big hand rubbing slowly up and down your back while the other cradles the back of your head. Eventually your breathing starts evening out little by little. Frank notices immediately. You sniff weakly against his shirt.

“I’m gross.”

“You are literally the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“I’ve been crying for like twenty minutes.”

“And?” He shrugs one shoulder. “Still true.” A tiny laugh escapes you before you can stop it. Frank’s entire face softens at the sound.

“There y’are,” he murmurs again, like hearing you laugh is the greatest relief he’s ever experienced. You finally relax enough to melt properly into his lap, exhausted now. Frank adjusts the blanket around you automatically, tucking it beneath your legs with absurd care. “You hurt anywhere?” he asks quietly after a minute. You hesitate.

“A little sore.” His face immediately twists with guilt again. “Hey.” You catch his wrist before he can spiral. “Not in a bad way.” Frank still looks miserable. He leans into your palm instinctively. Eyes closing for half a second.

“You know what would’ve happened with anybody else?” you ask quietly. His jaw tightens.

“I don’t wanna think about anybody else touchin’ you right now.” Despite everything, your mouth twitches faintly. He shakes his head. "Alright, alright." He asks, already lifting you to settle you on the couch, getting to his feet and walking off to the kitchen. You blink after him, still wrapped up in the blanket while he disappears into the kitchen like he’s on a mission.Drawers open.Cabinets. The freezer. You hear him muttering under his breath the entire time.

“Jesus Christ… where th’fuck…” Another drawer slams shut. Then: “Found it.”You can’t help it. You smile weakly into the blanket. A minute later Frank reappears carrying an ice pack wrapped carefully in a dish towel and a glass of water balanced awkwardly in his massive hand like he’s transporting explosives. His eyes are on you immediately. Soft.Still worried sick.

“Okay,” he says quietly, kneeling in front of the couch. “Talk t’me. Where does it hurt, baby ?”You pull the blanket tighter around yourself automatically.

“It’s not bad.”

“Didn’t ask if it was bad.” He settles one hand carefully over your knee. “Asked where it hurts.” The concern in his voice almost embarrasses you all over again. You glance away. “Just… there.” You gesture vaguely downward, face heating. Frank’s expression immediately gentles further somehow. Not teasing. Not awkward. Just careful.

“Okay.” He nods once like you told him something important. “Cramps or soreness?” You stare at him.

“What?”

“I’m askin’ questions,” he says patiently. “Humor me.”

“…Mostly soreness.”

“Sharp pain?” You shake your head.

“Okay.” Another nod. “That’s good.” He reaches up slowly. “Can I touch you?” The question alone nearly makes you cry again. You nod quickly. Frank’s palm settles against the outside of your thigh over the blanket first, grounding more than anything else.

“Any bruising?” he asks softly.

“No. Just sore."His entire face tightens with guilt again. “Hey.” You immediately reach for him. “Frank.”

“I know.” He catches your hand and kisses your knuckles automatically. “I know. M’just checkin’.” He shifts onto the couch beside you then and gently pulls your legs over his lap before you can protest.

“Frank—”

“Nope.” He adjusts the blanket around you again. “Doctor’s orders.”

“You are not a doctor.”

“I watched, like, six hours of The Pitt with you.”

“That is not medical training.”

“Disagree.” You snort softly despite yourself. Frank looks absurdly relieved to hear it.

“There she is,” he murmurs. Then he carefully presses the wrapped ice pack into your hands. “Hold that where y’need it, sweetheart.” You blink at him.

“You got me an ice pack?”

“Baby, I was about three minutes away from drivin’ you to urgent care.”

“You are catastrophically dramatic.”

“You cried during sex.” He looks genuinely baffled you aren’t understanding his perspective here. “That’s, like, top three worst moments’a my life.” Your mouth falls open.

“Frank.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’ve been shot.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs one shoulder. “This felt worse.” You stare at him for a second. Then another. And suddenly you’re laughing again. Not the shaky crying kind this time. Real laughter bubbling up out of nowhere while Frank watches you like he’s afraid to breathe too hard and scare it away.

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, hiding your face behind the blanket. “You’re insane.”

“There she is,” he says immediately, pointing at you like he just proved a theory. “That’s my girl.”

“You compared me crying to getting shot.”

“Accurate comparison.”

“It absolutely is not.” Frank crosses his arms stubbornly.

“I got shot in the shoulder once. Walked it off.”

“You absolutely did not walk it off.”

“Emotionally, I did.”You snort so hard you nearly lose hold of the ice pack. Frank’s eyes light up at the sound. There’s still worry in him. You can feel it humming beneath everything else. But now there’s relief mixed in too. Relief that you’re laughing. Talking. Still curled up against him instead of pulling away. He reaches over and tugs the blanket back up around your shoulders when it slips.

“You cold?”

“No.”

“You shivered.”

“I laughed.”

“Mm.” Skeptical. “Suspicious.”

“You are literally built like a furnace.”

“Good.” He shifts closer immediately anyway, dragging you sideways until your head ends up back against his chest. “C’mere.” You go willingly this time. Frank settles deeper into the couch with a quiet grunt, one hand rubbing absentmindedly up and down your arm while the other stays planted protectively on your thigh over the blanket. After a minute you murmur:

“You know you don’t have to look at me like I’m gonna explode, right?” His hand stills briefly.

“I do not look at you like that.” You tilt your head up. Frank is, in fact, looking at you exactly like that.

“…Baby,” he says defensively. “You cried.”

“I’m aware.”

“In my lap.”

“Yes, Frank.”

“During sex.” You groan and bury your face back into his chest immediately.

“Okay, now I’m dead.”

“Nope.” He tightens his arm around you. “Not allowed.”

“I’m serious, this is mortifying.” Frank’s voice softens instantly.

“Sweetheart.” He waits until you peek up at him again. “You know what I remember most right now?”

“What?”

“You trusted me enough to say stop.” Your expression flickers. Frank brushes his knuckles gently across your cheek.

“That matters t’me.” You swallow hard.

“I almost didn’t.” That one hits him. You see it immediately. His jaw tightens and his eyes close briefly before he leans down and presses a slow kiss to your forehead.

“But you did,” he murmurs. “An’ I’m real glad you did.” Silence settles for a moment after that. Warm. Soft. Safe. Then:

“…You really would’ve taken me to urgent care?” Frank looks offended.

“Baby, I was mentally suiting up to fistfight a gynecologist.” You choke on air laughing.

“A what?”

“Don’t know.” He shrugs. “Sounded productive.”

“You can’t fistfight doctors.”

“Says who?”

“Society?”

“Society’s weak.”

taglist!

“Be serious for once.” Matt’s lips flatten disapprovingly.

“I am Matt. I love you. Matthew Murdock, Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, Daredevil, all of it. All of you.” You feel steady in the face of the argument Matt wants, the storm within him raging and telling him to push you away, “I know you’re listening to my heart, you know I’m telling the truth.”

“Yes bu-“ He bites his lip, his hazel eyes gazing in your general direction, wanting you to understand.

“No buts Matt, you had a bad night but I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.” You move closer, watching Matt’s body language for any hesitation, any sign he doesn’t want you near.

Your hands meet his chest, fingers trailing over scars, before pulling Matt into a tight hug.

His tears meet your neck, as he presses into you, his body shaking with the force of emotion.

“I’m not going anywhere Murdock, it’s me and you.” Your lips brush his collarbone as you speak.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, me and you.” His hair brushes against you, as he nods, his tears stopping with the acceptance that you’re not going anywhere.

“Okay good, my back up plan was to marry Foggy, just so you know.” Your lips curve up into a smirk against his skin.

“He does have a great head of hair.” Matt concedes.

“I know and it’s so soft but he won’t tell me his secrets.” You frown, thoughts turning to the many times he wouldn’t tell you.

“I was his roommate for years and he won’t share them with me so you have no chance.” Matt’s lips finally turn up into a smile against your neck.

“He’d be lucky to have you,” he turns suddenly serious, his tone sincere, “I’m lucky to have you.”

“And I’m lucky to have you.” Your hand brushes down his side and you feel the blood on his skin, “okay, let’s get you cleaned up before you get an infection.”

You pull away to grab the first aid kit, the wound being small and no problem for you to clean up. He’s moved to sit down on the couch by the time you get back.

“Oh I thought it was just getting good.” Matt’s head tilts, a cheeky look on his face.

“I will kiss every scar on your body, to show you how much I love you and then maybe,” You tease, as you press a chaste kiss against one of his bigger scars, “but first, wound care.”

You’re not immune to Matt’s puppy eyes but you tsk at him to tell him it’s not gonna work this time.

Margaret Murdock was not at all what you expected her to be and at the same time, exactly what you expected.

So many things about Matt began to make sense in your mind as you watched her enter your apartment, greeting her with a timid hello as you shielded your war-torn body behind Frank’s.

She cleared her throat the exact same way he did. The manner in which she licked her lips before speaking was identical to her son and when she did have something to say as she and Matt made small talk and caught up, she took her time— exactly as he did, carefully choosing her words before verbalizing them. You always assumed that was a habit of his from being a lawyer, but now it seemed there was another source.

At the same time, they were nothing alike. She was prudent in her body language, keeping her spine straight and her shoulders strong but without the cocky swagger that her son always seemed to sport as she followed him into the living room, gently taking a seat and happily accepting the cup of tea he had waiting for her. She spoke plainly and bluntly, without all the filler lawyer language he liked to use but with a lingering sense of dry wit to her tone.

All of these things combined made her very difficult to read.

It was only when Matt cleared his throat (which you only knew came from him and not her because you had your eyes trained on her. Well, on her hands, because you couldn’t bring yourself to look into her intense stare for more than a few seconds at a time) and nodded at the spot on the sofa across from her, did you realize he wanted you to be a part of this as well.

She hadn’t acknowledged the baby in Frank’s arms since she’d entered your apartment and only showed response towards you with a thin lipped nod as you sat down.

Matt called her. But how much did he tell her— about you? About Mia? About Frank?!

“May I hold my granddaughter?” she asked, satisfied with the amount of sugar she had just stirred into her tea cup and setting it aside.

It was as if she was at the post office requesting to buy some stamps and not an eager woman asking to hold her only grandchild for the first time.

It took you far too long to realize that she, Matt, and Frank were all looking at you, waiting for your permission.

Right.

“Of course!” you stammered.

Maggie seemed to loosen as she took Mia from Frank, giving a genuine smile as she cooed at her.

“What a blessing,” she commented, rocking Mia softly, “and so beautiful.”

You wondered if part of whatever plan Matt had when he called and invited his mother over involved also subjecting you to uncomfortable silence. His little punishment for how terrible you’d been so far at motherhood.

The longer you sat across from Maggie, watching her hold Mia, the tighter the knot in your stomach seemed to pull. You were a fish flopping on land, dying from not knowing what to say to this woman while both your boyfriends did nothing to spare you.

“I don’t know if Matt told you anything,” you finally broke, rambling dam bursting open all at once, “About me. Or my pregnancy. Or the baby. But she was just born! But, we should have had you over way sooner. And Frank! Did he tell you about Frank? I—”

“Matthew has kept me informed enough of his life’s happenings when I see him at mass,” she replied, her tone neither pleasant nor showing anger but unsettlingly neutral, “that is, when he does attend.”

She shot her son a sharp glance, before returning her attention to the baby in her arms.

Okay, that was new information. Matt made it sound like he hadn’t even spoken to his mother since you found out about your pregnancy, but she had at least seen him enough times to know. Only when your train of thought settled on the humor in the Catholic guilt trip she was laying on him, did you finally notice that Matt was no longer beside you, hovering in a protective manner in the same way he looms over the city at night. He was across the room, rolling the stroller from the entryway and putting on his jacket.

It felt like the world was moving in slow motion as you realized what was happening, watching Matt walk past you toward his mother and taking Mia from her arms.

“Daddy and Papa are going to take you for a walk,” Matt cooed, setting her in the stroller.

“What?! Why?! Where are you going?!” you stuttered, leaping from your seat in panic.

Oh god, this what you were afraid of. They were distracting you so they could take her away. They both saw how terrible of a mother you were and neither of them wanted to be with you any more. Matt’s mom clearly hated you from what he’d told her and she was helping them escape with their daughter.

Frank stepped into the space between you and the door, solid and sure with his hand outstretched in reassurance, like a lion tamer calming his cat.

“We’re just goin’ around the block. Shouldn’t be more than ten minutes.”

With tears threatening to spill out of you in waves again, you bore your eyes into Frank, silently imploring him. He returned a lingering gaze of his own desperate pleading. You hadn’t seen him so panicked you woke up in the hospital. This was a new pattern you were not fond of— seeing fear in the eyes of the Punisher and being the cause of it.

He nodded once more to you. An act so subtle but so assured.

This was Frank. Your Frank. Who would never ever hurt you like that. And neither would Matt.

They were both fixers— problem solvers. And a Marine never leaves a comrade behind. He wouldn’t leave you behind again. He promised.

They were just trying to fix you.

Because you were broken.

Okay, so maybe they weren’t taking her.

But what would happen if you weren’t there with her? What if she needed you? Or got hurt? Her stroller might blow away from them and tip over into the river! Or a car could run a red light into the intersection and kill all three of them! Or one of Daredevil or the Punisher’s enemies might finally have tracked them down and could catch them unprepared, taking your daughter from them as revenge! Or—

“Baby, please,” Frank implored, voice barely timbreing above a whisper in helplessness.

Matt was trying his best to conceal the pained expression on his face, adjusting his glasses with unsteady hands. He radiated tension in the way his shoulders held stiff, practically up to his ears, as he tried to find any distraction— fiddling with the diaper bag or the stroller or the door— in order to avoid facing you.

You lowered yourself back into your seat gingerly, attempting to slow your heart from feeling like it was pounding out of your chest as you watched the three of them walk out of the apartment.

Staring at the closed door long after they’d disappeared behind it, you gave your best attempt at summoning some of Matt’s abilities to hear exactly when they left the building and where on the sidewalk they were.

“Matthew tells me you’ve been having some difficulties with postpartum.”

The sound of her voice sent a jolt of lightning down your spine. You were so distracted with worry that you nearly forgot Maggie was still there.

“No, I’m just tired.”

“That was the excuse I used to give too.”

The excuse she used to— oh.

Oh no.

Maggie left Matthew when he was young, but he never told you the details. You assumed he maybe didn’t know the full story either. But if he had called her over now, after avoiding brining her around for so long...

“When Matthew was born, they didn’t know a whole lot about postpartum depression. I thought that God had punished me for abandoning my purpose.”

You didn’t reply, unsure what to say. Their history and the choices she made were painful for him and part of you held a secret little grudge against her for it, but you never knew it all came from her own pain. Is that why he didn’t want her involved with his child until now? Is that why he couldn’t seem to face you, because he saw the way the past was repeating itself and it opened all his old wounds?

You reminded him too much of his mother.

“I had thoughts. One’s that any sane person wouldn’t have had,” she continued, keeping her laser-beam stare on you but keeping her voice level, “I thought perhaps my punishment for my decision was that my child would grow up to be the anti-christ. Or that demons were going to come and take him in the night. I couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t care for him and I certainly couldn’t care for myself.”

You were shocked. Your Matthew, your sweet and silly and devoted Matthew. He was just a baby. Who would ever think such a thing about a tiny little baby?

“Maggie, Sister, Mrs. Murdo—”

“Maggie is fine, dear.”

“No offense but, that’s kind of crazy.”

“I know. That’s what postpartum depression does,” she agreed, “So you haven’t had thoughts of demons or monsters. But you’re scared. I can tell. So tell me, what’s the worst you’ve had?”

“That’s not—”

“I’m a nun, dear. I’ve heard a lot of confessions in my years in the church. There’s not much that could shock me.”

Despite the earnestness in her voice, you remained hesitant. You had been so eager to meet Matt’s mom throughout your pregnancy and now that she was here under these circumstances, you just wanted to shrink away from her stare as fast as possible. Your mouth felt dry as you tried to find the right words and the thermostat in the room might as well have been set to “sun-surface.” She looked at you expectantly, waiting for your response. You sank lower into the couch, hoping that maybe you could convince it to defy physics and swallow you whole so you wouldn’t have to look at her when you answered.

“I’m just so scared,” you swallowed thickly, wiping your sticky palm against the coarse fabric of the sofa beneath you “if I tell anyone how I’m feeling, they’re going to take her away from me. And Matt and Frank will hate me and think I’m crazy and fight for me to not have custody of her and never let me see her again.”

“Well in terms of crazy, I’d say you’re doing pretty okay. And I’m also here to reassure you, that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

How could she possibly understand? But she was here wasn’t she? One mother to another who understood— who didn’t lie and say it was all sunshine and rainbows.

“I know,” you sighed, “I mean, deep down a part of me knows that. But I just can’t see an end to it.”

“She’s only two weeks old, usually it fades. For me they didn’t.”

“What if doesn’t?”

“Then you fight. To fix it,” she reached across, placing her hand on top of yours assuredly, “Matthew is a fighter, he doesn’t give up. I know he won’t give up on you. And I get the feeling Mr. Castle won’t either.”

“She won’t latch.”

“So give her formula.”

“She won’t sleep for more than an hour at a time.”

“There’s three of you. I know my son can operate on little sleep. So I suggest you let those two boys take on some things so you can recharge.”

“I’m her mother, I —”

“—And they’re her parents too. This is a team effort. So stop pretending like it isn’t.”

Okay, yeah. Matthew was definitely her son. Because she was not backing down.

“Do not make the same mistakes I did,” she plead, “I left because it was the best choice, yes. But I never went back because of all the shame that I carried. And I still carry it to this day. She will forgive you for hurting, but not until you forgive yourself.”

How could you ever forgive yourself for not being enough for her? How could Matt or Frank ever forgive you?

“Has he forgiven you?” you asked.

“I don’t think so,” she sighed, “I don’t know if he ever will. Or else he would have let me meet you sooner.”

“I’m sorry about that, I should have stepped in,” you assured.

“No, Matthew should have put his stupid pride aside.”

“Yeah, that’s not exactly a strong suit of his.”

Maggie let out a hearty exhale. For the first time since she’d arrived, she avoiding meeting your gaze.

“If it was, maybe he wouldn’t be putting that stupid costume back on and risking doing to you and that baby what Jack did to us.”

So she knew about that too.

There was a shake to her voice underneath the admonishment— whether it was a quiver of anger from unsettled resentment all these years later or a tremble of grief from watching the past possibly repeat itself, you weren’t sure.

Matthew and his father were plenty alike, just as she was. But the Matt you loved had shown you he was capable of the humility Jack lacked. That was the one thing giving you hope that might spare him from the same fate.

“He told me that he didn’t want to make those same mistakes. That he wouldn’t,” you assured, “He promised me. And I believe him.”

“Well then, we both have something to hope for.”

The sun warmed your skin, unthawing you to your core like a lizard while you tried to remain in step with Frank’s large strides through the wandering paths of Central Park. Mia was asleep like a petite little log in her stroller, content to be pushed at whatever pace her Papa dictated that morning. He took care to choose similar routes every day, unsubtley avoiding any trail that might lead to the carousel.

This had been your routine every day for the last week. Part of your boyfriends’ prescribed solution to find your new normal and feel more human again. Frank swapped his jogging regiment with morning strolls to include you and Mia, successfully getting you out of bed and outside even just for a little while each day. It wasn’t so much the fresh air and the time with him that motivated you, though. The three of you had explored nearly every establishment offering some combination of donuts, coffee, and bagels on the Upper West Side— the real reward each day after your walks that sometimes was the only drove you to get out of the house. It wasn’t much, but it did the job.

And when you got home? You were also rewarded with a glorious nap to make up for any sleep you hadn’t gotten at night while Frank washed the bottles and made sure Mia got in her tummy time.

It was working in helping you feel a little more human and a little more bonded with your baby— though you hated to admit it because that would mean Matt and Frank were right about something and you couldn’t let them have that.

It had been a good night before too, which helped you have the energy to even attempt to match Frank’s pace today. Mia had slept an entire 6 hours in a row before waking and needing fed. When she suckled at your breast, it felt like she was maybe finally figuring out how to latch. Actually, now that you thought about it, it had been five full days since she had any issue getting what she needed from you. Maybe she was finally figuring it out.

Her new discovery also seemed to be the secret to finally getting your supply to a level that was satisfactory for her, breast pump only needed to make sure there was enough for Matt and Frank to take a few feedings so you didn’t have to be up all night.

Matt returned to work yesterday, a development that knocked some of the wind out of the success of the last few days. Just when it felt like the three of you were figuring it out, he had to go back to being an important lawyer. It didn’t feel fair.

You and Frank managed to get through each day though, filling your time with baby snuggles and chores and before you realized it, Matt was walking through the door with a grin on his face and arms open and ready for his daughter.

He took care to make sure the evening routine stayed as they had planned too. After dinner and getting Mia down for the night, he made sure to lay his yoga mat beside yours and help guide you through his favorite meditation techniques. Most nights this activity ended with a massage, Matt sniffing out which of your muscles and healing tissue needed the most attention from his deft hands. Sometimes, you got a bubble bath as an add on too. It was just what you needed to unwind each day.

You weren’t sure why you thought he’d take an extended paternity leave from being Daredevil, but the first evening he put the helmet back on and headed up the back stairs to the rooftop was the first night that week you hadn’t slept. Even as things were getting back to normal, or as normal as they could be right now, Matt and Frank made sure to keep with the plan so that any new addition (like your boyfriend’s return to vigilante life) didn’t disrupt.

Everything was now feeling… lighter. Sure, it was still an endless cycle of diaper changes and nursing and rocking her to soothe, but the three of you had finally found a rhythm. It was what life was for now, and it was okay.

This particular afternoon, Frank was off taking his five minute “Marine efficiency shower” of the day and Matt was about halfway through his work day.

You sat in the living room, watching as Mia squirmed in her bassinet with a pile of unfolded laundry forgotten beside you.

She was just so— entrancing. She was just a little potato but every time she flailed her limbs and made her cute little grunts, it sent a grin spreading across your face. Her eyes darted around the room, taking in the bits of the ceiling she could see with wonder. Her little mouth was open, mindlessly blowing bubbles with her tongue while she explored.

Wow, was she cute. She’d quickly outgrown that alien appearance from when she was first born and looked like a for-real cute baby now.

The cutest, actually.

And damnit, you’d fight any other parent for the title because you knew it was true.

And then came that thought, in a whisper through your heart.

I love you.

Yeah okay.

You finally understood.

NEXT CHAPTER

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Frank forgot how tiny babies could be.

And by every definition of the word, Mia was tiny. Tiny in the way she fit in only one of his hands. Tiny in the little cries that came from her when she was hungry and in the way her little finger would wrap around his. Tiny in her clothes and diapers and socks and…

Tiny in all the ways he couldn’t protect her.

She was so tiny, in fact, she looked positively minuscule even as she rested in Lisa’s gangly arms.

“Dad, why are her eyes so blue?” Lisa asked, looking at her sibling with wonder.

“All babies have blue eyes. Don’t get their real color for a coupla months”

“She’s gonna have Matt’s perfect hazel eyes,” Maria practically sang, taking Matt’s face in her hands and squishing his cheeks. Matt looked positively smitten in return, snaking an arm around her waist with enthusiasm and tucking his face into her neck to whisper something only she could hear. Probably something dirty based on the way she blushed and giggled back at him, playfully whacking at him in faux scolding.

Frank scoffed, trying not to let the jealousy overtake for the millionth time him for your sake. Because having to share you wasn’t enough…

Speaking of you— Mia was absolutely fascinated by whatever electronic gizmo you and Frank Jr. were trying to assemble on the floor, craning her underdeveloped neck muscles trying to get a look.

The two of you shouldn’t be on the floor, Frank thought, hating how filthy these Marine barracks they always put him in were. It was really just a glorified shitty tent in the middle of the desert, dirt floor and all.

“Got it!” you declared, the RC car you’d been putting together revving to life with a whir.

“YEAH!” Frank Jr. rejoiced, taking the controller from you and immediately steering the toy forward, wasting no time weaving it under his mother’s feet and through the rows of cots.

Schoonover would give Frank the business if his kid ran anything important over.

Junior directed the car all over, adding his own screeching and crashing sound effects straight out of a NASCAR broadcast as he made it turn and spin, which sent Mia into a positive fit of giggles.

He brought the car back to where the both of you sat on the floor with an exaggerated “VRoOoOoOM”. Lisa enthusiastically stood from the cot she was perched on and brought Mia over, setting her on top of the toy car, which caused the infant’s giggles to abruptly turn into screams. In the three weeks since she’d been born, Frank had never heard her cry with such vigor that he thought she might blow out one of her underdeveloped lungs.

What in the hell had Lisa done to make her sister cry like that?

An IED, the same kind he’d seen in hundreds of training videos and even worse, in action while in the field, sat sandwiched between Mia and the car.

Where the fuck did that come from? Had someone put it there when Frank Jr. sent it somewhere else in the barracks— someone trying to hurt him and his family?

Frank did his best to run to it, to try and get Mia off of it and toss it somewhere away from all of you as it beeped in mocking, ready to detonate at any moment.

But his heavy boots seemed to be stuck in place. When he tried to scream out, to get you all to run and save you, his lungs only pushed out air.

But still, you all laughed resplendently at the cute baby cradled by the toy car, oblivious to the danger. Mia only wailed louder, none of you noticing or bothering to comfort her.

Frank could only move his eyes, looking from the car to his children, to you, to Maria and Matt—

Matt’s smile faded as Frank looked to him, his face morphing into terror. The lawyer’s eyes were not glossy with sightlessness as they usually were, but seeing and knowing— the first time Frank had ever actually seen Matt make real eye contact. He wasn’t blind anymore. He could see. And he could see the danger.

“Save our daughter,” Matt simply spoke with calm demeanor, despite the fear in his expression, turning his whole body and shielding Maria as the flash and the bang went off.

Frank woke covered in sweat, his lungs still struggling to fill with the air he tried to find to shout in his nightmare.

Through it all, Mia’s cries still came, just as they had in the chaos of his dream.

“Save our daughter,” Frank croaked out, still trying to find the IED and Mia and Lisa and…

But Mia wasn’t crying in his shitty old barracks in Lisa’s arms.

She was being cooed and coddled by you in the corner of the dark bedroom. No military base or remote controlled cars or explosives in sight. Just in your apartment on the Upper West Side. Safe.

You were here. She was here. Frank had to assume Red had made it home at some point in the night and was just down the hall in the other bedroom.

But Maria and Lisa and Frank Jr. were still dead.

The rain outside punctuated every cry Mia let out as you tried to figure out what was causing her such distress, beating against the windows and doing nothing to ease the agitation Frank could feel slithering in his veins.

He fought against his drowsy haze, struggling to get untangled from the blankets and get to you.

“I got it, Frankie,” you assured with none of the anger in your voice you should posses that he didn’t get up yet to help.

Frank laid back with huff, not bothering to fight you on this one and knowing he would spend the next few hours just staring at the ceiling until the sun came up.

Save our daughter.

Mornings were consistent. Just the way Frank liked. Get up by 7. Diaper change and a bottle. Burp her and get her situated for the day. Get the dishes done and a load of laundry in before you got up. Make the coffee. Now that Red was back to work, add making him a to-go cup to the list.

Routine. It keeps his mind in check. Keeps it from wandering where it shouldn’t. If he lets it, that’s when the nightmares get worse and the itch gets louder. But routine helps him ignore it all— ignore how it all feels the same as it did the first time except now there’s this gaping hole that he can’t quite name that pushes him somewhere he doesn’t want to go every time he looks at his new daughter.

And sure, when he looks at her, he’s also consumed by an overwhelming amount of love that fills him so wholly, he’s sure his heart wouldn’t be able to beat without it. But that love comes with a shadowy phantom that lurks in the background waiting to strike. He doesn’t know when and he doesn’t know exactly what it is or what kind of danger it brings but he can sense it.

It scares the shit out of him.

Frank kind of hates the domesticity of it all. But what else is he gonna do? He could go back to working construction— it’d give him an excuse to hit shit and keep his hands busy in a way your other boyfriend would approve of. But he doesn’t trust a day care with his baby. And he wouldn’t dare think of asking you to stay home with her, knowing that going back to work in a few weeks is just the kind of routine you need to feel normal again. And the three of you can’t afford to have Matt stay home.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to think about that right now as you were still on maternity leave and got to be home with him all day. You were currently leaning against the door frame of the kitchen with a sleepy smile on your face.

Your routine had become watching his. You didn’t think you could ever be more in love with Frank, but witnessing him be a dad to your baby certainly challenged that belief. He looked like an ancient sculpture that belonged in a museum as he held Mia close to his chest, making it look effortless as he kept her close with one arm while packing her bag with his other. The morning sun radiated through the apartment, casting a glow around him and highlighting his sculpted nose and strong jaw as he multi-tasked. If you weren’t still recovering from giving birth and medically banned from sexual activity for a few more weeks, you’d have pounced on him and let him get you pregnant all over again.

You knew the scars of his past still oozed like an open wound but you’d also seen how far he’d come. The creases between his brows had smoothed out a little. The bags under his eyes were from late night feedings and exhaustion from love, not just from carrying on every day. He didn’t hold his shoulders as tightly and didn’t take every step as if he was walking into battle. He almost seemed healed, if you dared to use that word.

Even with all his progress, you could still see his struggles. He was shit at trying to hide it. You wished you could get rid of it by just showering him in love and this version of life— showing him that moving forward didn’t mean erasing the past and forgetting. You had resigned that maybe with the history he had, that might just never go away no matter how hard you tried.

Since Matt had returned to work, Frank had been trying to keep the routine more packed. Sure, he noticed how tense you were with the change and wanted to keep your day nice and busy. That’s what he told himself. Nothing about how much louder it had gotten for him everyday since Mia was born and how he needed something to distract from it.

Keep you moving, keep himself occupied. A win-win.

It worked for a while.

Until today.

He fucked up. The nightmare of his family and the car and Mia left him feeling distracted far too long into the day. Marines don’t get distracted. At least, Lieutenant Castle never did. But he was getting old, he supposed. Rusty.

He didn’t check the paths today. Didn’t plan the route carefully enough. Too occupied checking every vantage point for threats and making sure Mia was happy and…

Which is how the three of you ended up in front of the Central Park Carousel.

Shit.

He tried to hide the way is throat closed up and his shoulders tensed. He tried to avert his eyes, to keep them from staring at the machine going around and around and—

“Frankie, hey,” you tugged at his hand.

His chest heaved, trying to find oxygen. Your voice was the only thing cutting through it all.

“You dumb motherfucker,” he thought to himself, still rooted on the ground, “she shouldn’t be worried about me, that’s my fuckin’ job.”

Something was tugging him away. Right, your hand was still firmly in his.

He hadn’t even realized the carousel had faded from view, despite his lungs finally feeling like they were working again. Even as you spoke his name, his gaze remained down the path you had just guided him along and towards the trees that now hid the attraction, chewing at his cheek and letting his index finger twitch against his leg.

“Frank, look at me,” you plead gently, trying to quell the panic attack you could see rising in him.

“Fuck, baby I’m sorry,” he gulped, “I shoulda…”

“No, I’m sorry. I should have been paying attention too. You’re usually so sure where we’re going, that I forget to pay attention sometimes too.”

Yes, he’s usually so sure…

Frank wordlessly took the stroller from your control, nodding his head to continue onward.

Well, there went the pleasant morning the three of you were having.

You kept pace with his wandering, heavy stomp in every footstep he took forward leaving deep marks in the gravel beneath him. His head was on a swivel now, more than normal anyway, but without really looking at where he was going. He glared down every passerby as if they were all loaded with ammunition. He jumped at every child screaming in delight in the distance, any twig that snapped as the stroller rolled over it, any rustling of the trees.

You might as well have not been there at all, feeling invisible beside him as he grunted and made a beeline for some unspoken destination that he wasn’t even sure of.

It didn’t help when the rain returned above you, pouring down more harshly than when he woke from his nightmare this morning. The dark clouds rolled in quickly against the sunny skies like a moving wall you couldn’t escape. It gushed down so fiercely you were instantly wet before you even realized it was raining. Fortunately, the cover on Mia’s stroller shielded her a bit as the three of you darted for shelter.

The marble bandstand at the end of the path was already packed with people hiding from the storm, resigning you and Frank to seek cover around the back of the structure. The transom of a service doorway offered a pitiful coverage.

Mia remained completely undisturbed by the sudden downpour, still sleeping sweetly as the rain pattered against her stroller’s roof as a pseudo white noise machine.

“Day’s turning into a shitshow…” Frank grumbled.

His hair stuck in damp curls against his forehead, rain drops dribbling off his nose as you took his chin between your fingers and made him look at you.

“No, it’s not,” you replied, small smile on your face and gentleness in your eyes.

His thick brows bunched together, wondering if post-partum blindness was a thing and he’d have to deal with — two of you echoing-locating shit in the house because clearly you had not seen how this morning was going so poorly right in front of your eyes.

“I’ve got the two of you right now,” you assured.

The hang of Frank’s head couldn’t hide the crinkle growing beside each of his eyes nor the smile that was threatening to crest across his lips.

“Too good to me, sweetheart.”

The rain had finally begun to transform into a calm drizzle, allowing you to reach up and brush some of the moisture off his face without it being immediately replaced. He leaned into your touch, exhaling deeply at the contact.

“You gonna be okay?” you asked.

“Yeah.”

“I’m not just talking about today, Frank. You’ve been more on edge since Matt went back to work.”

Frank blew out a puff of air at the mention of Matt.

“Ain’t the lawyer shit that’s got me tense.”

“I know,” you gestured a pair of horns on your head with your fingers, which earned an eye roll from Frank, “I don’t love it either but it is what it is. I’m more worried about you, especially since this time is just flying by and I’m going to be back at work too before we know it.”

Logistically, there was no question that Frank was more than capable of handling Mia on his own during the day. But the knowledge he’d have to work to keep his ghosts at bay everyday so that he could focus solely on her, and the fear of him being the one responsible for her safety had him feeling like he was failing at this before he even really got started.

Frank chewed over the reality of what life would look like when you also went back to work, clacking his tongue against his cheek as he turned his gaze to the sleeping bundle in the stroller.

“Think she’ll ever forgive me?”

“For?”

“My past. Who I used to be. Who I am.”

Frank always had a way of dropping a grenade into your soul in the quietest of moments, detonating his pain all over your heart. You offered a reassuring squeeze to his hand.

“I think she will, yeah.”

Usually when Frank looked at Mia, there was so much love you thought his heart was going to explode. But right now he might as well have been looking at a white wall with the way he was staring through her.

“Thank you, Frank,”

His attention snapped back to you, brows creasing in puzzlement.

“For what?”

“Letting me be the one to do this. For giving me—” you nodded towards the stroller, “— us this chance to be your new start.”

“You ain’t ashamed to be with me?”

“Never.”

Frank’s lips were rough when they met yours. He couldn’t find any of the words he wanted to say in his brain to let you know how he felt about you— too much of a big, dumb Marine to be capable. So he put it into his kiss, searing with heat against the chill radiating through your body as it continued to drizzle on the two of you.

There was something magical about New York City when it rained, especially in Central Park— the droplets dangling off the trees long after the storm passed, the ducks and geese seeking shelter in the ponds while the rain splashed and made ripples around them, the fresh smell of the grass in the aftermath of it all.

But right now, it all faded out of your mind. Frank’s hungry kisses radiated down to your marrow, allowing for little thought outside of him. The heat of his hand sent goosebumps across your skin as he pulled you closer by your waist, brushing against your damp flesh where your soaked shirt rode up a little.

His gaze remained guarded but raw as he finally separated his lips from yours, keeping his face atoms away from yours while still cradling you with his large paw of a hand behind your neck. It was as if his stare was speaking all the fears swirling in that big head of his without any words. You tried to communicate your own assurances in return, looking deep into his eyes and mustering as much love as you could, all while your breath remained ragged, swept up in the fervor of it all.

Time might have totally stopped for all you knew, content to keep your forehead pressed against Frank’s in the damp morning in the park. It could have been minutes or hours or a millennia, but Mia finally let out a soft mewl, indicating she was getting fussy and hungry.

“Let’s get our girl home.”

It was worse on the nights Frank didn’t get to sleep next to you. It was Matt’s turn tonight, though the horned asshole was still out prowling.

Frank tried all his old military tricks for falling asleep fast, but every time it felt like he might be finding some semblance of rest, he’d see that damn carousel going around and around.

He wasn’t sure how many hours had passed, but at some point he gave up, throwing the covers off his body and sitting up with a grunt.

Some invisible string guided him towards his closet and without a second thought, he found himself reaching beyond the piles of wrinkled clothes and black sweatshirts towards the hollow instrument that sat long forgotten in the back.

Frank used to play guitar to keep his hands busy, mostly while he was bored on deployment waiting for his next orders. Now, it sat gathering dust in the back of his closet. One of the few things from his past that Curtis managed to salvage when Frank burned his house down. Curtis always managed to find a way to sneak it into whatever shit-hole Frank was squatting in, despite the fact that he hadn’t touched it in years. Too many memories of pissing around, strumming whatever chords he could dream up while Bill chattered on about some bullshit. Too many memories of Lisa sitting in his lap, giggling as he taught her how to hold it and strum it. Frank wasn’t even sure why he bothered bringing it when you all moved in here, but now he had it back in his hands.

The weight of it felt foreign in his hands as he looked it over. It still seemed to be in good shape, though he was sure it was about as out of tune as his singing voice at this point.

If he messed with it now, he’d certainly wake both you and the baby.

Before he even realized it, the same invisible string that pulled him towards his guitar found the solution for him, pulling him up the stairs to the roof.

The city was oddly silent tonight as Frank got settled, sitting with his back pressed against the brick of the rooftop entry. He wasn’t even sure if he was working towards any particular tune as he tepidly tested the strings, flinching at the possibility of snapping a string as he spun the pegs.

He thought of the way he used to prop Lisa in the bend of it when she was an infant and wondered if Mia would sit there just the same way. He chuckled at the thought.

“What if I ain’t good enough for her?” he asked towards the sky, addressing no one in particular while hitting a sour combination of notes.

Maybe he was asking God. Maybe he was asking Maria. Or maybe he was seeking out advice from the asshole he knew might be able to hear him even from blocks away.

Not that he wanted to hear from Murdock, but if anyone understood him (and he hated to admit it), it was him.

“What if she hates me?”

Frank strummed again, trying to find the old familiar chords under his finger tips but only hitting all the wrong notes.

“What if I can’t keep her safe? Like I couldn’t for them.”

Because that was the core of it all— the hollowness and the shadows and the hole and the nightmares and the routine— he failed. And he couldn’t bear to do it again.

One of the strings rung out with a twang as a tear slipped down Frank’s face and onto the instrument.

“Some days, it don’t even seem real. Like I hold her and just—I didn’t know I could feel like this anymore and it scares the shit out of me.”

He strummed the guitar with vigor, tempo and pressure threatening to pop a string. The words were just falling out of him, a broken dam on all the things he had put off thinking about.

The wind was strong enough that it chilled the dampness on his cheeks, tears now falling almost as heavily as he played.

“It’s like I’m looking at them but it’s new and it’s raw and it’s fucking terrifying. How do I even be enough for her? How’s she ever gonna look at me and…” Frank sighed, taking a moment to wipe the snot running from his nose, “Is this what they woulda wanted for me? Cause some days it feels like I’m gettin away with somethin’ I don’t deserve and I wonder…”

All the coarseness in his voice faded away to something more timid and soft as he posed his question into the night sky, now pointed in his audience.

“You know about forgiveness, yeah?” Frank asked.

The brutal force of the Punisher was totally stripped away to the raw, open nerve Frank was finding harder and harder to conceal each day, exposing it to the only person he trusted wouldn’t use it against him or worse, pity him for it.

“What about me? Huh, Red? They ever gonna forgive me for this? For movin’ forward? For lovin’ this the same way I loved them?”

Frank wasn’t sure why he expected Matt to actually answer. A part of him hoped Murdock couldn’t actually hear him pour his fucking heart out like some blubbering child. But he still paused anyway, looking to the roofs across the street for some sign of movement. Any acknowledgment that he wasn’t just talking to the breeze.

Nothing. But he continued anyway.

“I can’t lose it again, Red. I just can’t. Her. The Kid. You. The only good fuckin' things I got left.”

Frank ran a shaky hand through his hair, other hand resting against the now forgotten guitar in his lap as his finger tapped against the side of it.

“I don’t know the last time I stopped. You know, I’d come home from deployment and I’d do all the dad shit, but I always knew I was goin’ back. It kept me goin’. Then I lost ‘em. Put on the stupid vest same way I put on my uniform. I was just doin’ the only thing I knew how to do. They were the reason I got through it and then they were gone and I just accepted I was never gonna get through it and that’s who I was gonna be until I died and now… I’ve been alone so long I don’t know how else to be. Now, you know, I know I ain’t going back and I gotta figure it out and I guess I just feel… lost.”

“I’m lost, Red,” Frank confessed, “And what about you? You lost too? Cause you sure as shit don’t seem it.”

While they had come together to get you on the right track to post-partum wellness, Matt and Frank had largely been existing as orbiting moons since Mia had been born, each hovering around you and the baby in opposing tandem. They each had their tasks and routines and it worked— co-exisitng and working in sync like line chefs in a busy restaurant. Frank had no fucking idea how Matt was feeling about any of this, but Frank hoped he might be feeling some of the things he was.

Frank’s shoulders slumped in exhaustion, his musical therapy and personal soliloquy offering some relief to finally feeling well enough to try going back to bed. The city remained unchanged around him, occasional sound of a car driving by and a siren in the distance but overall calm.

He steadied his boots beneath him, pushing off from his spot and walking over to the door, closing it behind himself gently as he retreated back into the apartment.

He remained unaware of the shadow that emerged behind him as he disappeared, the horned figure jumping from his spot on the rooftop next door and landing silently like an agile cat. He had heard it all, drawn to the sound of Frank’s voice from blocks away and following it home. Daredevil removed his helmet, listening below to make sure Frank was in bed and fast asleep before opening the door and heading inside himself.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·