like we’re in love?

Life in Manhattan wasn’t quite what you expected so far, not necessarily in a bad way, but it was a little less Sex and the City-esque than you’d hoped. Working at a fashion magazine also wasn’t as glamorous as your college professors had made it out to be in your final year, but you supposed that was just a tactic to keep you from dropping out. At your current position you didn’t have much responsibility, you went on coffee runs, answered emails and printed samples for people who made more in a week than you will in a year. For now at least. The chief of the magazine was stern but fair, from what you'd heard she’d started out the same as you and worked her way up. If all goes well you’d be more than just a glorified delivery girl in just a few short years. It was a light at the end of a very long tunnel, but a light nonetheless.

The rain outside pounded down heavier now, some drops splashing off the metal grate of your fire escape and against the skin of your arm, the cold water pulling you out of your thoughts.

A tired sigh left your mouth as you forced yourself up from your seat against the windowsill, your feet padded along the creaky floor of your apartment lazily making your way to the kitchen counter where your phone sat.

A couple of notifications lit up the screen as you picked it up, a text message from your co-worker piqued your interest.

“Gina: Hey, kid! A few of us are planning on grabbing a few drinks tonight if you’re up for it ;)”

Kid you giggled, while Gina was your supervisor she was only 5 years older than you. She was a lovely woman, taught you well and didn’t speak down to you like you’d seen some of the other superiors did to the new staff in their teams. You’d never hung out with her outside of work but from what you gathered, she would definitely be the kind of girl to show you a good night out in the city. It was Friday night, you’d spent the whole week working your ass off and fuck it you were young, a few drinks with some colleagues couldn’t hurt.

“Y/n: Hey! Thanks for the invite, I’d love to come just let me know when and where :)”

Her response was instant, “Great, wear something slutty. ;)” she’s lucky you liked her otherwise she’d be in HRs office first thing Monday morning. You could’ve predicted the text, she’d been trying to set you up with so called “eligible bachelors” from the second you walked through the revolving door of your work building a month ago, no doubt one of the “few of us” grabbing drinks tonight would be one of the men who she was raring to set you up with.

A relationship wasn’t something you were interested in at the moment. You had just come out of a 2 year relationship with your college boyfriend two months ago, it felt a little too soon to start dating seriously again. Fooling around with someone was one thing but committing your already limited time to someone didn’t feel like the best plan of action right now.

You took your time getting ready, applied your make up, nothing too much but enough to show you’d put a little effort in. You left your hair down, pulling a hand through it to keep it out of your face every now and again. Once you were ready getting dressed you stood in front of the full length mirror that sat against the wall beside your bed. Your outfit was simple but you couldn’t deny you looked amazing, sheer black tights underneath a black mini pencil skirt with a white lace tank top that did wonders for your chest. A pair of black heeled boots and an oversized maroon leather jacket. Not too slutty, but you figured Gina would be satisfied with the amount of leg and tasteful cleavage displayed.

A quick spritz of your favourite perfume and you were ready to head out, trying your best not to let the growing feeling of anxiety pooling in your stomach get the best of you. Tonight will be fun.

Grabbing your handbag you left your apartment. Your night was already off to an awkward start when your mysterious neighbour also stepped out of his apartment and made his way, head hung low, towards where you stood waiting on the elevator.

You gave him a small smile, hoping to ease the tension you felt. You hated awkward silence, normal silence was lovely but this? Whatever you two had going on was painful.

After a very long minute the elevator finally came and you stepped in first, the man following behind you. You hadn’t had a chance to get a good look at him before now, brown eyes that looked tired, sad even. Messy brown hair and broad shoulders. Cute.

Your phone ringing broke the silence, fishing it out of your bag you saw Gina’s name and answered, tucking your hair behind your ear and pulling the phone up to listen. “Hey, Gina. Everything okay?” You kept your voice quiet, not wanting to draw too much attention to yourself in the small space.

“Don’t be mad,” she started, “But we need to take a rein check.”

You groaned, “Seriously?”

“I know, I know. I’ll make it up to you I promise, just something came up and I really can’t say no.” Her voice was gleeful and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“James?” You asked, already knowing the editor from the floor above your offices who she’d been playing a long game of, making eyes and casual fleeting touches with was the reason you’d be spending your Friday night alone.

“Yes!” She squealed delightedly, “you’re not mad are you?”

You couldn’t help but smile, “No. But I want all the details on Monday.”

“Down to the measurements!” You grimaced but let out a laugh.

“Ok, I’ve heard enough. Have fun, stay safe and call if you need anything.” You said, smiling now at least someone would have a fun night, you brought the phone away from your ear, hanging up and sighing.

To your side you could feel eyes on you, god you must look like such a loser, stood up on a Friday night. All dressed up and nowhere to go.

You cleared your throat, uncomfortable now. This elevator was talking forever. Shit. You were gonna have to go back up. You’d never wished an elevator would plummet to the ground while you were in it but as you reached forward and clicked the button for the 3rd floor, you hoped the wires would snap.

The doors eventually opened and your neighbour walked out, actually looking at you before leaving, a small smile playing on his lips, “Have a good night.”

“Yeah, you too, thanks.” You gave him a small wave, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. Well, at least you finally got a word out of him. His accent was strong, clearly from New York. That was one less thing to guess about him. He was clumsy, made a lot of noise, from New York and handsome. Oh, and he now knew all about your Friday night plans to go back to your apartment alone. You were pretty happy with that amount of information.

-

The night went by relatively quickly and you woke up on Saturday morning without a hangover which was definitely a positive of not going out the night before. You’d watched a movie, had a glass of wine and went to sleep at a reasonable hour. Only to be woken up at an unreasonable hour by your neighbour bulldozing through his apartment again. You weren’t a light sleeper either, he was loud. Thankfully you never had an issue falling back to sleep.

At around 9am you rolled out of bed, sliding your sock covered feet across the floor and pulling your curtains open to let the morning light in. The rain had stopped in the night but a few drops clung to the glass still. Your phone buzzed from your nightstand, lighting up with Gina’s name. You just knew it was gonna be good.

“Gina: You are NOT going to believe where I woke up this morning…”

A giggle passed your lips, you paused for a moment before replying.

“Y/n: It wouldn’t happen to be in the bed of the cute editor would it?”

Three texts came in quick succession.

“Gina: BINGO”

“Gina: Best night of my life”

“Gina: That man is hung like a goddamn horse”

Another laugh filled your space, she wasn’t joking about giving you those measurements. You started making yourself a cup of coffee as you typed your response.

“Y/n: I know you’re older than me but god am I a proud mother right now”

“Gina: You took one for the team last night, kid. Did you end up going out?”

A scoff left your mouth before you could stop it.

“Y/n: Oh you’re bringing me MY coffee for the next week. My surprisingly hot mysterious neighbour was in the elevator with me when you called, heard you cancel and then watched me press the button back to our floor before we even hit the lobby 💀”

There was a long pause before the next messages, three dots appearing and disappearing for a few moments as you sipped your coffee.

“Gina: How hot are we talking?”

You pursed your lips, you hadn’t really thought about it other than as a passing observation. You looked out into your apartment and tried your best to remember exactly what he looked like before you replied.

“Y/n: Super. Like if I saw him in a bar I’d need to be at least two shots deep before I could approach him.”

“Gina: Ok well then I’ll certainly be bringing you your coffee next week…”

“Gina: Not to rub it in but James is taking me out to breakfast so we’ll continue this later. Be free tonight I’m calling you. Xx”

You couldn’t help smiling at your phone, you’d finally surpassed coworkers to friends.

With that you tossed your phone onto the counter and took your coffee towards your sofa, switching on the TV. The news showed the latest breaking story about Spider-Man stopping a robbery downtown last night, it was nothing new even after only a month of living here you knew that if you turned on the news, he’d be there.

Your letterbox snapping against your apartment door tore your attention away from the TV. A few envelopes fell through to the floor.

Wandering over to the door you picked up the envelopes, flicking through them you noticed one that didn’t have your name on it.

Peter Parker.

It had to belong to the guy at the end of the hall. He was the only guy on the floor other than the woman across from you whose boyfriend sometimes stayed with her. It looked like a bill, and as much as you didn’t want to face him so soon after your encounter last night, it was probably important that he got his mail.

With a groan you dragged a hand through your hair and grabbed a hoodie, pulling the oversized material over your head. You were only going down the hall so you figured pyjama shorts and a baggy hoodie would be fine. Before leaving you slipped on a pair of slippers and headed out to the hallway. When you got to his door you realised that he didn’t have a mail box, maybe why you’d ended up with his mail.

Without thinking you knocked on his door. After a few seconds you saw his silhouette stumble up to the door through the frosted glass panel. He cracked it open, sticking his head out with an expression you couldn’t quite read. Surprise? Fear? You weren’t sure.

You gave him a small smile, shifting your weight from foot to foot, “Hey, sorry to bother you,” you started and when he didn’t say anything you pushed on, raising your hand to show him the letter, “your mail came to my apartment. Just wanted to drop it off but you don’t have a mail box so…”

He stared at you blankly for a moment before his tired eyes blinked back to life and he straightened up behind the door. He gave you a grateful look and took the letter from your hand, his rough fingers brushing yours briefly. “Thanks a lot.”

You flashed him a smile, “No worries, Peter.”

His eyes widened at the sound of you saying his name. Skittish, another word you could add to the list of things you knew about him. Maybe he was a drug dealer. You couldn’t help but laugh at his expression, you pointed a finger to the envelope you’d just given to him, “Your name was on the letter.”

“Right,” he laughed, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. His arms were huge, you tried your best to not look too mesmerised by how his biceps flexed as his hand moved against his nape, “Right, um, thanks again…” he trailed off, arm dropping back to his side.

“Y/n.” You answered with a grin. “Well, I’ll see you around.” You turned to walk back to your door, breathing a sigh of relief when you heard his door shut behind you.

-

Peter didn’t speak much to anyone these days. Things were better than they had been in the past four years. He’d reintroduced himself to MJ and Ned, though it hadn’t gone exactly as he’d expected it was still something. He wasn’t a complete ghost anymore, for the moment that was enough. It had to be. His routine was ridged and consistent; wake up early to patrol the city, come home and get cleaned up, work on his tech then at night go back out to patrol the streets of NYC, sleep where he could. Once a week he went to go visit his Aunt May’s grave, always making sure to replace the flowers. Some days he stopped by Ned and MJ’s place, not too often though. The heartbreak that came with the girl you love telling you she doesn’t love you was insurmountable, every time he saw her those words echoed through his rib cage, battering his heart each time. He held onto the hope that one day things would go back to normal but each passing day the reality cemented itself in his brain that the relationships he had prior to Dr Strange’s spell were gone, they could potentially be recreated but they’d never be what they were.

Things only changed ever so slightly a month ago when the new neighbour moved in down the hall, with his spider mutation at full capacity he could hear absolutely everything that happened around him. Not that he was actively trying to eavesdrop on his neighbours but sometimes he couldn’t help it. The walls were thin as it was, with accelerated hearing abilities you may as well be sitting in his apartment. He noticed that every time he’d clamber back in through his window a little more unbalanced than usual in the middle of the night you always woke up, let out an annoyed groan before going straight back to sleep. It was to the point that Peter actually anticipated it now, your little groan with the occasional grumble of “There he goes.” As if you were expecting him to wake you up. He’d passed by you a couple of times in the hallway, you weren’t like the other woman who lived opposite you, you never tried to initiate conversations with him, you always gave a smile of acknowledgement and then went back to minding your own business. He liked that about you. For the first time in a long time he had actually been the one to initiate conversation, not that he could even call it a conversation. When he rode down the elevator with you he couldn’t help himself in talking you in. Though he was heartbroken over MJ, he wasn’t blind. He had to admit you were gorgeous, make up done and jacket unzipped showing your figure that was more than flattered by the short skirt and lace top you had on. When he heard your friend bailing on you through the phone, forcing you to press the elevator to take you back upstairs, he couldn’t help but throw you a bone. It was a shame he thought, if he was a normal guy out at a bar on a Friday night he would’ve been praying for a girl like you to walk in. But he wasn’t a normal guy, and the thought came and went so quickly he barely had time to register that he’d thought it in the first place. When he got back that night he heard you grumble about the noise, only incoherent half asleep muttering that even with his hearing he couldn’t make out. It was quite comforting, no matter how late he stumbled in he could always count on a grunt or groan from your side of the wall. The sound was probably the most consistent thing in his life at the minute. Which was way sadder than he cared to admit.

The knock on his door that morning had woken him from his post-patrol nap. He wasn’t expecting anyone, he never was. But sometimes the mailman would knock, or the landlord. So groggily he shuffled towards the door and cracked it open just enough to see who was there. He definitely hadn’t been expecting to see you standing there, hair slightly tussled wearing nothing but an oversized sweater and shorts, he really hoped you hadn’t noticed the way his eyes ran down your frame. It took him far too long to realise he had just been staring at you, wondering what you were doing at his door instead of acting like an actual person and speaking to you. You’d done the neighbourly thing and brought him his mail. He was embarrassed to admit the electricity that shot through him when his fingers brushed yours and then again when you said his name. He felt guilty about it at first, how excited he got at the sound of his name on your lips. He hadn’t let himself indulge in anything like that since MJ had made it clear that she wasn’t his anymore. Despite her clear and firm declaration he couldn’t help but feel like he was being disloyal, he had to remind himself that she’d moved on. Maybe he should too. He supposed having a harmless crush on a hot neighbour wasn’t a bad place to start.

-

The weekend came and went without any more run-ins with Peter. You only heard him through the walls, stomping around and keeping you up. The commotion came later than usual this morning. It was 6:15am when the crash came and woke you up only 15 minutes before your alarm was due to go off.

“Awh, how considerate of him.” You mumbled sarcastically, cutting your losses and rolling out of bed, begrudgingly getting ready for the day.

The rain was pouring down hard again this morning, you made sure to grab an umbrella as your work attire of a knee length pencil skirt and a long sleeve button up wouldn’t cut it with keeping you dry.

The walk to your office was only around 15 minutes, you managed to make it without getting soaked. You shook off your umbrella and closed it outside the revolving door then headed to the elevator, pressing the button for the 12th floor once you stepped inside. When the doors opened you saw Gina, sat atop your desk already waiting for you with a huge grin on her face. You made your way towards her, she picked up a steaming take out coffee cup from beside her and held it out to you, “One large dirty chai latte for the queen of my heart.”

You giggled, accepting the cup gratefully and raising an eyebrow, a teasing grin pulling at your lips, “Queen of your heart? How good in bed was this guy?”

She threw her head back, groaned out an exaggerated sigh and clutched her chest, “Otherworldly.”

Nodding in understanding you plopped into your desk chair in front of where she was perched on your desk, taking a sip of your latte, “I thought there were other people going out on Friday, how come I’m getting all the love?”

She shrugged, manicured nails tapping against the white wood of your desk, “Nobody else was actually going, I just said that so you’d come.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, “Y’know you don’t need to lure me out under false pretences, Gina. I’m always up for a girls night out.”

Gina stood from your desk, straightened out her skirt and shot you a wink, “And that’s why you’re my favourite.” She began to walk away, stopping halfway to her desk, pointing at you with determination, “Don’t make any plans for this Saturday, I’m going to make it up to you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” You called back, laughing under your breath at her triumphant smile.

The day dragged in, the same as most Monday’s did when you had no real work to do. You replied to emails, arranged meetings and checked in with Gina every couple of hours. Gina was working on her latest “Dos and Don’ts” column for the magazine, what to wear and what not to wear to a first date, job interview, impress your crush and so on. Your job at the minute was to essentially sound board ideas for her and think up layouts and then send final drafts to the guys upstairs who would then get it ready for print. Eventually you hoped to be able to write your own entries but that was a ways away just yet.

Five o’clock eventually came, you packed up your stuff and strolled towards the elevator where Gina was standing, waiting for you with her jacket folded over one arm. “Wanna grab a drink?”

You shrugged your shoulders, and gave her a soft smile, “I wouldn’t say no to a glass of wine.”

Gina threw an arm around your shoulder and pulled you in, her cheek resting against the top of your head, “You are just too perfect.”

Playfully, you shoved her off, giving her a pointed look, “I usually don’t start telling my friends they’re perfect until after I’ve had a drink.”

She only smiled, holding her hands up in mock surrender, “What can I say? I’m just so full of love.”

“Full of something alright.” You chuckled out, yelping when her bony elbow made light contact with your ribs as she laughed in disbelief.

“Ok well for that comment first rounds on you, little miss.”

-

The bar was barely 10 minutes down the street from the office, thankfully on the way back towards your apartment building. You held your umbrella above both you and Gina as you walked to the bar, your arms linked as she mused about her ‘magical’ night with James from upstairs.

Once you made it to the bar Gina grabbed a table by the window while you headed up to the bar to grab the first round. An aperol spirtz for Gina and a glass of white wine for you. When the drinks were served you made your way back to Gina who was staring out the window, analysing every passer by while absentmindedly twirling a strand of her red hair around her finger.

Sensing your arrival, she brought her gaze back to you with a smile, “So, down to the real business.” She started with a mischievous expression, a small whine left your throat. You knew exactly where this was going.

“James was telling me about one of his friends that works a couple blocks away at that OzCorp place- single of course but more importantly; stupidly attractive.” She explained, wrapping her lips around the black straw bobbing out from her cocktail and taking a sip, her blue eyes never leaving yours.

Narrowing your eyes at her, you picked up your glass and held it in front of your lips, “How stupidly attractive are we talking here?”

Her smile was nearly devilish at your response, her hands immediately fished her phone from her bag, “Let me get a photo.”

You let out a small sigh but couldn’t help smiling, she really got a lot of joy playing Cupid. While she was looking on her phone, presumably texting James for a photo of his friend to show you, you turned to watch the street outside. People walking home after work, umbrellas held high as the rain pelted down. One figure walking down the street caught your attention, no umbrella in his hand, only the black fabric of a hoodie sheltering his brown curls from the rain. Then you realised.

A sharp gasp left your lips and you reached your hand across the table clutching Gina’s forearm, “Oh my god, Gina. In about five seconds look out the window at the guy in the black hoodie.” She immediately turned to the window to look, eyes analysing the stranger you’d pointed out. “Hottie alert.” She murmured against her straw as she took a long sip from her spritz.

“Gina, that’s him,” you whispered as if he would be able to hear you through the glass, “that’s my mysterious neighbour.”

Her eyes widened, smirk catching her lips within a millisecond as she placed her phone screen down on the table, “Well, forget James’ guy. What are we going to do about this?”

You groaned, by this point Peter has passed the window continuing on his way wherever he was headed, thankfully not catching you staring at him like a creep. “I have no idea, he’s pretty elusive. I only just found out his name yesterday.”

Gina hummed, nails tapping against her glass, “He introduce himself?”

You shook your head, “No, I got his mail so I went to give it to him. He was kind of skittish.”

“Drug dealer?” She asked, brows furrowed pulling a laugh from you.

“I thought the same thing at first but I don’t think so, the tiny peak I got into his place gave me the impression he was some sort of tech guy.” You replied, taking another sip of your drink.

“Hmm,” Gina took a long sip, nothing but ice left in her glass now, “He see you all dressed up on Friday?”

A scoff fell from your lips, “Yeah in the elevator ride from hell.”

She grimaced slightly, smile never leaving her lips, “Sorry again… but more importantly what were you wearing?”

You shot her a quizzical look, opening your phone and showing her a mirror selfie you’d taken after finishing getting ready on Friday night.

She pursed her lips and nodded her head enthusiastically, “I don’t think he’ll be elusive for very much longer.”

“Messing around with a neighbour is kinda messy, no?” You countered, smiling despite your logical brain urging you to not go down this line of thinking.

Gina sighed, wistfully, her palms pressed against the sticky wood of the high table, “Does that not make it even better?”

With a giggle you finished your wine, “Listen, I want nothing more than to make you proud, but if I start indulging in thoughts of my neighbour pressing me up against the wall of the elevator I’m never going to be able to look at him in the eye so unless he approaches me I’m keeping my hands to myself.”

“So responsible,” Gina sighed, pouting slightly, “You need to let yourself have some fun, consequences be damned.”

“I’m sure there’s fun I can have without sleeping with my neighbour.” You countered.

Gina only scoffed, “Nobody said you had to sleep with him… though nobody would blame you if you did.”

“Alright, that’s enough. One more glass of wine and I will be knocking on his door asking if I can get some sugar.” You joked, grabbing your bag as Gina did the same.

“If you do just make sure you’re wearing something revealing.” She quipped, giving you a hug as she stood from her chair, “I’m gonna grab a cab, you’re all good to get home from here?”

You hugged her back, “Yeah, my place is just five minutes away I’m all good. I’ll see you in the morning.”

-

Patrol that night was rough, a standard bank robbery had gotten a little out of hand. One of the masked robbers had managed to slash Peter with a knife before he’d managed to web him. It wasn’t anything serious but enough to rip his suit at the shoulder and cut through the first couple of layers of skin.

When he’d gotten back to his apartment window he let himself fall in, making a bigger crash than usual, a loud groan of pain leaving his lips as he landed clumsily against the wooden floor. He found himself listening out for your complaining groan, but what he heard was the sound of your footsteps, followed by the sound of your door opening then a quick flurry of knocks against his own door.

“Shit.” He muttered, quickly pulling his mask off and letting his suit fall to the floor, he clumsily pulled a pair of shorts on while walking towards the door.

When he swung it open you stood there, tired eyes, hair messy fresh from jumping out of bed and in nothing but pyjama shorts and a tank top. He tried his very best not to let his eyes linger on your chest, the cool air of the corridor making sure he knew that you weren’t wearing a bra. A concerned look painted your face.

“Hey, sorry.” You said, voice barely above a whisper, “I just heard you crash a little louder than usual, you okay?”

His heart jumped a little at the care in your voice, it really had been a while. He didn’t think about the gash on his shoulder when he opened his door a little wider. Your tired eyes shooting open wide at the sight of the blood.

“Oh my god, you’re bleeding!” You shouted in a whisper, brows furrowing together with concern, “What happened?”

Peter tried his best to give what he hoped was a reassuring smile, “I’m alright really, please don’t worry. Just clumsy.”

Your brows furrowed even closer together, eyes glaring now. It was a pretty inconvenient time for him to be noticing how pretty they were, he chastised himself silently. You clearly weren’t buying what he was selling.

“Right…” You trailed off, analysing the cut. “You have a first aid kit or something?”

Peter’s face twisted into what was clearly a very fake confidence, his voice raising in pitch, “Pft, yeah! Yeah of course I have one.”

You only raised an eyebrow in response, “You’re a terrible liar.”

“What? No I’m not! I’m not lying!” He defended, trying to keep his voice quiet.

You rolled your eyes at him, “Look I’ve seen it now, I have a first aid kit in my place, just let me help you and then we can both go back to bed.”

He felt his heart drop into his stomach, “That’s really not necessary.”

“Peter,” you huffed out, rubbing your hand down your tired face, “If I know you’re in here bleeding all over the place I’m not going to be able to sleep. And trust me you do not want to be the reason I don’t get at least 6 hours.” You warned, voice low nearly threatening. Was it weird that he kind of liked it?

You threw your arm out pointing a finger in the direction of your door that you hadn’t bothered to close, “Go.”

Peter sighed, though he didn’t know you well he had a feeling there was really no getting out of this one. With a grunt he closed his door behind him and walked towards your open door, stepping in he tried his best not to let the smell of your perfume get to his head. He always liked it. He could always smell it lingering in the hallways after you’d left in the mornings or come back in the evening, it was understandably stronger in your home, mixed with the scented candles that littered the small studio. It was simultaneously comforting and maddening. He realised in that moment that his conclusion that it was ok to have a harmless crush on the girl next door was going to be the death of him.

You reentered behind him and shut the door, motioning him towards the couch and smiled triumphantly when he diligently walked over to it. You couldn’t help but gaze at his bare back as he walked away. Jesus. You physically shook your head, hoping the thoughts of how ridiculous his body was would disappear with the motion. You grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and pulled your green first aid kit down from the top of one of the cabinets. You made your way towards the man on your couch and handed him the bottle of water as you sat down next to him, “Thanks.” He murmured.

“Mhm,” you hummed, already opening the first aid kit and grabbing some disinfectant and a cotton ball, “Sorry, this may sting.” You apologised as you began to wipe the cut clean, it wasn’t too deep that it would need stitches or anything. Thank god, you thought, you’d be way out of your depth if that was the case.

Peter hissed slightly at the contact, his eyes closing for a moment.

As gently as you could you finished wiping down the cut, tossing the bloodied cotton ball onto your coffee table. You picked the bandages out of the box and cut a section the size of the cut, pressing it softly to the wound, and taping the fabric securely against his shoulder letting the palm of your hand linger, unconsciously trying to memorise how the hard plane of his chest felt. Peter all but melted into your touch, the caress of your palm warm and inviting. His eyes hadn’t moved from your face, just inches away from his. Concentration painted your features, your brows in a slight furrow and you lip between your teeth and your eyes locked in on his injured shoulder. He hadn’t even noticed he’d been holding his breath until your eyes flickered up to meet his.

“All done.” Your voice came out in a whisper, eyes drifting down to his lips, only for a second before returning to his warm brown gaze. Neither of you moving.

“Thanks.” He could feel your chest moving against him, slightly brushing his arm from where you sat beside him, feel your breath against his face, smell your shampoo and more importantly hear your pulse racing. Your hand still pressed to his chest. He wanted to kiss you. Truthfully he wanted to do more than just kiss you. But just as he started to entertain the idea of pulling you closer and tasting your lips, your hand slid away from the bandage, grazing his abs lightly before disconnecting. The loss of warmth from your touch immediately leaving him craving for more. You cleared your throat, and shifted away only slightly, “Can I ask you something?”

Peter only nodded, watching your face morph into a nearly anxious expression,”You’re not a drug dealer or something, are you?”

A shocked laugh left his lips, his torso twisting so he could face you fully, a disbelieving smile on his face, “What!?” He lowered his gaze to meet your eyes as you ducked your head out of embarrassment, “You thought I was a drug dealer?”

You held your hands up in surrender, meeting his gaze again the open mouthed smile on his face forcing a melodic laugh from you, “Ok, I’m sorry but you’re always coming in late and crashing around. I just thought maybe you were into some sketchy business.”

He raised his eyebrows, face turning into something softer, “If you thought I was so sketchy how come you came to check on me?” He challenged, his smirk causing you to roll your eyes and lightly nudge his knee with your own.

“Just because you were potentially a drug dealer doesn’t mean that you don’t deserve some neighbourly love.” You teased.

Even as you stood from the couch, Peter couldn’t take his eyes off you, stuck on your laugh that sounded so full. Nothing like the hollow sound he’d been forcing himself to push out for the past four years. Shaking himself from his thoughts he stood from the couch and started towards where you were leaning against your kitchen counter.

“Well… thanks, Y/n.” Peter said, hand already on the door handle. Pulling it open and stepping out into the hallway. You pushed yourself off the counter and faced him in the doorway, smile soft and genuine, inciting a flurry of butterflies in his stomach. “Anytime, Parker.”

“Need me to walk you home?” You joked, stomach flipping as he laughed, throwing his head back without a care in the world. He shook his head smile bright and accent strong, “Think I’ll be alright, sweetheart.”

“Well, if you get injured again you know where I am.” You called out in a singsong tone that made his smile widen as he faced you one last time, one foot through his own doorway.

“Get some sleep. You need your six hours, remember?” With a light roll of your eyes you closed your door.

You all but threw yourself across your room to grab your phone that was charging on your night stand. The clock read 04:45am, without a second thought you went into your messages and tapped on Gina’s name, typing frantically.

“Y/n: You are NEVER going to guess who was just shirtless on my couch…”

-

"That's cute.” You tutt. “You think you get a vote."  Inching closer, you assess the damage with practiced efficiency. Gunshot wound, left side, probably missed anything vital but he's losing blood fast. "Let me see it."

"I said—"

"I heard what you said. I'm ignoring it." You reach for his vest and he catches your wrist. His grip is strong despite the blood loss, which is frankly annoying. "Castle, I swear to God, if you bleed out in this alley because you're too stubborn to accept help, I'm going to resurrect you just to kill you again."

"Kinetic energy manipulation doesn't include resurrection." He balks at the idea, and while he’s fairly certain raising people from the dead is far outside your scope, he’s honestly not too sure you couldn’t accomplish it.

"I'll learn." You yank your wrist free and plant your hands on your hips. "You want me to call an ambulance? Because I will. I'll tell them exactly where the Punisher is, bleeding out like an idiot who thinks he's too tough for basic medical attention."

His dark eyes narrow. "You wouldn't."

"Try me." You would, and Frank knows it. You did it to Matt Murdock two months ago to prove a point, before he finally let you sneak him off into the night to heal him with your powers. 

Stubborn ass grown men, you think to yourself. You don’t even know why you try. 

You stare at each other for a long moment. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails. Frank's breathing is getting shallower, and there's a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead that has nothing to do with the humid summer night.

"Fine," he finally growls. "But not here."

You send him a cheeky, lopsided grin that says, I win. Like always. "Your place or mine?"

"Mine's closer."

"Of course it is. You probably have six safe houses within a three-block radius." You duck under his arm, taking most of his considerable weight. He's heavy, all muscle and Kevlar and weaponry, but you've absorbed enough kinetic energy from the city tonight that you could probably carry a truck. "Try not to bleed on me. This jacket is new."

"It's black." Frank frowns. 

"Blood stains, Castle. Trust me, I know." He huffs at that, but doesn't say anything further.

Even though you've been to a couple of them before, this warehouse is exactly what you'd expect: industrial, sparse, and equipped with enough weapons to stage a small coup. The medical station in the corner is better stocked than some ERs you've seen, which says something deeply concerning about Frank's lifestyle choices.

You dump him onto the metal chair with less grace than strictly necessary. He grunts but doesn't complain, which means he's hurt worse than he's letting on.

"Vest off," you order, already pulling on latex gloves from his supply kit.

"I can do it myself."

"And I can watch you fumble around for twenty minutes while you bleed out, or you can shut up and let me help. Choose quickly,” you tap your foot with mock impatience, “I have a Netflix queue to get back to."

He stays silent and still for a moment before relenting to your request.

"What are you watching?" He asks.

The question surprises you enough that you pause. "Are you seriously making small talk right now?"

He grunts. "You brought it up." Besides, he thinks, anything to distract from the pain. 

You smile. "Okay, if you must know, but you gotta promise not to make fun of me…I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Uh huh, sure kid.”

“The Great British Bake Off,” you respond. “It’s very soothing. No one gets shot." You start unfastening his vest with efficient movements. "Unlike some people I know who apparently think they're bulletproof."

Frank huffs out a breath. "Tonight wasn't supposed to go down like that."

"It never is." You peel back the vest and his shirt, revealing the wound. It's ugly but clean—through and through, like you thought. "You're lucky. Missed everything important."

"Lucky. Right."

"Relatively speaking." You grab gauze and antiseptic, your movements automatic. You've done this too many times, for too many people. Frank's just the most frequent patient. "This is going to hurt."

"It already hurts." He says with a grimace.

Your eyes bore into his with a deadpan expression. "It's going to hurt more."

You clean the wound with quick, practiced efficiency. Frank doesn't flinch, doesn't make a sound, which is somehow more unsettling than if he'd screamed. You've seen him take damage that would drop most men, and he just keeps going like some kind of terminator. It’s alarming really. 

"You know," you say, because the silence is getting heavy, "most people would say thank you."

"Most people don't break into my safe house whenever they please and threaten to call ambulances."

You scoff. "I’ve never broken in. The door’s been unlocked."

He rebukes that. "The door is never unlocked."

"Then you're losing your touch, old man." You finish cleaning and sit back, studying the wound. It needs stitches, proper medical attention, and antibiotics. Or... "I could heal it, ya know."

"No."

The response is immediate and sharp. You raise an eyebrow. "That's a lot of conviction for someone who's bleeding all over his nice metal chair."

"I don't need—"

"Your powers.” You mock his tone with the best Frank Castle impression you can muster. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You've made that very clear." You strip off the gloves and toss them aside. "Fine. Enjoy your stitches and your recovery time and your inevitable infection because you're too stubborn to accept help."

You turn to leave, and his voice stops you. "Wait."

You look back. Frank's watching you with those dark, unreadable eyes, and for a moment something flickers across his face. Something that might be concern, or curiosity, or just exhaustion.

"Why do you keep doing this?" he asks.

"Doing what?"

He gives you a look that says c'mon kid, don't play dumb with me. But you're not buying what he's selling; if he wants a real answer out of you, he's going to have to give you a real question to answer.

He elaborates. "Showing up. Patching me up. You don't owe me anything."

You lean against the workbench, crossing your arms. "Maybe I like the company."

"I'm terrible company." He replies, jaw clenching at the idea of anyone willingly choosing to spend their time with him.

"True. But you're also the only person I know who can keep up with me, and who doesn’t flinch when I accidently blow stuff up.”

His mouth twitches. It's not quite a smile, but it's close. "That was one time." Kinetic energy can get pretty messy.

"It was three times." You admit.

"The third one doesn't count. That mailbox was asking for it."

You laugh despite yourself. "See? Terrible company, but occasionally amusing." You push off the bench. "Let me heal it, Castle. You'll be back to your murder spree by morning."

"It's not a murder spree.” He grumbles. “It's the job."

"Whatever makes you feel better man.” You move closer, and this time he doesn't stop you. "This is going to feel weird."

"Everything about you feels weird."

You grin toothily. "Flatterer."

You place your hands over the wound, and the familiar tingle of power flows through your palms. Kinetic energy is everywhere—in the vibration of the building, the movement of air, the beating of hearts. You pull it in, redirect it, reshape it into something that can knit flesh and seal wounds.

The bullet hole begins to close, tissue regenerating at an accelerated rate. Frank watches with a frown, like he's trying to figure out a puzzle he doesn't have all the pieces to.

What he doesn't see is the way your jaw tightens. The way your breathing goes shallow. The way every nerve in your side suddenly screams with phantom pain as his injury transfers to you, the price of healing written in agony across your own body.

You're good at hiding it. Years of practice have taught you how to mask the pain, how to smile through it, how to act like taking on someone else's suffering is no big deal.

"There," you say, pulling back. Your hands are steady. Your voice is light. "Good as new." It hurts like hell, but you’d never admit it. 

Frank looks down at his side, at the smooth, unmarred skin where a bullet hole was moments ago. Every time you do this for him he's just as surprised. "How—"

You put a finger to your lips and let out a light shushing sound. "Trade secret." You turn away before he can see the way you're holding yourself too carefully, the slight tremor in your legs. "Try not to get shot again for at least a week. I have a very busy schedule of eating takeout and judging people's fondant work."

"Kinetic." He calls you by your mutant name. He knows your real one, just like you know his—but he hardly ever uses it. 

You pause at the door. "Yeah?"

"Thank you."

You glance back, surprised. Frank's still sitting in the chair, watching you with an expression you can't quite read. The harsh warehouse lights cast shadows across his face, making him look older, more tired. But still handsome.

"Don't mention it," you say. And when he goes to say something else, you put a hand up to stop him. "Seriously. Don't. Like I said, I have a reputation to maintain."

You leave before he can respond, before he can ask questions you don't want to answer. The pain in your side is a living thing now, sharp and hot and demanding attention. You make it three blocks before you have to stop, leaning against a wall and breathing through the worst of it.

Worth it, you tell yourself. It's always worth it.

Even if Frank Castle will never know the price you pay.

Three days later, you're on a rooftop in Hell's Kitchen, eating a truly mediocre bodega sandwich and watching the city breathe. New York at night is a living thing, all light and sound and movement. Kinetic energy in its purest form, just as you like it.

"You're in my spot." Well there goes your peace and quiet. 

You don't turn around. "Your spot? I don't see your name on it."

Frank moves to stand beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. He's wearing his usual black on black on black, because apparently the man owns no other colors.

"How's the side?" you ask.

"Fine."

"No pain? No stiffness?"

"Nothing." He's quiet for a moment. "It's like it never happened."

"That's kind of the point of healing." You take another bite of your sandwich, making a face. "God, this is terrible. Why do I keep going to that bodega?"

Frank’s lip curves in what dares to be a smile. "Because it's the only one open at 2 AM."

"Fair point." You offer him half. "Want some?"

He grimaces, brow quirked in mild disgust at the sight of it. "I'm good."

"Your loss. This mediocre sandwich could have been our mediocre sandwich."

He almost smiles again. You're getting better at making that happen. "What are you doing up here?" He asks. 

"Same thing you are. Watching. Waiting. Pretending we have our lives together."

"I don't pretend." He nearly scoffs.

"No, you just brood dramatically while wearing enough weapons to invade a small country." You crumple up the sandwich wrapper. "Sure, there's a difference, but it's subtle."

Frank leans against the ledge, his shoulder almost touching yours. "You hear about the shipment coming through the docks?"

"The one with enough illegal weapons to make your collection look like a toy store? Yeah, I heard."

His voice is gruff when he responds: "I'm going to hit it tomorrow night."

"Of course you are." You glance at him. "You want backup?"

"I work alone."

"And yet you're telling me about it."

His jaw tightens. "I'm not asking for help."

"Good, because I wasn't offering. I was just going to show up and steal your thunder." You stretch, feeling the residual ache in your side from healing him. It's faded to a dull throb, manageable, but still pestering and annoying. "What time?"

"Midnight." He replies.

You tease, "I'll bring snacks."

Frank frowns, wondering if everything has to be a joke with you. "This isn't a social event."

"Everything's a social event if you have the right attitude." You turn to face him fully. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you don't get shot again. I'm starting to think you do it on purpose just to see me."

"That's not—" He stops, and something flickers across his face. "I don't get shot on purpose."

"Could've fooled me. You have a real talent for finding bullets with your body."

"It's not a talent." He grunts. “I don’t enjoy getting shot.”

"Then maybe you should consider a career change. I hear accounting is nice. Very low bullet risk."

He turns to you with a glint in his eye, gruffly mumbling, "See for that, I'd rather get shot."

You laugh, and the sound echoes across the rooftop. "This is why we're friends."

"We're not friends." Is his response. 

"Partners?"

"No." He says.

"Colleagues?"

"Definitely not."

You contemplate your reply, tapping your index finger to your bottom lip in pensive thought. "How about: Two people who keep ending up in the same place at the same time and occasionally prevent each other from dying?"

Frank considers this. "I’d say that's slightly more accurate."

"Catchy. We should get t-shirts." You hop up onto the ledge, balancing easily. The kinetic energy of the city hums through your bones, ready to catch you if you fall. "You know what your problem is, Castle?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me."

He right, you are. "You take everything too seriously. Life, death, justice, vengeance. You need to learn to relax."

Frank doesn’t understand you. "Relaxing gets people killed."

"So does stress. Heart disease is a real thing, ya know?" You walk along the ledge like it's a tightrope, arms out for balance even though you don't need it. "When's the last time you did something fun?"

He frowns. "I have fun."

"Shooting people doesn't count."

"Then never."

You stop, looking down at him. He's watching you with that intense focus he applies to everything, like you're a problem he's trying to solve. "That's sad, Frank. Genuinely sad."

"I'm not here to have fun. I'm here to do a job."

"And when the job's done?"

"There's always another job."

You jump down, landing in front of him, your boots thumping on the concrete of the roof. You're close now, close enough to see the scars on his face, the permanent tension in his shoulders, the weight he carries in his eyes.

"That's no way to live," you say quietly.

He considers lying to you, or doing what you do and deflecting with humour, but he doesn’t, "It's the only way I know." He says. 

For a moment, neither of you moves. The city sounds fade into background noise—sirens, traffic, the distant thump of music from a club. It's just you and Frank and the space between you that feels charged with something you're not ready to name.

Then your phone buzzes, shattering the moment.

You step back, checking the message. "Spider-boy needs help in Queens. Something about lizard people."

Frank actually chuckles. "It's always something with him."

"He's young. He'll learn. And at least he asks me for help." Frank knows that was a direct shot at him. You pocket your phone. "Midnight tomorrow. Don't start without me."

Frank grunts a reply. "I'm not waiting for you."

"Yes, you are." You head for the fire escape, then pause. "Hey, Castle?"

"What?"

"Try not to get shot between now and then. I'm running low on patience for your self-destructive bullshit."

He sighs. "I'll take it under advisement."

You flip him off cheerfully and drop over the edge, using absorbed kinetic energy to slow your fall. Behind you, you hear something that might be a laugh, but when you look back, Frank's already gone.

The dock job goes sideways in the way these things always do.

You're crouched behind a shipping container, breathing hard, while bullets ping off the metal around you. Frank's somewhere to your left, returning fire with the kind of calm precision that would be attractive if it wasn't so deeply concerning.

"This is going great!" you shout over the gunfire. "Really well planned!"

"Shut up and stay down!"

"I am down! I'm very down! I'm practically horizontal!" You gather kinetic energy from the impacts around you, feeling it build in your palms like static electricity. "How many are there?"

"Too many." He's clearly annoyed. He'd miscalculated and now he's paying for it.

"That's not a number, Castle!"

A bullet whizzes past your head, close enough that you feel the displacement of air. You pop up, release the stored energy in a concentrated blast, and watch three guys go flying backward like they've been hit by an invisible truck.

"Okay, that felt good," you mutter.

"On your six!"

You spin, but you're not fast enough. The guy's already there, gun raised, finger on the trigger. Time seems to slow. You're gathering energy but you won't make it, you won't—

The gunshot is deafening.

The guy drops, a red bloom spreading across his chest. Frank's there suddenly, his gun still raised, his face grim.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah. Thanks." Your heart is hammering. "That was close."

"Too close. You're getting sloppy kid."

Your eyes widen at him incredulously. "I'm getting sloppy? You're the one who said there'd be a dozen guys!"

"I said approximately a dozen."

"There are at least twenty!"

"That's still approximately—" He doesn't want to admit he was wrong...especially not to you.

"Oh my God,” You can’t believe him…you truly can’t believe him. Clearly this guy doesn’t care an ounce about either of your safety, “are you seriously arguing math right now?"

More gunfire erupts, cutting off whatever Frank was going to say. You both move in sync, a dance you've done enough times that it's almost choreographed. Frank provides cover fire while you flank, using kinetic blasts to disarm and disable. It's brutal and efficient and over in minutes.

The silence after is almost jarring.

"Everyone down?" you ask, checking the perimeter.

"Everyone down."

"Dead or unconscious?"

He balks at that. "Does it matter?"

"To the police report, yes." You spot Frank's limp. "You're hurt."

"I'm fine."

You shake your head in disappointment. "You're clearly limping."

"It's nothing."

You cross to him, and he tries to wave you off, but you're already seeing it—blood seeping through his pants leg, a knife wound by the look of it.

"Sit," you order.

"I can walk it off."

"Sit, or I'll use kinetic energy to make you sit, and that'll be embarrassing for both of us." It'd be way more embarrassing for him, you think, but you've got to appease to his ego some way or another.

He sits, mostly because arguing takes energy he doesn't have. A small part of him though, enjoys when you order him around, not that Frank would ever say that aloud. You kneel beside him, examining the wound. It's deep but clean, the kind of cut that'll hurt like hell but won't kill him.

"This is becoming a habit," you say.

"You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to. I'm going to anyway." You place your hands over the wound. "Brace yourself."

The healing energy flows, and with it comes the pain. It's sharp and immediate, a hot knife dragging through your own thigh. You breathe through it, keeping your expression neutral, focusing on knitting Frank's flesh back together.

"There," you say when it's done, pulling back. Your leg throbs in sympathy. "Good as new."

Frank looks down at his leg, then up at you. "How do you do that?"

"Very carefully." You stand, testing your weight on the leg that isn't really injured. "We should go before the cops show up."

"Wait." Frank catches your wrist. "Your hands are shaking."

"Adrenaline." You tell him.

"You don’t look so good."

"It's nighttime. And we just got shot at by about two dozen men—who looks good after that?"

"Kinetic—"

"We need to go, Castle. Now."

You pull free and start walking, ignoring the way your leg wants to give out. Behind you, Frank follows, and you can feel his eyes on you, questioning, suspicious.

You're three blocks away when a familiar figure drops from above, landing in a crouch that's far too graceful for someone who's been through what he has.

"Hey, guys!" Peter Parker says brightly, straightening up. His Spider-Man suit is torn in places, and there's what looks like green slime on his shoulder. "Fancy meeting you here!"

"Spider-Man," Frank says flatly. "What do you want?"

"Just checking in on my favourite dysfunctional crime-fighting couple!" Peter swings closer, and even through the mask you can tell he's grinning. "How was date night? Lots of gunfire and property damage, I'm guessing?"

"It wasn't a date," you say.

"We're not a couple," Frank adds.

"Sure, sure. And I'm not currently covered in sewer lizard goo." Peter looks between you. "You know, for two people who claim to hate each other, you sure spend a lot of time together."

"We don't hate each other," you say.

"And we're not together," Frank insists.

"Right. You're just two emotionally constipated vigilantes who keep saving each other's lives and definitely don't have any feelings whatsoever." Peter shoots a web at a nearby building. "Totally normal. Very believable." If he wasn’t wearing a mask, you could have sworn you’d seen him wink.

"Don't you have actual Spider-Man things to do?" you ask. "Crimes to stop? Lizards to fight?"

"Already done! Dr. Connors is back in custody, the sewers are slightly less dangerous, and I have the rest of the night free to bother you two." He swings in a lazy circle around you. "So, what's the deal? Are you guys partners? Friends with benefits? Enemies with benefits?"

"We're leaving," Frank says.

"Ooh, together? To whose place?"

"Parker—"

"I'm just saying, if you're going to do the whole 'will they won't they' thing, maybe speed it up? Some of us have been watching this dance for months and it's getting old."

You can't help but laugh. "Months?"

"Oh yeah. You should hear what the other heroes say.” You know he means Yelena Belova, she’s just about the only other hero Peter keeps up with, except for maybe Daredevil, but you’re not quite sure they’ve been introduced yet. “There's a betting pool and everything."

Frank's expression could curdle milk. "A betting pool."

"Daredevil thinks you'll get together by Christmas. Yelena says never. I'm optimistic—I've got money on next month." There he goes proving you wrong—he does know more people than you thought. You're going to have to have a little chat with Matt Murdock about respecting people's privacy.

Peter lands on a fire escape, hanging upside down. "No pressure though!"

"I'm going to shoot him," Frank says.

"You're not going to shoot him. The last time you did that, you almost killed him, and you were sick about it for weeks.”

Frank's expression drops just a smidge. He remembers everything that happened with Jean Grey, not fondly, at all. "I'm seriously considering it." He settles on. But you and he both know he would never.

"You consider it every time you see him. You never follow through." You look up at Peter. "What are you really doing here, Spider-boy?"

Peter's tone shifts, becoming more serious. "Making sure you're both okay. That dock situation was messy. I was in the area and heard the gunfire."

"We're fine," you say.

"You sure? Because you're favouring your left leg and Frank looks like he wants to murder me more than usual, which means something's up."

You exchange a glance with Frank. Peter's observant—too observant sometimes. It's easy to forget that under the quips and the jokes, he's a genuinely skilled hero.

"We're fine," Frank repeats. "Go home, Parker."

"Fine, fine. I can take a hint." Peter shoots another web, preparing to swing away. "But seriously, you two should talk. About feelings and stuff. It's healthy."

"I'm definitely shooting him," Frank mutters.

"No you're not!" Peter calls back, already swinging away. "Love you too, Dad!"

The silence after he leaves is heavy.

"Did he just—" you start.

"Don't," Frank says warningly.

You quip. "That’s so cute! He called you Dad."

"I said don't."

You're grinning now, you can't help it. "That's amazing. You're Spider-Dad."

Frank fights the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm not anyone's dad."

"You kind of are though. You do the whole protective disapproving thing really well."

He looks at you unimpressed. "I disapprove of everyone equally."

"Especially me?"

Frank looks at you, and something in his expression softens. "No. Not especially you."

The moment stretches, charged with something unspoken. Your leg is still throbbing, a phantom pain that isn't really yours, and you're suddenly very aware of how close Frank is standing.

"We should go," you say finally. "Before any more heroes show up to psychoanalyze our relationship."

"We don't have a relationship."

"Right. We're just two people who keep saving each other and definitely don't have any feelings whatsoever."

Frank's mouth twitches. "You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"Not even a little bit." You start walking, and this time when your leg wobbles, Frank's there, his hand on your elbow, steadying you.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah. Just tired."

He doesn't let go immediately, and you don't pull away. You walk like that for half a block, his hand on your arm, your shoulders almost touching, before the moment breaks and you separate.

But something's shifted. Something's changed.

And you're pretty sure Frank felt it too.

It's been a week since the dock job, and you've patched Frank up twice more. Once for a broken rib (courtesy of a particularly aggressive mob enforcer), and once for a concussion (courtesy of Frank's own reckless disregard for personal safety).

Each time, you've taken the pain. Each time, you've hidden it.

But Frank's starting to notice things.

You don't know this yet. You're too busy trying to convince him that yes, he does need to rest after being thrown through a window, and no, "walking it off" is not a valid medical strategy.

"You're being ridiculous," Frank says. He's sitting on his warehouse couch—which you're pretty sure he's never actually slept on—while you hover nearby with an ice pack.

"I'm being responsible. There's a difference." You press the ice pack to the bruise blooming on his temple. "You could have a serious concussion."

"I've had worse."

"That's not the reassurance you think it is."

"I'm fine." He tries again in a way that only he could make sound so not convincing.

"Frank,” you place your hands firmly on your hips. “You threw up twice."

"That's just nausea."

"From the concussion!"

Frank catches your wrist, stopping your fussing. His grip is gentle but firm, and when you meet his eyes, there's something searching in his gaze.

He's going back to old habits, curiosity getting the better of him, and so as he always does, he asks you: "Why do you do this?"

"Do what? Try to keep you from dying of your own stupidity?"

"Care. About what happens to me."

The question catches you off guard, even though it's not like it something he's never asked you before in seventeen different ways. You try to pull away, but he doesn't let go. He’s already done this to you several times before, and each time you deflect.

"Someone has to," you say lightly. "You're certainly not going to do it."

"That's not an answer." He responds. 

"It's the only answer you're getting." You tug your wrist free. "Now hold this ice pack and try not to do anything stupid for the next twenty-four hours."

Frank’s brow furrows, like he’s not sure that’s something he’s capable of doing. "That's a long time." He says. 

"I have faith in you. Minimal faith, but still."

You turn to leave, and that's when it happens. Your leg—the one that took his knife wound last week—gives out. Just for a second, just a slight buckle, but it's enough.

Frank's on his feet instantly, concussion forgotten. "What was that?"

"Nothing. Slipped."

"You didn't slip. Your leg gave out." Worry laces his cadence.

You puff out a breath. "I'm tired. It's been a long night."

But Frank's not buying it. You can see the wheels turning in his head, pieces clicking into place. He's looking at you differently now, really looking, and you don't like what he might be seeing.

"How long has your leg been bothering you?" he asks.

"It hasn't." You protest.

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not—"

He doesn’t believe you in the slightest…you’re a terrible liar, he thinks. "You've been favouring it since the docks. Since you healed my knife wound." His eyes narrow. "Show me."

"Frank—"

"Show me."

There's no arguing with that tone. Reluctantly, you roll up your pant leg, revealing the faint scar on your thigh. It's in the exact same place Frank's wound was, a mirror image of damage that was never really yours.

Frank stares at it. Then at you. Then back at the scar.

"That's where I was cut," he says slowly.

"Coincidence?" You squeak, shrugging your shoulders in surrender. 

"Bullshit." He moves closer, and you resist the urge to back away. "What did you do?"

"I healed you. You know this."

"How? How does your healing work?"

You're quiet for a long moment. Then, quietly: "It transfers."

"Transfers what?" He’s never been more serious about a question in his life. 

You relent, lying to him seeming less and less worth it as the minutes go by. "The damage. The pain. When I heal someone, I take on their injuries. Not the physical wound, but the pain of it. The body's memory of trauma." You meet his eyes. "It fades faster than a real injury would, but it's there. For a while."

Frank's face goes through several expressions—confusion, realization, and then something that might be horror.

"Every time you've healed me," he says slowly, "you've taken on my pain."

You shrug. "It's not a big deal."

"Not a big—" He stops, running a hand over his face. "The gunshot. The broken rib. The concussion. You've been walking around with all of that?"

"It fades. I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're—" He looks at you like he's seeing you for the first time. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you wouldn't have let me help if you knew."

"You're damn right I wouldn't have!"

"Exactly. And you needed help, Frank. You need help." You pull your pant leg down. "So I helped. That's what people do."

He looks betrayed, dark eyes wide with regret. "Not like this. Not by hurting themselves."

You scoff at him. "You hurt yourself every single night. How is this different?"

"It's different because—" He stops, jaw working. "It just is." He can’t come up with anything better. 

"That’s a compelling argument, Frank."

"Don't." His voice is rough. "Don't make jokes about this."

You've never seen Frank like this—angry, yes, but not at you. Never at you. There's something raw in his expression, something vulnerable that he usually keeps locked away.

"I'm sorry," you say quietly. "I should have told you."

"Yeah. You should have." He sits back down, heavily, like his legs won't hold him anymore. "No more healing."

"Frank—"

"I mean it. No more. I won't have you hurting yourself for me."

"That's not your choice to make."

Now it’s his turn to scoff. "Like hell it isn't."

You move to sit beside him, close enough that your shoulders touch. "You don't get to decide what I do with my powers. Or who I use them on."

His eyes narrow. "Even if it's killing you?"

"It's not killing me.” You reply with a deep sigh. You’re used to it, it’s all you’ve ever known. “It's just pain Castle. I can handle pain."

"You shouldn't have to."

"Neither should you. But here we are." You lean your head on his shoulder, a gesture that surprises both of you. "We're both idiots, Frank. We're both self-destructive and stubborn and terrible at accepting help. The only difference is I'm slightly better at hiding it."

He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "How long does it last? The pain?"

"Depends on the injury. Small stuff, a few hours. Bigger things, a few days. The gunshot took almost a week to fully fade."

"A week." He sounds sick. "You were in pain for a week and I didn't even notice."

"I didn't want you to notice. That was kind of the point."

"Why?" He turns to look at you, and you're struck by how close his face is. "Why would you do that?"

Because I care about you, you think. Because seeing you hurt is worse than any pain I could take on. Because somewhere along the way, this stopped being about helping a fellow vigilante and started being about something else entirely.

But you don't say any of that. Instead, you say: "Because someone has to look out for you. And I'm apparently volunteering."

Frank's hand comes up, cupping your face with a gentleness that seems impossible from someone so violent. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, and you can feel the calluses, the evidence of a life lived in combat.

"You're an idiot," he says softly.

"Takes one to know one."

"I'm serious. You can't keep doing this."

"Watch me."

"(Y/n)—" He calls you by your real name this time…and it feels foreign on his tongue just as it sounds out of place for you. But something about it has your heart beating a little quicker than before. 

"Frank." You cover his hand with yours. "I know what I'm doing. I know the cost. And I'm choosing to pay it. You don't get to take that choice away from me."

He looks like he wants to argue, but something in your expression stops him. Instead, he just sits there, his hand on your face, your hand on his, while the warehouse settles around you.

"I don't want you to hurt for me," he says finally.

"Too late. I already do."

You mean it as a joke, but it comes out too honest, too raw. Frank's eyes search yours, and you wonder what he sees there. What you're accidentally revealing.

"You should go," he says, but he doesn't move his hand.

"Probably."

"Get some rest. Let yourself heal."

"You too."

"I will."

You raise a brow at him. "Liar."

His mouth twitches. "Yeah."

You stand, and immediately your leg protests, a sharp reminder of the knife wound that isn't really there. Frank notices—of course he notices, now that he knows what to look for.

"Let me—" he starts.

"I'm fine. It's a few blocks."

"You can barely walk."

"I can walk fine. I'm just doing it slowly. Very deliberately slowly."

"That's not a thing."

"It is now." You head for the door, then pause. "Frank?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For caring. Even if you're being annoying about it."

You leave before he can respond, but you feel his eyes on you all the way out.

You don't see Frank for three days after that, which is unusual. Normally he's getting into trouble every other night, requiring your intervention and/or healing services.

The absence is noticeable. Concerning, even.

You tell yourself you're not worried. Frank Castle can take care of himself. He's been doing it for years. He doesn't need you hovering.

But on the fourth night, you find yourself on his rooftop anyway, eating Chinese takeout and pretending you're not waiting for him.

"You're in my spot again."

You don't jump, because you heard him coming. "It's a good spot. You have excellent taste in brood locations."

Frank moves to stand beside you, and you notice he's moving normally. No limp, no stiffness. Either he hasn't been in any fights, or he has and he's hiding it.

"You've been quiet," you say.

"Been busy."

"Busy avoiding me?"

He shakes his head in protest. "Busy working."

"Uh-huh." You offer him a container of lo mein. "Hungry?"

"I'm good."

"You're never good. You're just varying degrees of not-good." You shake the container. "Eat. You look like you haven't had a real meal in days." As if what you’re eating could be classified as a real meal…but hey, beggars can’t be choosers. 

He takes the container, which is progress. You eat in silence for a while, watching the city lights.

"I've been thinking," Frank says finally.

"That’s dangerous."

He tilts his head slightly to the left, eyes narrowing at you. You relent and let him talk. "About what you said. About taking on pain."

You tense. "Frank—"

"I did some research. Talked to some people who know about mutant powers." Dr. Banner, you assume. Via Peter Parker, you guess.

"You talked to people about me?"

"I didn't use your name. But yeah." He sets down the container. "Apparently, what you're doing—taking on that much pain, that frequently—it's not sustainable."

"I'm fine."

"You're not. The pain might fade, but it leaves traces. Phantom damage. Your body remembers, even if the wounds aren't real." He turns to face you. "Keep doing it, and eventually your body won't know the difference between phantom pain and real pain. You'll break down."

You're quiet, because you know he's right. You've felt it—the way the pain lingers longer each time, the way your body is starting to protest. But admitting it means stopping, and stopping means watching Frank get hurt without being able to help.

"I'll be careful," you say.

"That's not good enough."

"It's going to have to be."

"No. It's not." Frank's voice is hard. "I won't let you destroy yourself for me."

You push back. He's not the only one you help...but he's becoming the most important. "You don't get a say in this."

He doesn’t like that answer…it feels like a cop out. "Like hell I don't."

You stand, anger flaring. "What do you want from me, Frank? You want me to just watch you bleed out? Watch you take damage that I could prevent? I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because—" You stop, the words catching in your throat.

"Because what?"

Because I care about you. Because the thought of you dying makes me feel like I'm the one bleeding out. Because somewhere in all this violence and pain and stubbornness, I fell for you, and I don't know how to stop.

But you can't say that. So instead you say: "Because it's what I do. I help people. It's my thing."

Frank still can’t understand you. After months of knowing you the way he has, he still can't get it. "This isn't helping. This is self-destruction with extra steps."

"Oh, that's rich coming from you. The king of self-destruction."

"That's different."

You scoff. "How? How is it different?"

"Because I'm not worth it!" The words explode out of him, raw and angry. "I'm not worth you hurting yourself. I'm not worth saving."

The silence after is deafening.

Frank's breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists. You've never seen him like this—not angry, but something deeper. Something that looks like pain.

"You don't get to decide that," you say quietly.

"It's my life."

"And it's my choice. My power. My decision." You step closer. "You don't get to tell me you're not worth saving, Frank. You don't get to make that call."

"You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly." Your eyes try to meet his, but he avoids your gaze. "You think you're beyond redemption. You think you deserve every bullet, every knife, every broken bone. You think pain is penance." You're right in front of him now, close enough to see the scars on his face, the weight in his eyes. "But you're wrong."

His face falls, "You don't know what I've done."

"I know enough.” you say. “I know you're trying to make the world safer. I know you protect people who can't protect themselves. I know you're a good man doing bad things for the right reasons." You reach up, cupping his face the way he did yours. "And I know you're worth saving. Even if you don't believe it."

Frank's eyes close, and for a moment he just stands there, leaning into your touch like a man starved for gentleness.

"I can't ask you to keep doing this," he says.

"You're not asking. I'm offering."

"It's going to hurt you."

"I know." You respond. You've always known that.

"It might break you."

"I know that too."

He opens his eyes, and there's something in them you've never seen before. Something vulnerable and terrified and hopeful all at once.

"Why?" he asks again. "Why would you do that?"

You could lie. You could deflect, make a joke, change the subject. But you're tired of hiding, tired of pretending this is just about helping a fellow vigilante.

"Because I care about you, you idiot," you say. "Because seeing you hurt is worse than any pain I could take on. Because I—"

You stop, but it's too late. The words are already out there, hanging in the air between you.

Frank stares at you. "You what?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

"No. Say it." It almost feels like he's begging you to say something...and that's so unlike him.

"Frank—"

"Say it."

You take a breath. "Because I love you. Okay? I love you, and I know that's stupid and complicated and probably a terrible idea, but there it is. I love you, and I'm going to keep healing you, and you're just going to have to deal with it."

The silence stretches. Frank's expression is unreadable, and you're starting to think you've made a terrible mistake when he moves.

His hands come up to frame your face, and then he's kissing you.

It's not gentle. It's desperate and fierce and tastes like lo mein and poor life choices. You make a surprised sound against his mouth, but then you're kissing him back, your hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard.

"That was—" you start.

"Yeah."

"Does this mean—"

"Yeah."

"You're very articulate right now."

"Shut up." But he's smiling, really smiling, and it transforms his whole face. "You're an idiot."

"You already said that."

"It bears repeating." He kisses you again, softer this time. "You can't keep taking on my pain."

"We'll figure something out."

Frank eyes you up and down. "I'm serious." He says.

"So am I. We'll be careful. We'll find a balance." You rest your forehead against his. "But I'm not stopping, Frank. I'm not walking away."

"Even though I'm a disaster?"

"Especially because you're a disaster. Someone needs to keep you alive."

"And that someone is you?"

You smile. "Apparently."

He laughs, and the sound is rusty but genuine. "We're both idiots."

"Yeah. But at least we're idiots together."

You stay like that for a long moment, wrapped up in each other, the city sprawling below you. It's not perfect. It's messy and complicated and probably going to end badly.

But right now, with Frank's arms around you and his heart beating against yours, it feels right.

Two weeks later, everything goes to hell.

You're in an abandoned factory in Brooklyn, because of course you are. Frank got a tip about a major weapons deal going down, and despite your protests, he insisted on checking it out.

"This is a bad idea," you say for the third time.

"Noted."

"I'm serious, Frank. This feels wrong."

"It always feels wrong. That's how you know it's worth doing."

You can’t even argue with him at this point…it doesn’t make any sense. "That's the worst logic I've ever heard."

Frank checks his gun, his movements efficient and practiced. "You don't have to be here."

"Yes, I do. Someone needs to patch you up when this inevitably goes sideways."

He mumbles into his vest, voice low. "Your confidence is inspiring."

"I'm a realist." You peer around the corner, scanning the factory floor. There are too many guys, too many guns, too many ways this can go wrong. "We should call for backup."

"Like who? Spider-Man?"

"He'd come if we asked."

"I'm not asking a kid for help."

"He's not a kid anymore, Frank. He's been through hell and back."

"Exactly. Which is why I'm not dragging him into this."

You want to argue, but there's no time. The deal is going down now, and Frank's already moving, silent as a shadow.

You follow, because what else are you going to do? Let him face this alone?

The first few minutes go smoothly. Frank takes out three guys before anyone realizes they're under attack. You provide support, using kinetic blasts to disarm and disable. It's a dance you've done before, violent and efficient.

Then someone hits the alarm.

Suddenly the factory is flooded with light and sound and way too many armed men. You and Frank are separated in the chaos, and you lose sight of him in the crowd.

"Frank!" you shout, but your voice is lost in the gunfire.

You fight your way through, taking down anyone who gets in your way. Your powers are singing, kinetic energy flowing through you like electricity. You're absorbing impacts, redirecting force, turning the enemy's own momentum against them.

But there are too many. For every one you drop, two more appear.

You finally spot Frank across the factory floor. He's surrounded, fighting with the kind of brutal efficiency that would be beautiful if it wasn't so terrifying. But even he can't fight off this many.

You see the knife before he does.

Time seems to slow as one of the guys gets behind Frank, blade raised. You're too far away, you won't make it, you—

You release every bit of kinetic energy you've been storing, a massive blast that sends everyone flying. The recoil hits you like a truck, and you go down hard, your head cracking against concrete.

The world goes fuzzy. You can hear shouting, gunfire, and the sound of fighting. You try to get up, but your body won't cooperate.

Then Frank's there, his face above yours, his hands on your shoulders.

"Stay down," he orders.

"You're okay," you manage. Your voice sounds distant, strange.

"I'm fine. You're not." He's checking you over, his movements urgent. "You're bleeding."

"'S not that bad."

Frank disagrees. "You have a head wound. That's always bad."

More gunfire. Frank returns it without looking, his aim perfect even while he's focused on you. Bodies drop.

"We need to move," he says.

"Can't. Dizzy."

"Then I'm carrying you."

He scoops you up like you weigh nothing, and you want to protest, but the world is spinning and you can't quite form words. You're vaguely aware of Frank moving, of more gunfire, of the factory falling away behind you.

Then you're outside, the cool night air hitting your face. Frank sets you down carefully, and you can see now that he's hurt too—blood on his shoulder, a cut on his face, moving with the stiffness that means broken ribs.

"You're injured," you say.

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not." You reach for him, trying to summon your healing power, but nothing happens. You're too drained, too hurt. "I can't—"

"Don't. Don't even try." Frank's hands are gentle as he examines your head wound. "You need a hospital."

"No hospitals."

"You have a concussion. Maybe worse."

"So do you."

"Like I said kid,” he takes a few steps forward. “I've had worse."

"That's not—" You stop, because the world is tilting again. "Frank."

"I'm here. I've got you."

You want to heal him. You need to heal him. But your power won't come, and you're so tired, and everything hurts.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

"For what?"

"Can't help you."

"You already did. You saved my life back there." His voice is rough. "That blast—you could have killed yourself."

"But I didn't."

"You could have." He argues.

Your words begin to slur themselves into each other. "Would’ve been worth it."

"No. It's not." He's holding you now, cradling you against his chest. "You're not allowed to die for me. That's not how this works."

"You'd do it for me."

"That's not the same kid."

"How?"

"Because I—" He stops, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely a whisper. "Because I love you too. And I can't lose you."

You smile, even though it hurts. "Took you long enough to say it."

He nearly laughs, despite the gravity of the situation. "You know I'm not good at this."

"I know. 'S okay."

Sirens wail in the distance. Frank tenses, but you put a hand on his chest.

"Stay," you say. "Just for a minute."

He stays.

You drift in and out, aware of Frank's voice, of him talking to someone—Spider-Man, you think, from the sound of the responses. Then you're moving again, being carried, and everything fades to black.

You wake up in Frank's warehouse, which is not where you expected to be.

"You're awake." Peter's face swims into view, the mask pushed up to reveal his concerned expression. "How do you feel?"

You contemplate your answer before you say, "Like I got hit by a truck."

"More like you released enough kinetic energy to level a building. Which, by the way, was incredibly stupid and also kind of awesome."

You try to sit up, and immediately regret it. "Where's Frank?"

"Right here." Frank appears on your other side, and you can see he's been patched up—bandages on his shoulder, his ribs wrapped. "How's your head?"

"Hurts. How's your everything?"

"I've had worse." That seems to be his favourite phrase. 

"You need to find a new line buddy."

Peter looks between you, grinning. "You know, for two people who I heard confessed their love for each other, you're both remarkably bad at the whole tender moment thing."

"We're working on it," you say.

"Clearly." Peter stands, stretching. "Well, I'll leave you two to your emotionally constipated bonding. Try not to do anything stupid while I'm gone."

"No promises," Frank says.

"I know. That's what worries me." Peter pulls his mask down. "Oh, and for the record? I won the betting pool. You're welcome."

He's gone before either of you can respond, swinging out through the skylight.

"There really was a betting pool?" you ask.

"Apparently."

"How much did he win?"

"Does it matter?"

"I want to know how much our relationship is worth in vigilante currency."

Frank's mouth twitches, you swear he's smiling at you softly. "Our relationship."

"Yeah. That's what this is, right?" You reach for his hand. "Unless you want to take back that whole 'I love you' thing."

"Not taking it back." He sits on the edge of the bed—and it is a bed, you realize, not the couch. He must have moved you. "But we need to talk."

"That's never a good start to a conversation."

"I'm serious. What you did back there—"

"Saved your life?"

"Nearly killed yourself." His grip on your hand tightens. "You can't do that again."

"Frank—"

"I mean it. You released too much energy at once. Peter said your heart stopped for almost a minute."

That stops you. "What?"

"You died. Technically. He had to do CPR while I cleared the rest of the factory." Frank's voice is rough. "Do you understand what that was like? Knowing you were dying and I couldn't do anything about it?" You’ve watched Frank nearly die a hundred times before…but the difference is, you always knew you could save him. 

You're quiet, processing his query. You don't remember dying. You just remember the blast, the recoil, and then waking up here.

"I'm sorry," you say finally.

"Don't be sorry. Just don't do it again."

"I can't promise that."

He’s more than serious when he responds with: "Yes, you can."

"No, I can't." You squeeze his hand. "If it comes down to your life or mine, I'm choosing yours. Every time."

"That's not—"

"Fair? No, it's not. But it's the truth." You meet his eyes. "You'd do the same for me."

"That's different." He really needs to find a new line. Or at least add another few to the rotation.

"It's really not."

Frank looks like he wants to argue, but instead he just sighs, running his free hand over his face. "We're both self-sacrificing and too stupid."

"Yeah. But we've established that already." You tug him closer. "Come here."

"You need to rest."

"I need you to stop hovering and sit with me."

He does, carefully arranging himself on the bed beside you. You curl into him, ignoring the protests from your battered body.

"This is nice," you say.

"You have a concussion."

"I'm aware. Still nice."

Frank's arm comes around you, holding you carefully like you might break. "I don't know how to do this."

"Do what?"

"This. Us. Caring about someone."

"You care about people. You care about Peter, even if you won't admit it."

"That's...He's—"

You smile against him. "A kid you've adopted whether you like it or not?"

"I haven't adopted anyone."

"You're literally Spider-Dad. Everyone knows it."

"I'm not—" He stops, and you feel him sigh. "Fine. Maybe I care about the kid. But this is different."

"Because it's romantic?" You tease him.

"Because I could lose you. And I don't know how to handle that."

You shift so you can see his face. "You could lose me anyway. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. Or take on one injury too many. Or just decide I'm tired of your brooding and leave."

"You wouldn't."

"No, I wouldn't. But the point is, you can't protect me from everything. And you can't let fear stop you from living."

"I'm not afraid."

He's quiet for a moment. Then: "Maybe I’m a little afraid."

"That's okay.” You say. “I for one, am terrified."

"Of what?"

"Of this. Of us. Of how much I care about you." You trace the scar on his cheek. "Of losing you."

Frank catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "You're not going to lose me."

"Like I said to you, you can't promise that."

"No. But I can try." He pulls you closer. "We'll figure this out. Together."

"Together," you agree.

You stay like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other, the warehouse quiet around you. It's not perfect. You're both injured, both stubborn, both carrying more baggage than any two people should.

But it's real. And right now, that's enough.

Three weeks later, you're on a rooftop with Frank and Peter, eating pizza and arguing about the best way to take down a human trafficking ring.

"I'm just saying," Peter says around a mouthful of pepperoni, "maybe we don't need to go in guns blazing."

"I never go in guns blazing," Frank says.

"You literally always go in guns blazing."

You laugh, stealing a slice from Peter's box. "He's got you there, Frank."

"Don't encourage him."

"I'm always going to encourage him. He's our son."

Peter chokes on his pizza. "I'm your what?"

"Our son. Didn't you know? We adopted you."

"I'm not that much younger than you!" He points at you. 

"Yeah, and emotionally, you're twelve."

Peter protests. "I'm a mature adult!"

"You have Spider-Man underoos."

"They were a gift!"

Frank is trying very hard not to smile. You can tell because his mouth is doing that thing where it twitches at the corners.

"Anyway," Peter says, recovering, "I think we should do reconnaissance first. Figure out how many guys there are, what kind of security they have."

"Already did that," Frank says.

"Of course you did." Peter looks at you. "Does he ever sleep?"

"Not that I've noticed."

Frank rolls his eyes. "I sleep."

"You close your eyes for twenty minutes and call it a nap."

"That's still sleep."

"That's a blink, Frank. A very long blink."

Peter's grinning now. "You two are so married. You bicker like an old couple."

You huff. "We've been together for three weeks Parker."

"And yet you already have the dynamic down. It's impressive, really."

Frank stands, brushing pizza crumbs off his pants. "If you two are done analyzing my relationship, we have work to do."

"Aw, Dad's grumpy," Peter says.

"I'm not your dad."

"You're totally my dad. You do the disappointed face and everything."

"I don't have a disappointed face."

"You're making it right now!"

You stand, stretching. Your body's mostly healed from the factory incident, though you still get headaches sometimes. Frank's been hovering, which is annoying and also kind of sweet.

"Alright, children," you say. "Let's go save some people."

The operation goes smoothly, which is suspicious. You're used to things going sideways, but tonight everything works exactly as planned. Frank takes out the guards, Peter webs up the traffickers, and you free the victims.

It's almost too easy.

"This feels wrong," you mutter to Frank as you're clearing the last room.

"I know."

"Like, really wrong."

"I know."

"So what do we—"

The explosion cuts you off.

You're thrown backward, your ears ringing. Through the smoke and debris, you can see Frank on the ground, not moving.

No.

You're moving before you think, crawling through the rubble. Your powers are screaming at you, warning of danger, but you don't care. You need to get to Frank.

"Frank!" Your hands find him, and he's breathing, thank God, but there's blood. So much blood. "Frank, stay with me."

His eyes open, unfocused. "Get out."

"Not without you."

He's struggling to breathe. "Building's coming down." His voice is weak.

"Then we'll go down together."

"Don't be stupid."

"Too late. I'm already stupid about you."

Peter appears through the smoke, his suit torn. "We need to move! Now!"

"Help me with him," you say.

Together, you and Peter get Frank up, supporting his weight between you. The building is groaning, supports failing. You can feel it in your bones, the kinetic energy of imminent collapse.

"Go!" Frank shouts. "Both of you, go!"

"Shut up," you and Peter say in unison.

You make it out with seconds to spare, the building collapsing behind you in a cloud of dust and debris. You're all coughing, covered in dirt and blood, but you're alive.

"Everyone okay?" Peter asks.

"Define okay," you say.

Frank's unconscious now, his breathing shallow. You can see the damage—shrapnel wounds, possible internal bleeding. It's bad.

"I need to heal him," you say.

"You can't," Peter says gently. "You're too weak. You'll kill yourself."

"I don't care."

"Yes, you do. And so does he." Peter puts a hand on your shoulder. "Let me call for help. Real help."

"There's no time."

"Then we make time."

You look down at Frank, at his pale face and the blood seeping through his clothes. You could heal him. You could take on his injuries, his pain. But Peter's right—you're too weak. The factory incident took more out of you than you've admitted. Another healing this big might actually kill you.

But letting Frank die isn't an option either.

"I have to try," you say.

"No." Frank's eyes are open now, barely, but there's steel in his voice. "Don't."

"Frank—"

"Promise me. Don't heal me. Not like this."

"I can't just let you—"

"Promise." His voice is firm.

You're crying now, you realize. Tears cutting tracks through the dirt on your face. "I can't lose you."

"You won't. I'm too stubborn to die." He manages a weak smile. "But I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

You want to argue. You want to use your powers anyway, consequences be damned. But the look in Frank's eyes stops you.

"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."

Peter's already on the phone, calling for medical help. You hold Frank's hand, feeling his pulse flutter weakly under your fingers.

"You better not die," you say.

"Wasn't planning on it."

"Good. Because I have a lot of things I want to yell at you about, and I can't do that if you're dead."

"Looking forward to it."

The ambulance arrives, and they take Frank away. You try to follow, but Peter holds you back.

"Let them work," he says.

"I should be with him."

"You will be. But right now, you need to let the professionals handle it."

You watch the ambulance disappear, feeling helpless and useless and terrified.

"He's going to be okay," Peter says.

"You don't know that."

"No. But I believe it. And you should too."

You want to believe him. You really do. But all you can think about is Frank's blood on your hands, and the promise you made not to heal him. And if he dies because you hadn't done anything to save him...you're not sure you could live with yourself.

The hospital waiting room is purgatory.

You've been here for six hours, and there's still no word. Peter left an hour ago to check on the victims from the trafficking ring, promising to come back. You're alone with your thoughts, which is dangerous.

You keep replaying the explosion in your mind. Keep thinking about what you could have done differently. Keep feeling the phantom weight of Frank's hand in yours.

"Family of Frank Castle?"

You're on your feet before the doctor finishes speaking. "That's me."

The doctor looks skeptical—you're covered in dirt and blood and probably look like you've been through a war. Which, technically, you have.

"Are you actually family?" she asks.

"I'm his—" You pause. What are you? Girlfriend sounds too casual. Partner is too vague. "I'm his person. How is he?"

The doctor's expression softens. "He's stable. The surgery went well. He's lucky—the shrapnel missed all the major organs."

The relief is so intense you almost collapse. For once you're thanking whatever deity above, or below for making Frank Castle such a lucky bastard. "Can I see him?"

"He's in recovery. It'll be a few hours before he wakes up."

"I'll wait."

"Visiting hours—" The doctor tries to tell you but you’re not good at listening, especially when it comes to Frank. 

"I'll wait," you repeat, and something in your voice must convince her, because she nods.

"Room 437. Fourth floor."

You take the stairs because you can't stand still long enough for the elevator. Frank's room is quiet, machines beeping steadily. He looks small in the hospital bed, which is wrong. Frank Castle should never look small.

You pull a chair up beside him, taking his hand carefully. His knuckles are bruised, his face pale under the fluorescent lights.

"Hey," you say quietly. "You scared me back there."

He doesn't respond, obviously. But you keep talking anyway.

"Peter says the victims are all safe. The traffickers are in custody. So, you know, successful mission. Except for the part where you almost died." You squeeze his hand. "You're not allowed to do that again, by the way. I'm putting it in writing. No more almost dying."

The machines beep steadily.

"I wanted to heal you," you admit. "Back there, when you were bleeding out. I wanted to so badly. But you asked me not to, and I—" Your voice breaks. "I kept my promise. Even though it was the hardest thing I've ever done."

You sit there for a long time, just holding his hand and listening to him breathe. At some point, you fall asleep, your head on the edge of his bed.

You wake to someone touching your hair.

"Hey," Frank says. His voice is rough, but he's awake, and he's looking at you with those dark eyes.

"Hey yourself." You sit up, wincing at the crick in your neck. "How do you feel?"

"Like I got blown up."

"That's because you did get blown up."

"Fair point." He's still touching your hair, his fingers gentle. "You stayed."

"Of course I stayed. Where else would I be?"

"Getting rest. Taking care of yourself."

"I can do that here."

"That chair can't be comfortable."

"It's fine."

Frank's quiet for a moment, just looking at you. Then: "Thank you." He whispers. 

"For what?" You quite literally hadn’t done anything for him to thank you for. 

He pauses. "For keeping your promise. For not healing me."

"I hated it."

"I know. But you did it anyway." He pulls you closer, and you go carefully, mindful of his injuries. "That means everything."

"You're not allowed to almost die again," you say against his shoulder.

"I'll try."

“Frank,” you lament. "That's not good enough."

"It's the best I can do."

You pull back to look at him. "Then I guess I'll just have to stick around. Make sure you don't do anything stupid."

"That's a full-time job."

"Good thing I'm unemployed."

He laughs, then winces. "Don't make me laugh. Hurts."

The door opens, and Peter sticks his head in. "Oh good, you're awake! I brought coffee and—" He stops, taking in the scene. "Am I interrupting a moment?"

"Yes," Frank says.

"No," you say at the same time.

Peter grins. "I'll just leave these here." He sets down a carrier with three coffees. "Glad you're okay, Frank. Try not to get blown up again."

"Everyone keeps saying that."

"Because you keep getting blown up!"

"It's not intentional."

"Isn't it though?"

Frank throws a pillow at him. Peter catches it with one hand, laughing, his coffee in the other.

"I'll leave you two alone," he says. "But I'm coming back later with actual food, because hospital food is terrible."

He leaves, and you're alone with Frank again.

"He's a good kid," Frank says.

"He's practically your son."

"He's not—" Frank stops, sighs. "Fine. Maybe he's a little bit my son."

"Wow,” you smile, “That ladies and gentleman, is what we call character growth. I'm so proud."

"Shut up."

"Make me." He does, pulling you down for a kiss that's gentle and sweet and tastes like hospital and coffee and home.

When you pull apart, you're both smiling.

"So," you say. "What now?"

"Now you go home and get some actual rest."

"Not happening."

"You need—"

"I need to be here. With you." You settle back in the chair, taking his hand. "Deal with it, Castle."

He looks like he wants to argue, but instead he just squeezes your hand. "Stubborn."

"You love it."

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I do."

Two months later, you're on Frank's rooftop—your rooftop now, really—watching the sunrise.

Frank's beside you, his arm around your shoulders. He's mostly healed from the explosion, though he still moves carefully sometimes. You've been good about not healing him, letting his body recover naturally. It's been hard, but you're learning.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks.

"How weird this is."

"Weird how?"

"Weird good. Weird like, six months ago I was alone, and now I have you. And Peter. And this whole complicated vigilante family thing."

"Having regrets?"

"Not even a little bit." You lean into him. "You?"

"No." He presses a kiss to your temple. "This is good."

"Good? That's high praise coming from you."

"Don't push it."

You laugh, and the sound echoes across the rooftop. Below, the city is waking up—people heading to work, starting their days, living their lives. You and Frank exist in the shadows, protecting them from things they'll never know about.

It's not a normal life. But it's yours.

"Hey," Peter's voice calls from below. He swings onto the rooftop, landing with his usual grace. He's got a bag from the bodega, and you can smell coffee and bagels.

"Breakfast meeting?" he asks.

"Apparently," Frank says.

"Great! Because I have news." Peter pulls out his phone. "There's a new player in town. Calls himself the Vulture. He's been hitting tech companies, stealing experimental equipment."

"And you want our help," you say.

"I mean, I can handle it alone, but—"

"But you'd rather have backup," Frank finishes.

"Exactly." Peter grins. "So what do you say? Family team-up?"

You look at Frank. He looks at you. Something passes between you, an understanding that doesn't need words.

"Yeah," you say. "We're in."

"Excellent! This is going to be great. We should have a team name. Like the Defenders, but cooler."

"We're not having a team name," Frank says.

"The Punishers?"

Frank scoffs. "No."

"Ooh," Peter actually giggles, "How about: The Kinetic Crew?"

You frown at the idea. "Absolutely not."

"Spider-Family?" He tries.

Frank eyes him with contempt, mockingly. "I will shoot you."

"You won't shoot me. Mom won't let you." Your heart smiles, mom. Even though it's a joke, it feels nice to be needed by someone.

You laugh at Frank's expression. "He's got you there."

"I hate both of you," Frank mutters, but there's no heat in it.

"No you don't," you and Peter say together.

And he doesn't. You can see it in his eyes, in the way he's relaxed around you both, in the small smile he's trying to hide.

This is your family now. Broken, complicated, held together by violence and stubbornness and love. It's not perfect—but it's yours, and Franks.  And that's certainly enough.

"That's cute.” You tutt. “You think you get a vote."  Inching closer, you assess the damage with practiced efficiency. Gunshot wound, left side, probably missed anything vital but he's losing blood fast. "Let me see it."

"I said—"

"I heard what you said. I'm ignoring it." You reach for his vest and he catches your wrist. His grip is strong despite the blood loss, which is frankly annoying. "Castle, I swear to God, if you bleed out in this alley because you're too stubborn to accept help, I'm going to resurrect you just to kill you again."

"Kinetic energy manipulation doesn't include resurrection." He balks at the idea, and while he’s fairly certain raising people from the dead is far outside your scope, he’s honestly not too sure you couldn’t accomplish it.

"I'll learn." You yank your wrist free and plant your hands on your hips. "You want me to call an ambulance? Because I will. I'll tell them exactly where the Punisher is, bleeding out like an idiot who thinks he's too tough for basic medical attention."

His dark eyes narrow. "You wouldn't."

"Try me." You would, and Frank knows it. You did it to Matt Murdock two months ago to prove a point, before he finally let you sneak him off into the night to heal him with your powers. 

Stubborn ass grown men, you think to yourself. You don’t even know why you try. 

You stare at each other for a long moment. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails. Frank's breathing is getting shallower, and there's a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead that has nothing to do with the humid summer night.

"Fine," he finally growls. "But not here."

You send him a cheeky, lopsided grin that says, I win. Like always. "Your place or mine?"

"Mine's closer."

"Of course it is. You probably have six safe houses within a three-block radius." You duck under his arm, taking most of his considerable weight. He's heavy, all muscle and Kevlar and weaponry, but you've absorbed enough kinetic energy from the city tonight that you could probably carry a truck. "Try not to bleed on me. This jacket is new."

"It's black." Frank frowns. 

"Blood stains, Castle. Trust me, I know." He huffs at that, but doesn't say anything further.

Even though you've been to a couple of them before, this warehouse is exactly what you'd expect: industrial, sparse, and equipped with enough weapons to stage a small coup. The medical station in the corner is better stocked than some ERs you've seen, which says something deeply concerning about Frank's lifestyle choices.

You dump him onto the metal chair with less grace than strictly necessary. He grunts but doesn't complain, which means he's hurt worse than he's letting on.

"Vest off," you order, already pulling on latex gloves from his supply kit.

"I can do it myself."

"And I can watch you fumble around for twenty minutes while you bleed out, or you can shut up and let me help. Choose quickly,” you tap your foot with mock impatience, “I have a Netflix queue to get back to."

He stays silent and still for a moment before relenting to your request.

"What are you watching?" He asks.

The question surprises you enough that you pause. "Are you seriously making small talk right now?"

He grunts. "You brought it up." Besides, he thinks, anything to distract from the pain. 

You smile. "Okay, if you must know, but you gotta promise not to make fun of me…I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Uh huh, sure kid.”

“The Great British Bake Off,” you respond. “It’s very soothing. No one gets shot." You start unfastening his vest with efficient movements. "Unlike some people I know who apparently think they're bulletproof."

Frank huffs out a breath. "Tonight wasn't supposed to go down like that."

"It never is." You peel back the vest and his shirt, revealing the wound. It's ugly but clean—through and through, like you thought. "You're lucky. Missed everything important."

"Lucky. Right."

"Relatively speaking." You grab gauze and antiseptic, your movements automatic. You've done this too many times, for too many people. Frank's just the most frequent patient. "This is going to hurt."

"It already hurts." He says with a grimace.

Your eyes bore into his with a deadpan expression. "It's going to hurt more."

You clean the wound with quick, practiced efficiency. Frank doesn't flinch, doesn't make a sound, which is somehow more unsettling than if he'd screamed. You've seen him take damage that would drop most men, and he just keeps going like some kind of terminator. It’s alarming really. 

"You know," you say, because the silence is getting heavy, "most people would say thank you."

"Most people don't break into my safe house whenever they please and threaten to call ambulances."

You scoff. "I’ve never broken in. The door’s been unlocked."

He rebukes that. "The door is never unlocked."

"Then you're losing your touch, old man." You finish cleaning and sit back, studying the wound. It needs stitches, proper medical attention, and antibiotics. Or... "I could heal it, ya know."

"No."

The response is immediate and sharp. You raise an eyebrow. "That's a lot of conviction for someone who's bleeding all over his nice metal chair."

"I don't need—"

"Your powers.” You mock his tone with the best Frank Castle impression you can muster. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You've made that very clear." You strip off the gloves and toss them aside. "Fine. Enjoy your stitches and your recovery time and your inevitable infection because you're too stubborn to accept help."

You turn to leave, and his voice stops you. "Wait."

You look back. Frank's watching you with those dark, unreadable eyes, and for a moment something flickers across his face. Something that might be concern, or curiosity, or just exhaustion.

"Why do you keep doing this?" he asks.

"Doing what?"

He gives you a look that says c'mon kid, don't play dumb with me. But you're not buying what he's selling; if he wants a real answer out of you, he's going to have to give you a real question to answer.

He elaborates. "Showing up. Patching me up. You don't owe me anything."

You lean against the workbench, crossing your arms. "Maybe I like the company."

"I'm terrible company." He replies, jaw clenching at the idea of anyone willingly choosing to spend their time with him.

"True. But you're also the only person I know who can keep up with me, and who doesn’t flinch when I accidently blow stuff up.”

His mouth twitches. It's not quite a smile, but it's close. "That was one time." Kinetic energy can get pretty messy.

"It was three times." You admit.

"The third one doesn't count. That mailbox was asking for it."

You laugh despite yourself. "See? Terrible company, but occasionally amusing." You push off the bench. "Let me heal it, Castle. You'll be back to your murder spree by morning."

"It's not a murder spree.” He grumbles. “It's the job."

"Whatever makes you feel better man.” You move closer, and this time he doesn't stop you. "This is going to feel weird."

"Everything about you feels weird."

You grin toothily. "Flatterer."

You place your hands over the wound, and the familiar tingle of power flows through your palms. Kinetic energy is everywhere—in the vibration of the building, the movement of air, the beating of hearts. You pull it in, redirect it, reshape it into something that can knit flesh and seal wounds.

The bullet hole begins to close, tissue regenerating at an accelerated rate. Frank watches with a frown, like he's trying to figure out a puzzle he doesn't have all the pieces to.

What he doesn't see is the way your jaw tightens. The way your breathing goes shallow. The way every nerve in your side suddenly screams with phantom pain as his injury transfers to you, the price of healing written in agony across your own body.

You're good at hiding it. Years of practice have taught you how to mask the pain, how to smile through it, how to act like taking on someone else's suffering is no big deal.

"There," you say, pulling back. Your hands are steady. Your voice is light. "Good as new." It hurts like hell, but you’d never admit it. 

Frank looks down at his side, at the smooth, unmarred skin where a bullet hole was moments ago. Every time you do this for him he's just as surprised. "How—"

You put a finger to your lips and let out a light shushing sound. "Trade secret." You turn away before he can see the way you're holding yourself too carefully, the slight tremor in your legs. "Try not to get shot again for at least a week. I have a very busy schedule of eating takeout and judging people's fondant work."

"Kinetic." He calls you by your mutant name. He knows your real one, just like you know his—but he hardly ever uses it. 

You pause at the door. "Yeah?"

"Thank you."

You glance back, surprised. Frank's still sitting in the chair, watching you with an expression you can't quite read. The harsh warehouse lights cast shadows across his face, making him look older, more tired. But still handsome.

"Don't mention it," you say. And when he goes to say something else, you put a hand up to stop him. "Seriously. Don't. Like I said, I have a reputation to maintain."

You leave before he can respond, before he can ask questions you don't want to answer. The pain in your side is a living thing now, sharp and hot and demanding attention. You make it three blocks before you have to stop, leaning against a wall and breathing through the worst of it.

Worth it, you tell yourself. It's always worth it.

Even if Frank Castle will never know the price you pay.

Three days later, you're on a rooftop in Hell's Kitchen, eating a truly mediocre bodega sandwich and watching the city breathe. New York at night is a living thing, all light and sound and movement. Kinetic energy in its purest form, just as you like it.

"You're in my spot." Well there goes your peace and quiet. 

You don't turn around. "Your spot? I don't see your name on it."

Frank moves to stand beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. He's wearing his usual black on black on black, because apparently the man owns no other colors.

"How's the side?" you ask.

"Fine."

"No pain? No stiffness?"

"Nothing." He's quiet for a moment. "It's like it never happened."

"That's kind of the point of healing." You take another bite of your sandwich, making a face. "God, this is terrible. Why do I keep going to that bodega?"

Frank’s lip curves in what dares to be a smile. "Because it's the only one open at 2 AM."

"Fair point." You offer him half. "Want some?"

He grimaces, brow quirked in mild disgust at the sight of it. "I'm good."

"Your loss. This mediocre sandwich could have been our mediocre sandwich."

He almost smiles again. You're getting better at making that happen. "What are you doing up here?" He asks. 

"Same thing you are. Watching. Waiting. Pretending we have our lives together."

"I don't pretend." He nearly scoffs.

"No, you just brood dramatically while wearing enough weapons to invade a small country." You crumple up the sandwich wrapper. "Sure, there's a difference, but it's subtle."

Frank leans against the ledge, his shoulder almost touching yours. "You hear about the shipment coming through the docks?"

"The one with enough illegal weapons to make your collection look like a toy store? Yeah, I heard."

His voice is gruff when he responds: "I'm going to hit it tomorrow night."

"Of course you are." You glance at him. "You want backup?"

"I work alone."

"And yet you're telling me about it."

His jaw tightens. "I'm not asking for help."

"Good, because I wasn't offering. I was just going to show up and steal your thunder." You stretch, feeling the residual ache in your side from healing him. It's faded to a dull throb, manageable, but still pestering and annoying. "What time?"

"Midnight." He replies.

You tease, "I'll bring snacks."

Frank frowns, wondering if everything has to be a joke with you. "This isn't a social event."

"Everything's a social event if you have the right attitude." You turn to face him fully. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you don't get shot again. I'm starting to think you do it on purpose just to see me."

"That's not—" He stops, and something flickers across his face. "I don't get shot on purpose."

"Could've fooled me. You have a real talent for finding bullets with your body."

"It's not a talent." He grunts. “I don’t enjoy getting shot.”

"Then maybe you should consider a career change. I hear accounting is nice. Very low bullet risk."

He turns to you with a glint in his eye, gruffly mumbling, "See for that, I'd rather get shot."

You laugh, and the sound echoes across the rooftop. "This is why we're friends."

"We're not friends." Is his response. 

"Partners?"

"No." He says.

"Colleagues?"

"Definitely not."

You contemplate your reply, tapping your index finger to your bottom lip in pensive thought. "How about: Two people who keep ending up in the same place at the same time and occasionally prevent each other from dying?"

Frank considers this. "I’d say that's slightly more accurate."

"Catchy. We should get t-shirts." You hop up onto the ledge, balancing easily. The kinetic energy of the city hums through your bones, ready to catch you if you fall. "You know what your problem is, Castle?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me."

He right, you are. "You take everything too seriously. Life, death, justice, vengeance. You need to learn to relax."

Frank doesn’t understand you. "Relaxing gets people killed."

"So does stress. Heart disease is a real thing, ya know?" You walk along the ledge like it's a tightrope, arms out for balance even though you don't need it. "When's the last time you did something fun?"

He frowns. "I have fun."

"Shooting people doesn't count."

"Then never."

You stop, looking down at him. He's watching you with that intense focus he applies to everything, like you're a problem he's trying to solve. "That's sad, Frank. Genuinely sad."

"I'm not here to have fun. I'm here to do a job."

"And when the job's done?"

"There's always another job."

You jump down, landing in front of him, your boots thumping on the concrete of the roof. You're close now, close enough to see the scars on his face, the permanent tension in his shoulders, the weight he carries in his eyes.

"That's no way to live," you say quietly.

He considers lying to you, or doing what you do and deflecting with humour, but he doesn’t, "It's the only way I know." He says. 

For a moment, neither of you moves. The city sounds fade into background noise—sirens, traffic, the distant thump of music from a club. It's just you and Frank and the space between you that feels charged with something you're not ready to name.

Then your phone buzzes, shattering the moment.

You step back, checking the message. "Spider-boy needs help in Queens. Something about lizard people."

Frank actually chuckles. "It's always something with him."

"He's young. He'll learn. And at least he asks me for help." Frank knows that was a direct shot at him. You pocket your phone. "Midnight tomorrow. Don't start without me."

Frank grunts a reply. "I'm not waiting for you."

"Yes, you are." You head for the fire escape, then pause. "Hey, Castle?"

"What?"

"Try not to get shot between now and then. I'm running low on patience for your self-destructive bullshit."

He sighs. "I'll take it under advisement."

You flip him off cheerfully and drop over the edge, using absorbed kinetic energy to slow your fall. Behind you, you hear something that might be a laugh, but when you look back, Frank's already gone.

The dock job goes sideways in the way these things always do.

You're crouched behind a shipping container, breathing hard, while bullets ping off the metal around you. Frank's somewhere to your left, returning fire with the kind of calm precision that would be attractive if it wasn't so deeply concerning.

"This is going great!" you shout over the gunfire. "Really well planned!"

"Shut up and stay down!"

"I am down! I'm very down! I'm practically horizontal!" You gather kinetic energy from the impacts around you, feeling it build in your palms like static electricity. "How many are there?"

"Too many." He's clearly annoyed. He'd miscalculated and now he's paying for it.

"That's not a number, Castle!"

A bullet whizzes past your head, close enough that you feel the displacement of air. You pop up, release the stored energy in a concentrated blast, and watch three guys go flying backward like they've been hit by an invisible truck.

"Okay, that felt good," you mutter.

"On your six!"

You spin, but you're not fast enough. The guy's already there, gun raised, finger on the trigger. Time seems to slow. You're gathering energy but you won't make it, you won't—

The gunshot is deafening.

The guy drops, a red bloom spreading across his chest. Frank's there suddenly, his gun still raised, his face grim.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah. Thanks." Your heart is hammering. "That was close."

"Too close. You're getting sloppy kid."

Your eyes widen at him incredulously. "I'm getting sloppy? You're the one who said there'd be a dozen guys!"

"I said approximately a dozen."

"There are at least twenty!"

"That's still approximately—" He doesn't want to admit he was wrong...especially not to you.

"Oh my God,” You can’t believe him…you truly can’t believe him. Clearly this guy doesn’t care an ounce about either of your safety, “are you seriously arguing math right now?"

More gunfire erupts, cutting off whatever Frank was going to say. You both move in sync, a dance you've done enough times that it's almost choreographed. Frank provides cover fire while you flank, using kinetic blasts to disarm and disable. It's brutal and efficient and over in minutes.

The silence after is almost jarring.

"Everyone down?" you ask, checking the perimeter.

"Everyone down."

"Dead or unconscious?"

He balks at that. "Does it matter?"

"To the police report, yes." You spot Frank's limp. "You're hurt."

"I'm fine."

You shake your head in disappointment. "You're clearly limping."

"It's nothing."

You cross to him, and he tries to wave you off, but you're already seeing it—blood seeping through his pants leg, a knife wound by the look of it.

"Sit," you order.

"I can walk it off."

"Sit, or I'll use kinetic energy to make you sit, and that'll be embarrassing for both of us." It'd be way more embarrassing for him, you think, but you've got to appease to his ego some way or another.

He sits, mostly because arguing takes energy he doesn't have. A small part of him though, enjoys when you order him around, not that Frank would ever say that aloud. You kneel beside him, examining the wound. It's deep but clean, the kind of cut that'll hurt like hell but won't kill him.

"This is becoming a habit," you say.

"You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to. I'm going to anyway." You place your hands over the wound. "Brace yourself."

The healing energy flows, and with it comes the pain. It's sharp and immediate, a hot knife dragging through your own thigh. You breathe through it, keeping your expression neutral, focusing on knitting Frank's flesh back together.

"There," you say when it's done, pulling back. Your leg throbs in sympathy. "Good as new."

Frank looks down at his leg, then up at you. "How do you do that?"

"Very carefully." You stand, testing your weight on the leg that isn't really injured. "We should go before the cops show up."

"Wait." Frank catches your wrist. "Your hands are shaking."

"Adrenaline." You tell him.

"You don’t look so good."

"It's nighttime. And we just got shot at by about two dozen men—who looks good after that?"

"Kinetic—"

"We need to go, Castle. Now."

You pull free and start walking, ignoring the way your leg wants to give out. Behind you, Frank follows, and you can feel his eyes on you, questioning, suspicious.

You're three blocks away when a familiar figure drops from above, landing in a crouch that's far too graceful for someone who's been through what he has.

"Hey, guys!" Peter Parker says brightly, straightening up. His Spider-Man suit is torn in places, and there's what looks like green slime on his shoulder. "Fancy meeting you here!"

"Spider-Man," Frank says flatly. "What do you want?"

"Just checking in on my favourite dysfunctional crime-fighting couple!" Peter swings closer, and even through the mask you can tell he's grinning. "How was date night? Lots of gunfire and property damage, I'm guessing?"

"It wasn't a date," you say.

"We're not a couple," Frank adds.

"Sure, sure. And I'm not currently covered in sewer lizard goo." Peter looks between you. "You know, for two people who claim to hate each other, you sure spend a lot of time together."

"We don't hate each other," you say.

"And we're not together," Frank insists.

"Right. You're just two emotionally constipated vigilantes who keep saving each other's lives and definitely don't have any feelings whatsoever." Peter shoots a web at a nearby building. "Totally normal. Very believable." If he wasn’t wearing a mask, you could have sworn you’d seen him wink.

"Don't you have actual Spider-Man things to do?" you ask. "Crimes to stop? Lizards to fight?"

"Already done! Dr. Connors is back in custody, the sewers are slightly less dangerous, and I have the rest of the night free to bother you two." He swings in a lazy circle around you. "So, what's the deal? Are you guys partners? Friends with benefits? Enemies with benefits?"

"We're leaving," Frank says.

"Ooh, together? To whose place?"

"Parker—"

"I'm just saying, if you're going to do the whole 'will they won't they' thing, maybe speed it up? Some of us have been watching this dance for months and it's getting old."

You can't help but laugh. "Months?"

"Oh yeah. You should hear what the other heroes say.” You know he means Yelena Belova, she’s just about the only other hero Peter keeps up with, except for maybe Daredevil, but you’re not quite sure they’ve been introduced yet. “There's a betting pool and everything."

Frank's expression could curdle milk. "A betting pool."

"Daredevil thinks you'll get together by Christmas. Yelena says never. I'm optimistic—I've got money on next month." There he goes proving you wrong—he does know more people than you thought. You're going to have to have a little chat with Matt Murdock about respecting people's privacy.

Peter lands on a fire escape, hanging upside down. "No pressure though!"

"I'm going to shoot him," Frank says.

"You're not going to shoot him. The last time you did that, you almost killed him, and you were sick about it for weeks.”

Frank's expression drops just a smidge. He remembers everything that happened with Jean Grey, not fondly, at all. "I'm seriously considering it." He settles on. But you and he both know he would never.

"You consider it every time you see him. You never follow through." You look up at Peter. "What are you really doing here, Spider-boy?"

Peter's tone shifts, becoming more serious. "Making sure you're both okay. That dock situation was messy. I was in the area and heard the gunfire."

"We're fine," you say.

"You sure? Because you're favouring your left leg and Frank looks like he wants to murder me more than usual, which means something's up."

You exchange a glance with Frank. Peter's observant—too observant sometimes. It's easy to forget that under the quips and the jokes, he's a genuinely skilled hero.

"We're fine," Frank repeats. "Go home, Parker."

"Fine, fine. I can take a hint." Peter shoots another web, preparing to swing away. "But seriously, you two should talk. About feelings and stuff. It's healthy."

"I'm definitely shooting him," Frank mutters.

"No you're not!" Peter calls back, already swinging away. "Love you too, Dad!"

The silence after he leaves is heavy.

"Did he just—" you start.

"Don't," Frank says warningly.

You quip. "That’s so cute! He called you Dad."

"I said don't."

You're grinning now, you can't help it. "That's amazing. You're Spider-Dad."

Frank fights the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm not anyone's dad."

"You kind of are though. You do the whole protective disapproving thing really well."

He looks at you unimpressed. "I disapprove of everyone equally."

"Especially me?"

Frank looks at you, and something in his expression softens. "No. Not especially you."

The moment stretches, charged with something unspoken. Your leg is still throbbing, a phantom pain that isn't really yours, and you're suddenly very aware of how close Frank is standing.

"We should go," you say finally. "Before any more heroes show up to psychoanalyze our relationship."

"We don't have a relationship."

"Right. We're just two people who keep saving each other and definitely don't have any feelings whatsoever."

Frank's mouth twitches. "You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"Not even a little bit." You start walking, and this time when your leg wobbles, Frank's there, his hand on your elbow, steadying you.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah. Just tired."

He doesn't let go immediately, and you don't pull away. You walk like that for half a block, his hand on your arm, your shoulders almost touching, before the moment breaks and you separate.

But something's shifted. Something's changed.

And you're pretty sure Frank felt it too.

It's been a week since the dock job, and you've patched Frank up twice more. Once for a broken rib (courtesy of a particularly aggressive mob enforcer), and once for a concussion (courtesy of Frank's own reckless disregard for personal safety).

Each time, you've taken the pain. Each time, you've hidden it.

But Frank's starting to notice things.

You don't know this yet. You're too busy trying to convince him that yes, he does need to rest after being thrown through a window, and no, "walking it off" is not a valid medical strategy.

"You're being ridiculous," Frank says. He's sitting on his warehouse couch—which you're pretty sure he's never actually slept on—while you hover nearby with an ice pack.

"I'm being responsible. There's a difference." You press the ice pack to the bruise blooming on his temple. "You could have a serious concussion."

"I've had worse."

"That's not the reassurance you think it is."

"I'm fine." He tries again in a way that only he could make sound so not convincing.

"Frank,” you place your hands firmly on your hips. “You threw up twice."

"That's just nausea."

"From the concussion!"

Frank catches your wrist, stopping your fussing. His grip is gentle but firm, and when you meet his eyes, there's something searching in his gaze.

He's going back to old habits, curiosity getting the better of him, and so as he always does, he asks you: "Why do you do this?"

"Do what? Try to keep you from dying of your own stupidity?"

"Care. About what happens to me."

The question catches you off guard, even though it's not like it something he's never asked you before in seventeen different ways. You try to pull away, but he doesn't let go. He’s already done this to you several times before, and each time you deflect.

"Someone has to," you say lightly. "You're certainly not going to do it."

"That's not an answer." He responds. 

"It's the only answer you're getting." You tug your wrist free. "Now hold this ice pack and try not to do anything stupid for the next twenty-four hours."

Frank’s brow furrows, like he’s not sure that’s something he’s capable of doing. "That's a long time." He says. 

"I have faith in you. Minimal faith, but still."

You turn to leave, and that's when it happens. Your leg—the one that took his knife wound last week—gives out. Just for a second, just a slight buckle, but it's enough.

Frank's on his feet instantly, concussion forgotten. "What was that?"

"Nothing. Slipped."

"You didn't slip. Your leg gave out." Worry laces his cadence.

You puff out a breath. "I'm tired. It's been a long night."

But Frank's not buying it. You can see the wheels turning in his head, pieces clicking into place. He's looking at you differently now, really looking, and you don't like what he might be seeing.

"How long has your leg been bothering you?" he asks.

"It hasn't." You protest.

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not—"

He doesn’t believe you in the slightest…you’re a terrible liar, he thinks. "You've been favouring it since the docks. Since you healed my knife wound." His eyes narrow. "Show me."

"Frank—"

"Show me."

There's no arguing with that tone. Reluctantly, you roll up your pant leg, revealing the faint scar on your thigh. It's in the exact same place Frank's wound was, a mirror image of damage that was never really yours.

Frank stares at it. Then at you. Then back at the scar.

"That's where I was cut," he says slowly.

"Coincidence?" You squeak, shrugging your shoulders in surrender. 

"Bullshit." He moves closer, and you resist the urge to back away. "What did you do?"

"I healed you. You know this."

"How? How does your healing work?"

You're quiet for a long moment. Then, quietly: "It transfers."

"Transfers what?" He’s never been more serious about a question in his life. 

You relent, lying to him seeming less and less worth it as the minutes go by. "The damage. The pain. When I heal someone, I take on their injuries. Not the physical wound, but the pain of it. The body's memory of trauma." You meet his eyes. "It fades faster than a real injury would, but it's there. For a while."

Frank's face goes through several expressions—confusion, realization, and then something that might be horror.

"Every time you've healed me," he says slowly, "you've taken on my pain."

You shrug. "It's not a big deal."

"Not a big—" He stops, running a hand over his face. "The gunshot. The broken rib. The concussion. You've been walking around with all of that?"

"It fades. I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're—" He looks at you like he's seeing you for the first time. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you wouldn't have let me help if you knew."

"You're damn right I wouldn't have!"

"Exactly. And you needed help, Frank. You need help." You pull your pant leg down. "So I helped. That's what people do."

He looks betrayed, dark eyes wide with regret. "Not like this. Not by hurting themselves."

You scoff at him. "You hurt yourself every single night. How is this different?"

"It's different because—" He stops, jaw working. "It just is." He can’t come up with anything better. 

"That’s a compelling argument, Frank."

"Don't." His voice is rough. "Don't make jokes about this."

You've never seen Frank like this—angry, yes, but not at you. Never at you. There's something raw in his expression, something vulnerable that he usually keeps locked away.

"I'm sorry," you say quietly. "I should have told you."

"Yeah. You should have." He sits back down, heavily, like his legs won't hold him anymore. "No more healing."

"Frank—"

"I mean it. No more. I won't have you hurting yourself for me."

"That's not your choice to make."

Now it’s his turn to scoff. "Like hell it isn't."

You move to sit beside him, close enough that your shoulders touch. "You don't get to decide what I do with my powers. Or who I use them on."

His eyes narrow. "Even if it's killing you?"

"It's not killing me.” You reply with a deep sigh. You’re used to it, it’s all you’ve ever known. “It's just pain Castle. I can handle pain."

"You shouldn't have to."

"Neither should you. But here we are." You lean your head on his shoulder, a gesture that surprises both of you. "We're both idiots, Frank. We're both self-destructive and stubborn and terrible at accepting help. The only difference is I'm slightly better at hiding it."

He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "How long does it last? The pain?"

"Depends on the injury. Small stuff, a few hours. Bigger things, a few days. The gunshot took almost a week to fully fade."

"A week." He sounds sick. "You were in pain for a week and I didn't even notice."

"I didn't want you to notice. That was kind of the point."

"Why?" He turns to look at you, and you're struck by how close his face is. "Why would you do that?"

Because I care about you, you think. Because seeing you hurt is worse than any pain I could take on. Because somewhere along the way, this stopped being about helping a fellow vigilante and started being about something else entirely.

But you don't say any of that. Instead, you say: "Because someone has to look out for you. And I'm apparently volunteering."

Frank's hand comes up, cupping your face with a gentleness that seems impossible from someone so violent. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, and you can feel the calluses, the evidence of a life lived in combat.

"You're an idiot," he says softly.

"Takes one to know one."

"I'm serious. You can't keep doing this."

"Watch me."

"(Y/n)—" He calls you by your real name this time…and it feels foreign on his tongue just as it sounds out of place for you. But something about it has your heart beating a little quicker than before. 

"Frank." You cover his hand with yours. "I know what I'm doing. I know the cost. And I'm choosing to pay it. You don't get to take that choice away from me."

He looks like he wants to argue, but something in your expression stops him. Instead, he just sits there, his hand on your face, your hand on his, while the warehouse settles around you.

"I don't want you to hurt for me," he says finally.

"Too late. I already do."

You mean it as a joke, but it comes out too honest, too raw. Frank's eyes search yours, and you wonder what he sees there. What you're accidentally revealing.

"You should go," he says, but he doesn't move his hand.

"Probably."

"Get some rest. Let yourself heal."

"You too."

"I will."

You raise a brow at him. "Liar."

His mouth twitches. "Yeah."

You stand, and immediately your leg protests, a sharp reminder of the knife wound that isn't really there. Frank notices—of course he notices, now that he knows what to look for.

"Let me—" he starts.

"I'm fine. It's a few blocks."

"You can barely walk."

"I can walk fine. I'm just doing it slowly. Very deliberately slowly."

"That's not a thing."

"It is now." You head for the door, then pause. "Frank?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For caring. Even if you're being annoying about it."

You leave before he can respond, but you feel his eyes on you all the way out.

You don't see Frank for three days after that, which is unusual. Normally he's getting into trouble every other night, requiring your intervention and/or healing services.

The absence is noticeable. Concerning, even.

You tell yourself you're not worried. Frank Castle can take care of himself. He's been doing it for years. He doesn't need you hovering.

But on the fourth night, you find yourself on his rooftop anyway, eating Chinese takeout and pretending you're not waiting for him.

"You're in my spot again."

You don't jump, because you heard him coming. "It's a good spot. You have excellent taste in brood locations."

Frank moves to stand beside you, and you notice he's moving normally. No limp, no stiffness. Either he hasn't been in any fights, or he has and he's hiding it.

"You've been quiet," you say.

"Been busy."

"Busy avoiding me?"

He shakes his head in protest. "Busy working."

"Uh-huh." You offer him a container of lo mein. "Hungry?"

"I'm good."

"You're never good. You're just varying degrees of not-good." You shake the container. "Eat. You look like you haven't had a real meal in days." As if what you’re eating could be classified as a real meal…but hey, beggars can’t be choosers. 

He takes the container, which is progress. You eat in silence for a while, watching the city lights.

"I've been thinking," Frank says finally.

"That’s dangerous."

He tilts his head slightly to the left, eyes narrowing at you. You relent and let him talk. "About what you said. About taking on pain."

You tense. "Frank—"

"I did some research. Talked to some people who know about mutant powers." Dr. Banner, you assume. Via Peter Parker, you guess.

"You talked to people about me?"

"I didn't use your name. But yeah." He sets down the container. "Apparently, what you're doing—taking on that much pain, that frequently—it's not sustainable."

"I'm fine."

"You're not. The pain might fade, but it leaves traces. Phantom damage. Your body remembers, even if the wounds aren't real." He turns to face you. "Keep doing it, and eventually your body won't know the difference between phantom pain and real pain. You'll break down."

You're quiet, because you know he's right. You've felt it—the way the pain lingers longer each time, the way your body is starting to protest. But admitting it means stopping, and stopping means watching Frank get hurt without being able to help.

"I'll be careful," you say.

"That's not good enough."

"It's going to have to be."

"No. It's not." Frank's voice is hard. "I won't let you destroy yourself for me."

You push back. He's not the only one you help...but he's becoming the most important. "You don't get a say in this."

He doesn’t like that answer…it feels like a cop out. "Like hell I don't."

You stand, anger flaring. "What do you want from me, Frank? You want me to just watch you bleed out? Watch you take damage that I could prevent? I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because—" You stop, the words catching in your throat.

"Because what?"

Because I care about you. Because the thought of you dying makes me feel like I'm the one bleeding out. Because somewhere in all this violence and pain and stubbornness, I fell for you, and I don't know how to stop.

But you can't say that. So instead you say: "Because it's what I do. I help people. It's my thing."

Frank still can’t understand you. After months of knowing you the way he has, he still can't get it. "This isn't helping. This is self-destruction with extra steps."

"Oh, that's rich coming from you. The king of self-destruction."

"That's different."

You scoff. "How? How is it different?"

"Because I'm not worth it!" The words explode out of him, raw and angry. "I'm not worth you hurting yourself. I'm not worth saving."

The silence after is deafening.

Frank's breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists. You've never seen him like this—not angry, but something deeper. Something that looks like pain.

"You don't get to decide that," you say quietly.

"It's my life."

"And it's my choice. My power. My decision." You step closer. "You don't get to tell me you're not worth saving, Frank. You don't get to make that call."

"You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly." Your eyes try to meet his, but he avoids your gaze. "You think you're beyond redemption. You think you deserve every bullet, every knife, every broken bone. You think pain is penance." You're right in front of him now, close enough to see the scars on his face, the weight in his eyes. "But you're wrong."

His face falls, "You don't know what I've done."

"I know enough.” you say. “I know you're trying to make the world safer. I know you protect people who can't protect themselves. I know you're a good man doing bad things for the right reasons." You reach up, cupping his face the way he did yours. "And I know you're worth saving. Even if you don't believe it."

Frank's eyes close, and for a moment he just stands there, leaning into your touch like a man starved for gentleness.

"I can't ask you to keep doing this," he says.

"You're not asking. I'm offering."

"It's going to hurt you."

"I know." You respond. You've always known that.

"It might break you."

"I know that too."

He opens his eyes, and there's something in them you've never seen before. Something vulnerable and terrified and hopeful all at once.

"Why?" he asks again. "Why would you do that?"

You could lie. You could deflect, make a joke, change the subject. But you're tired of hiding, tired of pretending this is just about helping a fellow vigilante.

"Because I care about you, you idiot," you say. "Because seeing you hurt is worse than any pain I could take on. Because I—"

You stop, but it's too late. The words are already out there, hanging in the air between you.

Frank stares at you. "You what?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

"No. Say it." It almost feels like he's begging you to say something...and that's so unlike him.

"Frank—"

"Say it."

You take a breath. "Because I love you. Okay? I love you, and I know that's stupid and complicated and probably a terrible idea, but there it is. I love you, and I'm going to keep healing you, and you're just going to have to deal with it."

The silence stretches. Frank's expression is unreadable, and you're starting to think you've made a terrible mistake when he moves.

His hands come up to frame your face, and then he's kissing you.

It's not gentle. It's desperate and fierce and tastes like lo mein and poor life choices. You make a surprised sound against his mouth, but then you're kissing him back, your hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard.

"That was—" you start.

"Yeah."

"Does this mean—"

"Yeah."

"You're very articulate right now."

"Shut up." But he's smiling, really smiling, and it transforms his whole face. "You're an idiot."

"You already said that."

"It bears repeating." He kisses you again, softer this time. "You can't keep taking on my pain."

"We'll figure something out."

Frank eyes you up and down. "I'm serious." He says.

"So am I. We'll be careful. We'll find a balance." You rest your forehead against his. "But I'm not stopping, Frank. I'm not walking away."

"Even though I'm a disaster?"

"Especially because you're a disaster. Someone needs to keep you alive."

"And that someone is you?"

You smile. "Apparently."

He laughs, and the sound is rusty but genuine. "We're both idiots."

"Yeah. But at least we're idiots together."

You stay like that for a long moment, wrapped up in each other, the city sprawling below you. It's not perfect. It's messy and complicated and probably going to end badly.

But right now, with Frank's arms around you and his heart beating against yours, it feels right.

Two weeks later, everything goes to hell.

You're in an abandoned factory in Brooklyn, because of course you are. Frank got a tip about a major weapons deal going down, and despite your protests, he insisted on checking it out.

"This is a bad idea," you say for the third time.

"Noted."

"I'm serious, Frank. This feels wrong."

"It always feels wrong. That's how you know it's worth doing."

You can’t even argue with him at this point…it doesn’t make any sense. "That's the worst logic I've ever heard."

Frank checks his gun, his movements efficient and practiced. "You don't have to be here."

"Yes, I do. Someone needs to patch you up when this inevitably goes sideways."

He mumbles into his vest, voice low. "Your confidence is inspiring."

"I'm a realist." You peer around the corner, scanning the factory floor. There are too many guys, too many guns, too many ways this can go wrong. "We should call for backup."

"Like who? Spider-Man?"

"He'd come if we asked."

"I'm not asking a kid for help."

"He's not a kid anymore, Frank. He's been through hell and back."

"Exactly. Which is why I'm not dragging him into this."

You want to argue, but there's no time. The deal is going down now, and Frank's already moving, silent as a shadow.

You follow, because what else are you going to do? Let him face this alone?

The first few minutes go smoothly. Frank takes out three guys before anyone realizes they're under attack. You provide support, using kinetic blasts to disarm and disable. It's a dance you've done before, violent and efficient.

Then someone hits the alarm.

Suddenly the factory is flooded with light and sound and way too many armed men. You and Frank are separated in the chaos, and you lose sight of him in the crowd.

"Frank!" you shout, but your voice is lost in the gunfire.

You fight your way through, taking down anyone who gets in your way. Your powers are singing, kinetic energy flowing through you like electricity. You're absorbing impacts, redirecting force, turning the enemy's own momentum against them.

But there are too many. For every one you drop, two more appear.

You finally spot Frank across the factory floor. He's surrounded, fighting with the kind of brutal efficiency that would be beautiful if it wasn't so terrifying. But even he can't fight off this many.

You see the knife before he does.

Time seems to slow as one of the guys gets behind Frank, blade raised. You're too far away, you won't make it, you—

You release every bit of kinetic energy you've been storing, a massive blast that sends everyone flying. The recoil hits you like a truck, and you go down hard, your head cracking against concrete.

The world goes fuzzy. You can hear shouting, gunfire, and the sound of fighting. You try to get up, but your body won't cooperate.

Then Frank's there, his face above yours, his hands on your shoulders.

"Stay down," he orders.

"You're okay," you manage. Your voice sounds distant, strange.

"I'm fine. You're not." He's checking you over, his movements urgent. "You're bleeding."

"'S not that bad."

Frank disagrees. "You have a head wound. That's always bad."

More gunfire. Frank returns it without looking, his aim perfect even while he's focused on you. Bodies drop.

"We need to move," he says.

"Can't. Dizzy."

"Then I'm carrying you."

He scoops you up like you weigh nothing, and you want to protest, but the world is spinning and you can't quite form words. You're vaguely aware of Frank moving, of more gunfire, of the factory falling away behind you.

Then you're outside, the cool night air hitting your face. Frank sets you down carefully, and you can see now that he's hurt too—blood on his shoulder, a cut on his face, moving with the stiffness that means broken ribs.

"You're injured," you say.

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not." You reach for him, trying to summon your healing power, but nothing happens. You're too drained, too hurt. "I can't—"

"Don't. Don't even try." Frank's hands are gentle as he examines your head wound. "You need a hospital."

"No hospitals."

"You have a concussion. Maybe worse."

"So do you."

"Like I said kid,” he takes a few steps forward. “I've had worse."

"That's not—" You stop, because the world is tilting again. "Frank."

"I'm here. I've got you."

You want to heal him. You need to heal him. But your power won't come, and you're so tired, and everything hurts.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

"For what?"

"Can't help you."

"You already did. You saved my life back there." His voice is rough. "That blast—you could have killed yourself."

"But I didn't."

"You could have." He argues.

Your words begin to slur themselves into each other. "Would’ve been worth it."

"No. It's not." He's holding you now, cradling you against his chest. "You're not allowed to die for me. That's not how this works."

"You'd do it for me."

"That's not the same kid."

"How?"

"Because I—" He stops, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely a whisper. "Because I love you too. And I can't lose you."

You smile, even though it hurts. "Took you long enough to say it."

He nearly laughs, despite the gravity of the situation. "You know I'm not good at this."

"I know. 'S okay."

Sirens wail in the distance. Frank tenses, but you put a hand on his chest.

"Stay," you say. "Just for a minute."

He stays.

You drift in and out, aware of Frank's voice, of him talking to someone—Spider-Man, you think, from the sound of the responses. Then you're moving again, being carried, and everything fades to black.

You wake up in Frank's warehouse, which is not where you expected to be.

"You're awake." Peter's face swims into view, the mask pushed up to reveal his concerned expression. "How do you feel?"

You contemplate your answer before you say, "Like I got hit by a truck."

"More like you released enough kinetic energy to level a building. Which, by the way, was incredibly stupid and also kind of awesome."

You try to sit up, and immediately regret it. "Where's Frank?"

"Right here." Frank appears on your other side, and you can see he's been patched up—bandages on his shoulder, his ribs wrapped. "How's your head?"

"Hurts. How's your everything?"

"I've had worse." That seems to be his favourite phrase. 

"You need to find a new line buddy."

Peter looks between you, grinning. "You know, for two people who I heard confessed their love for each other, you're both remarkably bad at the whole tender moment thing."

"We're working on it," you say.

"Clearly." Peter stands, stretching. "Well, I'll leave you two to your emotionally constipated bonding. Try not to do anything stupid while I'm gone."

"No promises," Frank says.

"I know. That's what worries me." Peter pulls his mask down. "Oh, and for the record? I won the betting pool. You're welcome."

He's gone before either of you can respond, swinging out through the skylight.

"There really was a betting pool?" you ask.

"Apparently."

"How much did he win?"

"Does it matter?"

"I want to know how much our relationship is worth in vigilante currency."

Frank's mouth twitches, you swear he's smiling at you softly. "Our relationship."

"Yeah. That's what this is, right?" You reach for his hand. "Unless you want to take back that whole 'I love you' thing."

"Not taking it back." He sits on the edge of the bed—and it is a bed, you realize, not the couch. He must have moved you. "But we need to talk."

"That's never a good start to a conversation."

"I'm serious. What you did back there—"

"Saved your life?"

"Nearly killed yourself." His grip on your hand tightens. "You can't do that again."

"Frank—"

"I mean it. You released too much energy at once. Peter said your heart stopped for almost a minute."

That stops you. "What?"

"You died. Technically. He had to do CPR while I cleared the rest of the factory." Frank's voice is rough. "Do you understand what that was like? Knowing you were dying and I couldn't do anything about it?" You’ve watched Frank nearly die a hundred times before…but the difference is, you always knew you could save him. 

You're quiet, processing his query. You don't remember dying. You just remember the blast, the recoil, and then waking up here.

"I'm sorry," you say finally.

"Don't be sorry. Just don't do it again."

"I can't promise that."

He’s more than serious when he responds with: "Yes, you can."

"No, I can't." You squeeze his hand. "If it comes down to your life or mine, I'm choosing yours. Every time."

"That's not—"

"Fair? No, it's not. But it's the truth." You meet his eyes. "You'd do the same for me."

"That's different." He really needs to find a new line. Or at least add another few to the rotation.

"It's really not."

Frank looks like he wants to argue, but instead he just sighs, running his free hand over his face. "We're both self-sacrificing and too stupid."

"Yeah. But we've established that already." You tug him closer. "Come here."

"You need to rest."

"I need you to stop hovering and sit with me."

He does, carefully arranging himself on the bed beside you. You curl into him, ignoring the protests from your battered body.

"This is nice," you say.

"You have a concussion."

"I'm aware. Still nice."

Frank's arm comes around you, holding you carefully like you might break. "I don't know how to do this."

"Do what?"

"This. Us. Caring about someone."

"You care about people. You care about Peter, even if you won't admit it."

"That's...He's—"

You smile against him. "A kid you've adopted whether you like it or not?"

"I haven't adopted anyone."

"You're literally Spider-Dad. Everyone knows it."

"I'm not—" He stops, and you feel him sigh. "Fine. Maybe I care about the kid. But this is different."

"Because it's romantic?" You tease him.

"Because I could lose you. And I don't know how to handle that."

You shift so you can see his face. "You could lose me anyway. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. Or take on one injury too many. Or just decide I'm tired of your brooding and leave."

"You wouldn't."

"No, I wouldn't. But the point is, you can't protect me from everything. And you can't let fear stop you from living."

"I'm not afraid."

He's quiet for a moment. Then: "Maybe I’m a little afraid."

"That's okay.” You say. “I for one, am terrified."

"Of what?"

"Of this. Of us. Of how much I care about you." You trace the scar on his cheek. "Of losing you."

Frank catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "You're not going to lose me."

"Like I said to you, you can't promise that."

"No. But I can try." He pulls you closer. "We'll figure this out. Together."

"Together," you agree.

You stay like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other, the warehouse quiet around you. It's not perfect. You're both injured, both stubborn, both carrying more baggage than any two people should.

But it's real. And right now, that's enough.

Three weeks later, you're on a rooftop with Frank and Peter, eating pizza and arguing about the best way to take down a human trafficking ring.

"I'm just saying," Peter says around a mouthful of pepperoni, "maybe we don't need to go in guns blazing."

"I never go in guns blazing," Frank says.

"You literally always go in guns blazing."

You laugh, stealing a slice from Peter's box. "He's got you there, Frank."

"Don't encourage him."

"I'm always going to encourage him. He's our son."

Peter chokes on his pizza. "I'm your what?"

"Our son. Didn't you know? We adopted you."

"I'm not that much younger than you!" He points at you. 

"Yeah, and emotionally, you're twelve."

Peter protests. "I'm a mature adult!"

"You have Spider-Man underoos."

"They were a gift!"

Frank is trying very hard not to smile. You can tell because his mouth is doing that thing where it twitches at the corners.

"Anyway," Peter says, recovering, "I think we should do reconnaissance first. Figure out how many guys there are, what kind of security they have."

"Already did that," Frank says.

"Of course you did." Peter looks at you. "Does he ever sleep?"

"Not that I've noticed."

Frank rolls his eyes. "I sleep."

"You close your eyes for twenty minutes and call it a nap."

"That's still sleep."

"That's a blink, Frank. A very long blink."

Peter's grinning now. "You two are so married. You bicker like an old couple."

You huff. "We've been together for three weeks Parker."

"And yet you already have the dynamic down. It's impressive, really."

Frank stands, brushing pizza crumbs off his pants. "If you two are done analyzing my relationship, we have work to do."

"Aw, Dad's grumpy," Peter says.

"I'm not your dad."

"You're totally my dad. You do the disappointed face and everything."

"I don't have a disappointed face."

"You're making it right now!"

You stand, stretching. Your body's mostly healed from the factory incident, though you still get headaches sometimes. Frank's been hovering, which is annoying and also kind of sweet.

"Alright, children," you say. "Let's go save some people."

The operation goes smoothly, which is suspicious. You're used to things going sideways, but tonight everything works exactly as planned. Frank takes out the guards, Peter webs up the traffickers, and you free the victims.

It's almost too easy.

"This feels wrong," you mutter to Frank as you're clearing the last room.

"I know."

"Like, really wrong."

"I know."

"So what do we—"

The explosion cuts you off.

You're thrown backward, your ears ringing. Through the smoke and debris, you can see Frank on the ground, not moving.

No.

You're moving before you think, crawling through the rubble. Your powers are screaming at you, warning of danger, but you don't care. You need to get to Frank.

"Frank!" Your hands find him, and he's breathing, thank God, but there's blood. So much blood. "Frank, stay with me."

His eyes open, unfocused. "Get out."

"Not without you."

He's struggling to breathe. "Building's coming down." His voice is weak.

"Then we'll go down together."

"Don't be stupid."

"Too late. I'm already stupid about you."

Peter appears through the smoke, his suit torn. "We need to move! Now!"

"Help me with him," you say.

Together, you and Peter get Frank up, supporting his weight between you. The building is groaning, supports failing. You can feel it in your bones, the kinetic energy of imminent collapse.

"Go!" Frank shouts. "Both of you, go!"

"Shut up," you and Peter say in unison.

You make it out with seconds to spare, the building collapsing behind you in a cloud of dust and debris. You're all coughing, covered in dirt and blood, but you're alive.

"Everyone okay?" Peter asks.

"Define okay," you say.

Frank's unconscious now, his breathing shallow. You can see the damage—shrapnel wounds, possible internal bleeding. It's bad.

"I need to heal him," you say.

"You can't," Peter says gently. "You're too weak. You'll kill yourself."

"I don't care."

"Yes, you do. And so does he." Peter puts a hand on your shoulder. "Let me call for help. Real help."

"There's no time."

"Then we make time."

You look down at Frank, at his pale face and the blood seeping through his clothes. You could heal him. You could take on his injuries, his pain. But Peter's right—you're too weak. The factory incident took more out of you than you've admitted. Another healing this big might actually kill you.

But letting Frank die isn't an option either.

"I have to try," you say.

"No." Frank's eyes are open now, barely, but there's steel in his voice. "Don't."

"Frank—"

"Promise me. Don't heal me. Not like this."

"I can't just let you—"

"Promise." His voice is firm.

You're crying now, you realize. Tears cutting tracks through the dirt on your face. "I can't lose you."

"You won't. I'm too stubborn to die." He manages a weak smile. "But I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

You want to argue. You want to use your powers anyway, consequences be damned. But the look in Frank's eyes stops you.

"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."

Peter's already on the phone, calling for medical help. You hold Frank's hand, feeling his pulse flutter weakly under your fingers.

"You better not die," you say.

"Wasn't planning on it."

"Good. Because I have a lot of things I want to yell at you about, and I can't do that if you're dead."

"Looking forward to it."

The ambulance arrives, and they take Frank away. You try to follow, but Peter holds you back.

"Let them work," he says.

"I should be with him."

"You will be. But right now, you need to let the professionals handle it."

You watch the ambulance disappear, feeling helpless and useless and terrified.

"He's going to be okay," Peter says.

"You don't know that."

"No. But I believe it. And you should too."

You want to believe him. You really do. But all you can think about is Frank's blood on your hands, and the promise you made not to heal him. And if he dies because you hadn't done anything to save him...you're not sure you could live with yourself.

The hospital waiting room is purgatory.

You've been here for six hours, and there's still no word. Peter left an hour ago to check on the victims from the trafficking ring, promising to come back. You're alone with your thoughts, which is dangerous.

You keep replaying the explosion in your mind. Keep thinking about what you could have done differently. Keep feeling the phantom weight of Frank's hand in yours.

"Family of Frank Castle?"

You're on your feet before the doctor finishes speaking. "That's me."

The doctor looks skeptical—you're covered in dirt and blood and probably look like you've been through a war. Which, technically, you have.

"Are you actually family?" she asks.

"I'm his—" You pause. What are you? Girlfriend sounds too casual. Partner is too vague. "I'm his person. How is he?"

The doctor's expression softens. "He's stable. The surgery went well. He's lucky—the shrapnel missed all the major organs."

The relief is so intense you almost collapse. For once you're thanking whatever deity above, or below for making Frank Castle such a lucky bastard. "Can I see him?"

"He's in recovery. It'll be a few hours before he wakes up."

"I'll wait."

"Visiting hours—" The doctor tries to tell you but you’re not good at listening, especially when it comes to Frank. 

"I'll wait," you repeat, and something in your voice must convince her, because she nods.

"Room 437. Fourth floor."

You take the stairs because you can't stand still long enough for the elevator. Frank's room is quiet, machines beeping steadily. He looks small in the hospital bed, which is wrong. Frank Castle should never look small.

You pull a chair up beside him, taking his hand carefully. His knuckles are bruised, his face pale under the fluorescent lights.

"Hey," you say quietly. "You scared me back there."

He doesn't respond, obviously. But you keep talking anyway.

"Peter says the victims are all safe. The traffickers are in custody. So, you know, successful mission. Except for the part where you almost died." You squeeze his hand. "You're not allowed to do that again, by the way. I'm putting it in writing. No more almost dying."

The machines beep steadily.

"I wanted to heal you," you admit. "Back there, when you were bleeding out. I wanted to so badly. But you asked me not to, and I—" Your voice breaks. "I kept my promise. Even though it was the hardest thing I've ever done."

You sit there for a long time, just holding his hand and listening to him breathe. At some point, you fall asleep, your head on the edge of his bed.

You wake to someone touching your hair.

"Hey," Frank says. His voice is rough, but he's awake, and he's looking at you with those dark eyes.

"Hey yourself." You sit up, wincing at the crick in your neck. "How do you feel?"

"Like I got blown up."

"That's because you did get blown up."

"Fair point." He's still touching your hair, his fingers gentle. "You stayed."

"Of course I stayed. Where else would I be?"

"Getting rest. Taking care of yourself."

"I can do that here."

"That chair can't be comfortable."

"It's fine."

Frank's quiet for a moment, just looking at you. Then: "Thank you." He whispers. 

"For what?" You quite literally hadn’t done anything for him to thank you for. 

He pauses. "For keeping your promise. For not healing me."

"I hated it."

"I know. But you did it anyway." He pulls you closer, and you go carefully, mindful of his injuries. "That means everything."

"You're not allowed to almost die again," you say against his shoulder.

"I'll try."

“Frank,” you lament. "That's not good enough."

"It's the best I can do."

You pull back to look at him. "Then I guess I'll just have to stick around. Make sure you don't do anything stupid."

"That's a full-time job."

"Good thing I'm unemployed."

He laughs, then winces. "Don't make me laugh. Hurts."

The door opens, and Peter sticks his head in. "Oh good, you're awake! I brought coffee and—" He stops, taking in the scene. "Am I interrupting a moment?"

"Yes," Frank says.

"No," you say at the same time.

Peter grins. "I'll just leave these here." He sets down a carrier with three coffees. "Glad you're okay, Frank. Try not to get blown up again."

"Everyone keeps saying that."

"Because you keep getting blown up!"

"It's not intentional."

"Isn't it though?"

Frank throws a pillow at him. Peter catches it with one hand, laughing, his coffee in the other.

"I'll leave you two alone," he says. "But I'm coming back later with actual food, because hospital food is terrible."

He leaves, and you're alone with Frank again.

"He's a good kid," Frank says.

"He's practically your son."

"He's not—" Frank stops, sighs. "Fine. Maybe he's a little bit my son."

"Wow,” you smile, “That ladies and gentleman, is what we call character growth. I'm so proud."

"Shut up."

"Make me." He does, pulling you down for a kiss that's gentle and sweet and tastes like hospital and coffee and home.

When you pull apart, you're both smiling.

"So," you say. "What now?"

"Now you go home and get some actual rest."

"Not happening."

"You need—"

"I need to be here. With you." You settle back in the chair, taking his hand. "Deal with it, Castle."

He looks like he wants to argue, but instead he just squeezes your hand. "Stubborn."

"You love it."

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I do."

Two months later, you're on Frank's rooftop—your rooftop now, really—watching the sunrise.

Frank's beside you, his arm around your shoulders. He's mostly healed from the explosion, though he still moves carefully sometimes. You've been good about not healing him, letting his body recover naturally. It's been hard, but you're learning.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks.

"How weird this is."

"Weird how?"

"Weird good. Weird like, six months ago I was alone, and now I have you. And Peter. And this whole complicated vigilante family thing."

"Having regrets?"

"Not even a little bit." You lean into him. "You?"

"No." He presses a kiss to your temple. "This is good."

"Good? That's high praise coming from you."

"Don't push it."

You laugh, and the sound echoes across the rooftop. Below, the city is waking up—people heading to work, starting their days, living their lives. You and Frank exist in the shadows, protecting them from things they'll never know about.

It's not a normal life. But it's yours.

"Hey," Peter's voice calls from below. He swings onto the rooftop, landing with his usual grace. He's got a bag from the bodega, and you can smell coffee and bagels.

"Breakfast meeting?" he asks.

"Apparently," Frank says.

"Great! Because I have news." Peter pulls out his phone. "There's a new player in town. Calls himself the Vulture. He's been hitting tech companies, stealing experimental equipment."

"And you want our help," you say.

"I mean, I can handle it alone, but—"

"But you'd rather have backup," Frank finishes.

"Exactly." Peter grins. "So what do you say? Family team-up?"

You look at Frank. He looks at you. Something passes between you, an understanding that doesn't need words.

"Yeah," you say. "We're in."

"Excellent! This is going to be great. We should have a team name. Like the Defenders, but cooler."

"We're not having a team name," Frank says.

"The Punishers?"

Frank scoffs. "No."

"Ooh," Peter actually giggles, "How about: The Kinetic Crew?"

You frown at the idea. "Absolutely not."

"Spider-Family?" He tries.

Frank eyes him with contempt, mockingly. "I will shoot you."

"You won't shoot me. Mom won't let you." Your heart smiles, mom. Even though it's a joke, it feels nice to be needed by someone.

You laugh at Frank's expression. "He's got you there."

"I hate both of you," Frank mutters, but there's no heat in it.

"No you don't," you and Peter say together.

And he doesn't. You can see it in his eyes, in the way he's relaxed around you both, in the small smile he's trying to hide.

This is your family now. Broken, complicated, held together by violence and stubbornness and love. It's not perfect—but it's yours, and Franks.  And that's certainly enough.

The air in the bullpen shifts. It's subtle, the way Fin's attention sharpens, the way you save your document without thinking, the way the weekend quiet becomes something else.

"Send her up," you say, already standing.

You meet her at the top of the stairs.

She's young. That's the first thing you notice, and you hate that it's always the first thing. Early twenties, maybe—college-aged, wearing sweatpants and an oversized Hudson University hoodie that swallows her frame. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and there's a grayish tint to her skin that you recognize immediately. Shock. Exhaustion. The particular hollowness that comes from spending hours in a hospital sexual assault unit, being poked and photographed and asked to recount the worst night of your life to a stranger with a clipboard.

She's clutching a folder—the referral paperwork from St. Jude's—and her eyes are red-rimmed but dry. Past crying, or maybe just too tired for it.

"Hi," you say, keeping your voice gentle but professional. "I'm Detective (L/n)—"

"I know," she interrupts, then flushes slightly. "Sorry. The nurse told me to ask for you. She said you were... good at this."

You don't know which nurse, but you make a mental note to send a thank-you. "What's your name?" You ask.

"Emma. Emma Sullivan."

You nod at her with a light, sweet smile.

"Emma, I'm glad you came in. I know today's been long already, but I'm going to do everything I can to make this as easy as possible, okay?" You gesture toward the interrogation rooms, then catch yourself. Wrong word. Wrong energy. "We've got a room where we can talk privately. It's more comfortable than it looks, I promise. Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? Something to eat?"

She shakes her head, but you catch the way her eyes linger on the word eat, like she's trying to remember the last time she did.

"I'll grab you a water anyway maybe a granola bar," you say. "Just in case."

You lead her to Interview Room A, the one that doesn't have the broken heating vent that rattles like a ghost. At least Carisi's not here to pester you about it.

It's still not exactly welcoming: the walls are white, there's a standard-issue table, and chairs that have seen better days—but you've done what you can. There's a box of tissues on the table. A small plant sits on the windowsill that Olivia brought in months ago, insisting that ambiance matters. You'd rolled your eyes at the time, but now you're grateful for it.

Emma sits, and you take the chair across from her—not directly opposite, which can feel confrontational, but at an angle. Close enough to be present, far enough to give her space.

"Okay," you say, setting the bottle of water in front of her. She takes it but shakes her head at your offering for food. "I'm going to ask you some questions, and I need you to be as detailed as you can. I know it's hard. I know you've already told this story at the hospital. But the more information we have, the better we can help you. And if you need to stop at any point, we stop. You're in control here. Okay?"

She nods, twisting the cap off the water bottle with shaking hands.

You open your notepad, click your pen. "Let's start with the basics. How old are you, Emma?"

"Nineteen. I'm a sophomore at Hudson."

"And when did the assault occur?"

"Last night. Friday night." Her voice is quiet but steady. She's rehearsed this, you realize. Probably went over it in her head a hundred times between the hospital and here. "There was a party. At the Sigma Chi house."

You write it down. Sigma Chi. Hudson University. Friday night.

"What time did you arrive at the party?"

"Around ten, I think? Maybe ten-thirty. My roommate and I went together."

"And what's your roommate's name?"

"Becca. Rebecca Lindholm."

"Is Becca aware of what happened?"

Emma's face crumples slightly, then smooths out again. "Yeah. She's the one who took me to the hospital."

Good friend, you think. You'll need to talk to her too, but that can wait.

"Can you walk me through the evening? What do you remember?"

Emma takes a breath. "We got there, and it was already pretty crowded. Typical frat party, you know? Loud music, people everywhere, drinking games in the basement. Becca and I were just hanging out, dancing a little. I had a couple of drinks—vodka cranberries. I wasn't trying to get wasted or anything, I just... it was a Friday night."

"No judgment here," you say quietly. You know exactly what she's describing...you'd been there before, had your fair share of nights out that you wished you hadn't. "You're allowed to have a drink at a party, Emma. That doesn't make any of this your fault."

She nods, but you can see she doesn't quite believe you. They never do, at first. You certainly didn't.

"So you had a couple of drinks," you prompt. "What happened next?"

"I was talking to some people I knew from my Psych class, and then... he came over."

"He?"

"Chase Mitchell." She says the name like it tastes bad. "He's on the hockey team. Everyone knows who he is."

You write it down. Chase Mitchell. Hockey. Hudson University.

"Had you met Chase before last night?"

"Not really. I mean, I knew of him. He's kind of a big deal on campus. Star player, you know? But we'd never actually talked before."

"And he approached you at the party?"

"Yeah. He was... really friendly. Charming, I guess. He asked if I wanted another drink, and I said sure. He went to get it, came back with another vodka cranberry." She pauses, staring at the water bottle in her hands. "I remember thinking it tasted weird. Stronger than the ones I'd had before. But I figured maybe he just poured heavy, you know? Guys at frat parties aren't exactly trained bartenders."

Your stomach tightens. You know where this is going.

"How much of that drink did you have?"

"Most of it, I think. And then everything gets... fuzzy." Her voice drops. "I remember feeling really drunk, really fast. Like, way more than I should have been. I told Becca I needed to sit down, and Chase said there was a quieter room upstairs where I could rest. He offered to help me up there."

"Did Becca see you go upstairs with him?"

"I don't know. I think she was in the bathroom or something. I texted her later—or I thought I did. I don't really remember."

"Okay." You pause, taking a moment to let her statement soak in. "So Chase took you upstairs. Do you remember which room?"

"Not really. It was dark. I remember a bed, and posters on the wall. Hockey stuff, I think. There was a stick bolted across the door." She's starting to shake now, her hands trembling around the water bottle. "I sat down on the bed because I felt like I was going to pass out, and then he was... he was next to me. Touching me. And I tried to say no, I tried to push him away, but I couldn't... I couldn't move right. Everything was so heavy."

You keep your voice level, clinical. It's the only way to get through this without breaking. "Did he remove your clothing?"

"Yeah. My jeans. My underwear. I remember trying to say stop, but I don't know if the words came out right. And then he was... he was on top of me, and I couldn't—" Her voice cracks. "I couldn't stop him."

You give her a moment. Let her breathe.

"Did he use a condom?"

"I don't think know. I don't remember seeing one, but he could have."

"Okay. Do you remember if he ejaculated?"

She flinches at the word, but nods. "I think so. When I woke up, I felt... wet. And sore."

"When did you wake up?"

"I don't know what time it was. It was still dark. He was gone. I was alone in the room, and my clothes were on the floor, and I just... I knew something bad had happened. I got dressed and found Becca. She took one look at me and said we were going to the hospital."

"And you went to St. Jude's?"

"Yeah. We got there around three in the morning, I think. They did the rape kit. The nurse was really nice. She gave me the referral to come here. Told me to ask for you, said you'd understand."

You nod, making notes. You do understand, more than she can ever know. "Emma, you did everything right. Coming to the hospital, coming here—that took a lot of courage."

She laughs, but it's bitter. "I don't feel very courageous."

"Hey. Courage isn't about feeling brave. It's about doing the hard thing even when you're terrified." You lean forward slightly. "We're going to investigate this. We're going to talk to witnesses, pull security footage if the frat house has any, interview Chase Mitchell. You're not alone in this."

"Do you think... do you think anyone will believe me?" Her eyes are wide, scared. "He's a star athlete. His family has money. And I was drinking, and I went upstairs with him, and—"

"None of that matters," you cut in firmly. "You didn't consent. You were incapacitated. That's rape, Emma. Clear-cut. And we're going to prove it. I am going to do everything in my power to prove it."

She nods, but you can see the doubt lingering.

There's a knock on the door, and Fin pokes his head in. "Sorry to interrupt. Can I borrow you for a second?"

You glance at Emma. "Will you be okay for a minute?"

"Yeah. I'm okay."

You step out into the hallway, and Fin hands you a printout. "Ran the name through the system. Chase Mitchell, nineteen, sophomore at Hudson. No priors, but campus security's been called to his dorm twice for noise complaints. Hockey team captain. And get this—his older brother's Brandon Mitchell."

Your blood turns to ice.

"Brandon Mitchell," Fin continues, oblivious to the way your world has just tilted on its axis. "You know, the Rangers goalie? The guy's a fucking superstar. Won the Vezina Trophy last year. This is going to be a media circus."

You can't breathe.

Brandon Mitchell.

The name echoes in your skull like a gunshot.

Suddenly you're twenty-two again, on vacation in Toronto, at a party you shouldn't have been at. Gold medals and champagne and a charming boy with a bright future who told you that you were pretty, that you were special, that you should come upstairs with him.

You're waking up in a hotel room with your dress torn and bruises on your thighs and no memory of how you got there.

You're sitting in a shower, scrubbing your skin raw, trying to wash away the feeling of hands you didn't want on your body.

You're telling yourself it was nothing. That you were drunk. That maybe you said yes and just didn't remember. That boys like him don't do things like that.

You're burying it so deep that sometimes you can almost convince yourself it never happened.

"You good?" Fin's looking at you now, concerned. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm fine," you say automatically. Your voice sounds far away. "Just... thinking about how to approach this. If his brother's involved, we need to be careful."

"Yeah. Liv's going to want a heads-up. You want me to brief her?"

"No, I'll do it." You need to move. Need to do something with your hands before they start shaking. "Let me finish up with Emma first."

Fin nods and heads back to his desk. You stand in the hallway for a moment, staring at the printout in your hands.

Chase Mitchell. Brother of Brandon Mitchell.

You're going to have to see him again. The man who raped you. The man who walked away without consequences, whose career skyrocketed while you spent years trying to convince yourself you were fine.

And you're going to have to pretend that you're fine. That you're professional. That this is just another case.

You fold the printout, slip it into your pocket, and take a breath.

Then you open the door and step back into the room with Emma, your smile firmly in place.

"Okay," you say. "Let's talk about what happens next."

Emma leaves forty minutes later with a victim advocate's card, your direct number, and the kind of exhaustion that settles into bones. You watch her go, her roommate Becca's arm around her shoulders, who'd just arrived to pick Emma up (you make a mental note to call on her later to hear her side of the story), and feel something twist in your chest that you refuse to name.

Olivia's office door is open. She's on the phone, but she waves you in when she sees you hovering. You sink into the chair across from her desk and wait, studying the framed photos on her credenza—Noah at the park, the squad at what feels like some long-ago retirement party for Cragen, and Elliot Stabler's face is carefully absent from all of them.

"Okay, thanks for the heads-up," Olivia says into the phone, then hangs up. She turns her full attention to you, and you're reminded—not for the first time—that there's a reason she's so good at this job. She sees everything. "Walk-in?"

"Nineteen-year-old Hudson student. Emma Sullivan. Drugged and raped at a Sigma Chi party last night by the hockey team captain." You slide the case file across her desk. "Rape kit's being processed at St. Jude's. She's got a solid timeline, a witness—her roommate—and she's credible as hell."

Olivia flips through the file, her expression settling into the particular grimness that comes with these cases. "Chase Mitchell," she reads aloud. "Any priors?"

"Clean record. Campus security's been called to his dorm a couple times for noise complaints, but nothing that stuck. He's a star athlete, Liv. Team captain, probably NHL-bound." You pause, then add carefully, "His older brother is Brandon Mitchell. The Rangers goalie."

Olivia's eyebrows rise. "The Brandon Mitchell? Vezina Trophy winner?"

"That's the one."

You feel bile rising in your throat. For the first time since her maternity leave, you're glad Amanda isn't here. She's the only person you'd ever disclosed what happened to you years ago. And as much as you love her, you don't need her prying the way she always does. Her cerulean orbs would have poured into yours and you would have broken—you have to tell Liv, she'd say.

"So we're looking at a media circus."

"Probably." You keep your voice level, professional. "The family's got money and connections. This is going to get messy."

Olivia studies you for a moment, and you force yourself to hold her gaze. "You okay taking lead on this?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because high-profile cases are a pain in the ass, and you've been pulling double shifts all week. I don't want you burning out."

It's a reasonable concern. A boss' concern. Not a you're acting weird concern. You can work with that.

"I'm good," you say. "Emma already trusts me. I want to see this through."

Olivia nods. "Okay. Keep me posted. And let's get ahead of the media before they get ahead of us. I'll loop in the Deputy Chief."

You stand, grateful for the dismissal, but Olivia's voice stops you at the door.

"Hey. If this gets too heavy, you tell me. That's not a suggestion."

"I will," you lie.

Sunday, 10:15 AM

Rebecca Lindholm is a nervous talker. She sits in Interview Room B, hands wrapped around a coffee cup, and barely pauses for breath.

"I should have stayed with her," she says for the third time. "I should have noticed something was wrong. I'm her roommate, you know? I'm supposed to look out for her."

"You did look out for her," Carisi says gently. He's better at this than you are right now—the reassurance, the warmth. You're grateful he offered to sit in. "You took her to the hospital. You made sure she got help. That matters."

Becca's eyes are red-rimmed. "I just keep thinking about how she looked when I found her. She could barely stand up. Her shirt was on backwards. And I didn't even realize she'd gone upstairs with him until she told me at the hospital."

You lean forward. "Walk us through the timeline. When did you last see Emma before she went upstairs?"

"Um. Maybe around eleven-thirty? We were dancing, and then I went to the bathroom. When I came back, she wasn't where I'd left her. I figured she'd gone to get another drink or was talking to someone. I didn't think..." She trails off, guilt written across her face.

"Did you see her talking to Chase Mitchell at any point?"

"Yeah, earlier in the night. He came over while we were by the keg. He was being really friendly, asking Emma about her major, complimenting her. I remember thinking it was weird because guys like him don't usually talk to girls like us."

"Girls like you?" Carisi asks.

"You know. Regular girls. Not sorority girls or puck bunnies or whatever. Emma's pre-med. She's not exactly the party scene type." Becca sets down her coffee cup. "But he seemed nice. Charming. I didn't think anything of it."

They never do, you think. That's how guys like Chase—guys like Brandon—get away with it. They're charming right up until they're not.

"Did you notice Emma drinking anything Chase gave her?"

"He brought her a drink at one point. A red cup. She drank it." Becca's face crumples. "Oh my god. Do you think he put something in it?"

"We're going to find out," you say. Your voice comes out harder than you intended, and Carisi shoots you a look. You soften it. "The rape kit will tell us if there were any drugs in her system. But your testimony about the timeline is important. You're helping her, Becca."

She nods, wiping at her eyes. "Is she going to be okay?"

You don't have an answer for that. So you say, "She's got a good friend in you. That's a start."

Sunday, 2:47 PM

The Sigma Chi house smells like stale beer and very, very bad decisions. You stand in the common room with Fin while a very nervous fraternity president—a kid named Tyler who can't be older than twenty-one—tries to explain that they "definitely don't condone that kind of behaviour."

"Uh-huh," Fin says, unimpressed. "So you're telling me nobody saw Chase Mitchell take an incapacitated girl upstairs?"

"I mean, I wasn't there the whole night," Tyler stammers. "I was in and out. But Chase is a good guy. He wouldn't—"

"Good guys don't drug and rape women," you cut in with no sympathy in your tone. "Where's the room where it happened?"

Tyler leads you upstairs to a bedroom at the end of the hall. The door has a hockey stick mounted on it and a nameplate that reads MITCHELL. Of course it's his room. Of course he was comfortable enough to bring her to his own space. It's exactly as Emma described to you.

You pull on gloves and step inside. It's just what you'd expect: unmade bed, hockey posters on the walls, a mini-fridge in the corner, clothes on the floor. There's a desk covered in textbooks and energy drink cans. A shelf with trophies. Everything about this room screams entitlement. Maybe you're a little biased against the guy, but he doesn't deserve your self-reflection.

Fin photographs the scene while you bag potential evidence—the sheets, a red Solo cup on the nightstand, a condom wrapper in the trash. At least he had the presence of mind to use protection, though that's cold comfort.

"You think we'll get anything useful?" Fin asks.

"Maybe. If we're lucky, there's DNA. If we're really lucky, there's Rohypnol residue in that cup." You seal the evidence bag. "But even if there's not, we've got Emma's testimony and the rape kit. That's enough to bring him in."

Fin nods, then glances at you. "You've been quiet today."

"I'm working."

"Yeah, but usually you're working and talking. Giving me shit about something. You haven't even made fun of Carisi's new haircut yet."

You force a smile. "I'm pacing myself. It's gonna be a long case."

He doesn't look convinced, but he lets it drop.

Monday, 9:03 AM

Chase Mitchell arrives at the precinct with a lawyer: John Buchanan. Of course he'd take Mitchell on as a client, he'd never been one to turn down a pay day. The lawyer is expensive-looking, with the kind of confidence that comes from winning cases for rich clients. Chase himself looks like every college athlete you've ever seen—tall, broad-shouldered, with the easy posture of someone who's never faced real consequences.

He doesn't look like a rapist. But then, they never do.

You watch from the observation room as Olivia and Dodds conduct the interview. Dodds has been quiet on this case so far, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens when Chase smiles. You'd made a mental note to yourself, Mike Dodds has a blind spot for the wrong doings of the athletic world. You'd seen it during the Zach Foster case, the way he'd torn into coach Bazinski.

"I'm happy to cooperate," Chase says, all politeness. "But I think there's been a misunderstanding."

"A misunderstanding," Olivia repeats flatly.

"Yeah. Emma and I hooked up, but it was consensual. She was into it."

"She was incapacitated," Dodds says. His voice is hard. "Witnesses say she could barely walk."

"She'd been drinking," Chase responds with a shrug. "But she knew what she was doing. She came upstairs with me willingly."

"Did she say yes?" Olivia asks.

"She didn't say no." Jesus Christ.

Your hands curl into fists. Beside you, Carisi mutters, "Unbelievable."

Buchanan, ever slimy, leans forward. "My client has been cooperative and honest. Unless you have evidence to the contrary, I think we're done here."

"We have a rape kit," Olivia says. "We have witness testimony. We have video evidence that your client provided the victim with a drink shortly before she became incapacitated. That's not cooperation. That's a pattern."

Chase's smile falters for the first time. "I didn't drug her."

"Then you won't mind that we searched your dorm room and tested your belongings," Dodds says.

The lawyer stands. "We're done here. Unless you're charging my client, we're leaving."

They don't have enough to hold him. Not yet. Olivia lets them go, and you watch Chase Mitchell walk out of the precinct like he doesn't have a care in the world.

"Entitled little shit," Dodds says when he joins you in the observation room.

You don't trust yourself to speak.

Monday, 4:32 PM

The case meeting is in the conference room. It's not even really a room, more like an open space with a large table and a white board in the precinct. You sit with Fin, Dodds, Carisi, Olivia. And Barba.

He arrives late, as usual, carrying his briefcase and a coffee that probably cost more than your lunch. He's in a navy suit today, the one that makes his eyes look darker, and when he walks into the room, his gaze finds you immediately.

You've been together for eight months. The squad knows. It's not a secret—you filed the appropriate paperwork, disclosed the relationship to HR, made sure everything was above board. Olivia had raised an eyebrow but ultimately signed off on it. Fin had made a joke about Barba "dating down," much to your protest. Carisi had looked vaguely betrayed, like you'd stolen his lawyer crush. Amanda had been absolutely thrilled.

But it works. You and Barba work. He's brilliant and infuriating and somehow exactly what you need—someone who understands the job, who doesn't flinch at the darkness you bring home, who can match your sarcasm and call you on your bullshit.

Right now, though, you can't meet his eyes.

"Sorry I'm late," Barba says, setting down his briefcase. "Traffic was a nightmare. What do we have?"

Olivia runs through the case—Emma's statement, the rape kit, the witness testimony, the evidence collected from the frat house. Barba listens, his expression growing grimmer.

"And the accused lawyered up immediately?" he asks.

"Buchanan. Big-time lawyer," Fin says. "The kind you call when Daddy's money needs to make a problem go away."

"Of course." Barba flips through the file. "The rape kit came back positive for semen. DNA match to Chase Mitchell?"

"Still waiting on the lab," you say. Your voice sounds flat even to your own ears. "But it'll match. He admitted to having sex with her. He's just claiming it was consensual."

"Classic defense," Barba mutters. "What about the tox screen?"

"Positive for alcohol and Rohypnol," Olivia says. "Emma's blood alcohol content was .12, but the Rohypnol explains why she was so incapacitated."

Barba's jaw tightens. "So he drugged her. That means it was premeditated."

"That's our theory," Dodds says. "But his lawyer's going to argue she took it herself. Or that someone else gave it to her."

"Then we establish opportunity and pattern," Barba says. "Who had access to her drink? Who brought her upstairs? Who benefits from her being incapacitated?" He looks up. "This is winnable. But we need to be prepared for the media circus."

"His brother's Brandon Mitchell." Dodds points out.

There it is. The name. You feel it like a punch to the gut.

"The hockey player?" Barba asks with a grimace on his face. "That's going to complicate things. The family will close ranks. They'll use his celebrity to control the narrative."

"Let them try," Olivia says. "We've handled high-profile cases before."

Barba nods, then his gaze shifts to you. "You're lead detective on this?"

"Yeah."

"Good." He holds your gaze for a moment longer than necessary, and you see the question there. Are you okay? But he doesn't ask it out loud. Not here. Not in front of the squad.

You look away first.

Monday, 8:47 PM

You're still at your desk when Rafael finds you. The bullpen is mostly empty—Fin left an hour ago, Carisi's at Fordham for a night class, Dodds is in Olivia's office going over something. You're staring at your computer screen, pretending to work on a report, but the words have stopped making sense.

"You're going to go blind staring at that screen," Barba says.

You don't look up. "I'm almost done."

"You said that an hour ago." He perches on the edge of your desk, close enough that you can smell his cologne. "Talk to me."

You inhale slowly. "I'm fine."

"You're not." His voice is gentle but firm. "You've barely said two words to me all day. You didn't eat lunch. And you look like you haven't slept in a week."

"It's a tough case."

"It's always a tough case. That's not what this is Cariño." He reaches out, tilts your chin up so you have to look at him. "What's going on?"

For a moment, you almost tell him. The words are right there, pressing against your teeth. Brandon Mitchell raped me. Ten years ago in Toronto. And now I have to see him again, have to pretend I'm fine, have to act like his name doesn't make me want to crawl out of my skin.

But you can't. Not here. Not yet.

"I'm just tired," you say instead. "This case is... it's getting to me. The way he sat there and lied. The way his lawyer acted like Emma was the problem."

It's not a lie. It's just not the whole truth.

Your boyfriend studies you for a long moment, and you can see him weighing whether to push. Finally, he says, "Come home with me tonight."

"Rafael—"

"Not for that. Just to sleep. You need rest, and I need to know you're okay." He stands, offering his hand. "Please."

You take it. Because you're tired, and you're scared, and you don't want to be alone with your thoughts tonight.

"Okay," you whisper.

He squeezes your hand. "Okay."

As you gather your things, you catch Dodds watching from across the bullpen. He doesn't say anything, just gives you a small nod. Like he sees something. Like he understands.

You're not sure what scares you more—the idea that your trauma is that obvious, or the idea that you're going to have to explain it soon.

Tuesday, 10:23 AM

The next day, you're at your desk, halfway through a witness statement from another case, when the energy in the bullpen shifts.

It's subtle at first—the way conversations pause mid-sentence, the way heads turn toward the stairwell. You look up, annoyed at the interruption, and then your entire world stops.

Brandon Mitchell walks into the precinct like he owns it.

He's taller than you remember. Broader. His hair is shorter now, styled with the kind of casual precision that costs money. He's wearing jeans and a Rangers hoodie—the expensive kind, the official team merchandise that costs two hundred dollars and screams I'm one of them. There's a confidence in the way he moves, the easy swagger of someone who's spent a decade being told he's exceptional. And unfortunately, he is.

Your lungs forget how to work.

He's talking to the desk clerk, all charm and white teeth, gesturing with his hands in that animated way that made you think he was interesting once. Safe. The kind of guy who tells good stories at parties.

The kind of guy who holds you down when you say no.

Your hands are nearly shaking. You press them flat against your desk, but it doesn't help. Your whole body is shaking now, a tremor that starts in your chest and radiates outward until you're sure everyone can see it.

Breathe, you tell yourself. Just breathe.

But you can't. Your throat is closing, your vision narrowing to a pinpoint that contains only him. Brandon Mitchell. The man who raped you. The man who walked away without consequences while you spent years trying to convince yourself it wasn't that bad, that maybe you'd wanted it, that maybe you were just too drunk to remember saying yes.

The man who's standing fifteen feet away from you right now, smiling like he doesn't have a care in the world.

"Can I help you?" The desk clerk's voice filters through the ringing in your ears. He looks at him with wonder in his eyes. Everyone in the precinct knows who Brandon Mitchell is.

"I'm here to see whoever's in charge of my brother's case." Brandon's voice is exactly the same. Warm. Friendly. The kind of voice that makes people want to trust him. "Chase Mitchell. I'm his brother, Brandon. I just want to understand what's happening and make sure he's being treated fairly."

Treated fairly. Like he's the victim here. Like Emma is the problem.

Your stomach lurches. You're going to be sick. You need to move, need to get out of here, but your legs won't cooperate. You're frozen in your chair, watching him like he's a predator and you're prey, and maybe that's exactly what this is.

Fin stands up from his desk. "I'll get Lieutenant Benson."

Brandon nods, still smiling, and his gaze sweeps across the bullpen. Casual. Assessing. The way someone looks at a room full of strangers.

His eyes pass right over you.

There's no recognition. No pause. No flicker of memory. You're just another detective at another desk in another precinct. Forgettable and entirely irrelevant.

It shouldn't hurt. You should be grateful that he doesn't remember. But instead, it's like being erased. Like that night in Toronto—the worst night of your life—meant so little to him that your face didn't even register. You were just another drunk girl at a party. Another body. Another conquest he didn't bother to remember.

The shame is immediate and overwhelming. It crawls up your throat like bile, hot and acidic, and you have to look away before you do something stupid like cry or scream or throw your coffee mug at his perfect, smiling face.

"Detective."

You flinch. Dodds is standing next to your desk, his expression concerned. "You okay?"

"Fine," you manage. Your voice sounds strangled. "I'm fine."

He doesn't look convinced, but before he can say anything else, the elevator dings and Barba steps out.

He's on his phone, distracted, already talking before he's fully in the room. "—no, tell them we're not accepting a plea. Not with this evidence. I don't care if his father is the Prophet Mohammed himself—" He looks up, sees Brandon Mitchell standing in the middle of the bullpen, and stops mid-sentence.

His eyes find you immediately.

You don't know what he sees on your face, but whatever it is makes him move. He ends the call without saying goodbye, pockets his phone, and crosses the bullpen in four long strides. He doesn't touch you—not here, not in front of everyone—but he positions himself next to your desk, close enough that you can feel the solid presence of him. A barrier between you and Brandon Mitchell.

"Counselor," Dodds says, nodding at Barba. Then, quieter, "Something's wrong."

"I can see that," Barba murmurs. His gaze doesn't leave you. "What happened?"

You can't answer. Can't form words. Your brain is stuck in a loop—that's him, that's him, that's him—and your body is screaming at you to run, to hide, to do anything except sit here and pretend you're fine.

Olivia emerges from her office, Fin trailing behind her. She takes in the scene with the practiced efficiency of someone who's been doing this job for two decades, Brandon Mitchell in her bullpen, you white-knuckled at your desk, Barba hovering protectively, Dodds looking like he's ready to throw someone out a window.

"Mr. Mitchell," she says, extending her hand. "I'm Lieutenant Benson. I understand you're here about your brother's case."

Brandon shakes her hand, and the smile he gives her is devastating. You remember that smile. You remember thinking it meant he liked you.

"Thank you for seeing me, Lieutenant. I know you're busy." He has the decency to look concerned, his brow furrowing in that way that makes him look sincere. "I just want to understand what's happening. Chase is a good kid. He's never been in trouble before. And this accusation—it's just not like him."

You nearly scoff. The apple doesn't fall far from the rotten tree.

"Your brother has been accused of drugging and raping a nineteen-year-old woman," Olivia says flatly. "We have physical evidence, witness testimony, and a rape kit that corroborates the victim's account."

"I understand that's what she's saying," Brandon says carefully. "But Chase told me it was consensual. That they hooked up at a party, and now she's regretting it. I'm not saying she's lying," he adds quickly, holding up his hands in a gesture of reasonableness. "I'm just saying that maybe there's been a misunderstanding. College parties, alcohol—things get blurry, you know how kids can be?"

Your vision goes white at the edges.

Things get blurry.

That's what you told yourself for years. That things were blurry. That you couldn't be sure. That maybe you'd said yes and just didn't remember.

"There's no misunderstanding," Barba says, and his voice is cold enough to freeze. "Your brother drugged her. The tox screen confirms Rohypnol in her system. That's not a misunderstanding. That's premeditated sexual assault."

Brandon's smile falters for just a second, but he recovers quickly. "Look, I'm not here to argue with you. I'm just here as a concerned brother. Chase has a bright future ahead of him. He's being scouted by NHL teams. One mistake—"

"Rape isn't a mistake," Dodds cuts in. His voice is hard. "It's a crime."

"Of course," Brandon says smoothly. "I didn't mean to minimize anything. I just think we should all take a breath and make sure we're not rushing to judgment. My family has resources. We can make sure everyone's treated fairly. Including the young woman who's making these accusations. And maybe while I'm here, I could autograph a few things. I know the NYPD is always trying to raise money for the city, I could help you get some items to auction off."

The implication is clear. We have money. We have power. We can make this go away. I scratch your back, you scratch mine...it's all bullshit.

You stand up so fast your chair rolls backward and hits the desk behind you with a loud crack. Everyone looks at you. Even Brandon looks at you. And still, there's nothing in his eyes. No recognition. No guilt. Not a thing.

"Excuse me," you say. Your voice is far from steady. "I need—I have to—"

You don't finish the sentence. You just walk. Fast. Toward the bathroom, toward anywhere that isn't here, toward any space where you don't have to look at Brandon Mitchell's face and pretend you're fine.

You hear Barba call your name, but you don't stop.

The bathroom door swings shut behind you, and you barely make it to the toilet before your legs give out. You catch yourself on the porcelain, gripping it so hard your knuckles go white, and try to remember how to breathe.

In. Out. In. Out.

But your lungs won't cooperate. Each breath is shallow and sharp, catching in your throat like broken glass. Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your teeth, and there's a high-pitched ringing in your ears that won't stop.

Panic attack. You're having a panic attack. You know this. You've had them before, in the years right after Toronto, before you learned how to bury everything deep enough that it couldn't touch you.

Except it's touching you now. It's drowning you.

You close your eyes and see Brandon's face. His smile. The way he looked at you in Toronto and said, You're so pretty. Come upstairs with me. I just want to talk.

You see the hotel room. The spinning ceiling. The weight of him on top of you, too heavy, too much, and your voice saying no or trying to say no but the words coming out wrong, slurred, and him not stopping, not even pausing, like your words didn't matter at all.

You see yourself the next morning. Bruised. Bleeding. Alone.

A sob tears out of your throat, and you clamp a hand over your mouth to muffle it. You can't fall apart here. Not at work. Not where people can hear you. You vomit, the taste of bile reaching your throat.

You can't stop. The sobs keep coming, wrenching themselves out of your chest like they've been waiting ten years for permission. Your whole body is shaking, and you slide down to the floor, your back against the stall, and let yourself break.

The door opens.

"Don't," you choke out, wiping your sleeve across your mouth. "Please, just—don't."

But it's Barba, and he doesn't listen. He never listens when he thinks you need him.

He closes the door behind him, locks it, and then he's on the floor next to you. Not touching, not yet, just present. Solid. Real.

"Talk to me," he says quietly.

You shake your head. You can't. If you start talking, you'll have to say it out loud, and once you say it out loud, it becomes real in a way it hasn't been for ten years.

"You're scaring me," He says, and there's something raw in his voice that cuts through the panic. "I've never seen you like this. Not even on the worst cases. What happened out there?"

"I can't—" Your voice breaks. "I can't do this. I can't be here. I need to go home."

"Okay." He doesn't argue. Doesn't push. "Okay. Let me take you home."

"You have court—"

"I'll have Carmen reschedule." He shifts closer, and this time when he reaches for you, you let him. His hand is warm on your shoulder, grounding. "Whatever this is, we'll figure it out. But right now, let's just get you out of here."

You nod, because you don't trust your voice anymore.

Barba helps you stand, keeps a steadying hand on your elbow as you splash cold water on your face and try to make yourself look like less of a disaster. It doesn't really work—your eyes are red, your face is blotchy, and you're pretty sure everyone in the bullpen is going to know you've been crying—but it's the best you can do.

When you open the bathroom door, Dodds is standing in the hallway. Waiting.

"He's gone," Dodds says quietly. "Benson sent him on his way. Told him all communication goes through his brother's lawyer from now on."

"Good," Barba says tersely.

Dodds looks at you, and there's something in his expression that makes your chest tighten. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition. Like he knows what it looks like when someone's past comes back to destroy them.

"Take care of her," Dodds says to Barba.

"Always," Rafael replies.

You don't remember the walk to the elevator. Don't remember the ride down or the walk to Rafael's car. You're somewhere else, somewhere far away, and it's only when you're sitting in the passenger seat with the door closed and the world muffled that you start to come back to yourself.

Barba doesn't start the car. He just sits there, hands on the steering wheel, waiting.

"I know him," you finally whisper.

He turns to look at you. "What?"

"Brandon Mitchell. I know him." Your voice is flat. Empty. "He raped me. Ten years ago. In Toronto."

The silence that follows is deafening.

You watch Barba's face change. It's subtle at first—the way his jaw tightens, the way his knuckles go white on the steering wheel. Then his eyes close, just for a second, and when they open again there's something dangerous in them. Something that looks like fury barely contained.

"He—" His voice comes out rough, strangled. He stops, takes a breath, tries again. "Brandon Mitchell raped you?"

It's not a question you want to answer but you nod anyway. The word rape sounds different when someone else says it. More real. For ten years, you've called it other things in your head—what happened, that night, the incident. Clinical words. Safe words. Words that let you pretend it was something other than what it was.

"Ten years ago," Barba repeats. His hands are basically vibrating now. You've never seen his hands shake. "In Toronto. And you never—you didn't report it."

"No." Your voice is barely audible. "I didn't."

"Why?" The question isn't accusatory. It's anguished. Like he already knows the answer but needs to hear you say it.

"Because I—" You stop. Start again. "Because I wasn't sure. Because I was drunk. Because he was this rising star and I was nobody. Because I thought maybe I'd said yes and just didn't remember. Because I was ashamed."

Barba makes a sound low in his throat that might be a curse or a prayer or both. Dios, he mutters and reaches for you, then stops himself, his hand hovering in the space between you like he's afraid touching you might break you further.

"Can I—" His voice cracks. "Can I touch you?"

The fact that he asks makes something in your chest crack open. You nod, and his hand finds yours, warm and solid and real. He holds on like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

"I'm going to kill him," Barba says quietly. "I'm going to fucking destroy him."

"Rafael—"

"No. Listen to me." He turns in his seat to face you fully, and the rage in his eyes is tempered by something else. Something that looks like grief. "That man—that monster—he raped you. He violated you. And then he walked into your precinct today like he owned the place, defending his rapist brother, and you had to sit there and look at him and pretend you were fine."

"I wasn't pretending very well," you say, and it comes out almost like a laugh except it's not funny at all. You wish there was something you could say to make him smile right now, anything to diffuse the pain.

"You shouldn't have to pretend at all." His thumb strokes across your knuckles, gentle despite the fury radiating off him. "You should never have had to see him again. You should never have had to carry this alone."

The tears come then, hot and fast, and you can't stop them. You've been holding them back for hours—for days, really, since the moment you heard Chase Mitchell's name—and now they're pouring out of you like a dam breaking.

Rafael pulls you across the center console, awkward in the confined space of the car, and you bury your face in his shoulder and sob. He holds you tight, one hand in your hair, the other wrapped around your back, and he doesn't tell you to stop crying or that it's going to be okay. He just holds you while you fall apart.

"I've got you," he murmurs into your hair. "I've got you. You're safe."

You're not sure how long you stay like that. Long enough that your tears soak through his shirt. Long enough that the sun starts to set, painting the parking garage in shades of orange and gold. Long enough that the worst of the storm passes, leaving you hollow and exhausted.

"Let's go home," He says finally. "We can talk there. Or not talk. Whatever you need."

You nod against his shoulder, and he helps you back into your seat, makes sure your seatbelt is fastened like you're something precious that needs protecting. Maybe you are.

The drive to his apartment is quiet. He keeps one hand on your thigh the whole way, grounding you, reminding you that you're not alone. You watch the city slide by outside the window—people going about their lives, oblivious to the fact that yours is imploding—and try to remember how to breathe.

Barba's apartment is exactly what you need right now. Quiet. Safe. Familiar. You've spent enough nights here that you have a drawer in his dresser, a toothbrush in his bathroom, a favourite mug in his kitchen. It's become a second home, and right now you need that more than anything.

He locks the door behind you—an unnecessary gesture, but you appreciate it anyway—and guides you to the couch. "Sit. I'll get you some water."

You sit because your legs are shaking too badly to hold you up anymore. The apartment is dim, the only light coming from the windows overlooking the city, and you're grateful for the darkness. It feels easier to exist in shadows right now.

Rafael returns with water and sits next to you, close but not touching. Giving you space to choose.

You choose him. You'd always choose him.

You lean into his side, and his arm comes around you immediately, pulling you close. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. You just sit there in the gathering darkness, and it's almost peaceful except for the storm still raging in your head.

"Tell me," Barba says finally. "Tell me what happened. All of it."

You don't want to. God, you don't want to. But you know you need to. If you don't say it now, you never will, and this thing will live inside you forever, poisoning everything it touches.

"I was twenty-two," you start. Your voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone else. "I'd just graduated from the academy. My family was in Toronto for a vacation—my dad had some conference there, and we tagged along. It was winter. The World Junior Hockey Championship had just ended, and Canada had won gold."

Barba's hand tightens on your shoulder, but he doesn't interrupt.

"I had a friend from college who was living in Toronto at the time. She invited me to this party—said it would be fun, that there would be hockey players there celebrating. I thought, why not? I was young and stupid and I wanted to have fun." You laugh, but it's bitter. "I wore this dress. Blue. I remember thinking I looked pretty."

"I'm sure you did," Barba says quietly.

"The party was at this fancy hotel. The kind of place I'd never been to before. There were so many people—players, their friends, girls everywhere. Everyone was drinking champagne. It felt... glamorous, I guess. Like I was part of something special."

You take a sip of water, trying to wet your throat. It doesn't help.

"Brandon was there. He was nineteen, I think. Just a kid, really, but he'd been named tournament MVP. Everyone wanted to talk to him. And he was so charming. He had this smile that made you feel like you were the only person in the room." Your voice hardens. "I know now that's what predators do. They make you feel special right before they destroy you."

"It's not your fault," Rafael says firmly. "Whatever happened next, it wasn't your fault." This is how he talks to...He's using his victim voice on you, and you're not sure how to feel about that.

"I know that. Intellectually, I know that. But it doesn't always feel that way." You close your eyes. "He started talking to me. Asked me about myself, seemed genuinely interested. We talked for maybe an hour. He was funny. Sweet. I thought... I thought he liked me."

The memory is so vivid it hurts. You can still see Brandon's face, young and handsome and full of promise. You can still hear his laugh, feel the way his hand brushed against yours when he handed you a drink.

"He kept getting me drinks. Champagne, mostly. I wasn't trying to get drunk, but I wasn't counting either. And then he said there was a quieter place we could talk, away from the noise. He said he wanted to get to know me better." You swallow hard. "I said yes. I went with him willingly. That's the part that's always made me think—"

"Stop," Barba interrupts. "Don't finish that sentence. Going somewhere with someone isn't consent. Being interested in someone isn't consent. The only thing that's consent is an explicit, enthusiastic yes to sex. Did you give him that?"

"I don't know." The words come out broken. "That's the thing, Rafael. I don't know. We went up to his hotel room, and I remember sitting on the bed, and we were talking, and then... it gets fuzzy. I remember him kissing me. I think I kissed him back at first. But then his hands were everywhere, and I remember feeling wrong. Too drunk. Too dizzy. I remember trying to say something—stop, maybe, or wait—but my mouth wasn't working right."

Your breathing is getting faster, shallower. Barba's hand moves to the back of your neck, grounding you.

"Take your time," he says. "You're safe. I'm right here."

"He pushed me down on the bed. I remember that clearly. The ceiling was spinning, and I felt like I was going to be sick, and he was on top of me, so heavy I couldn't breathe. I tried to push him off, but my arms weren't working. Nothing was working. And then he was—" Your voice breaks. "He was inside me, and it hurt, and I wanted to scream but I couldn't make the sounds come out right."

Barba makes a sound like he's been punched. His arms tighten around you, and you can feel him shaking.

"I don't remember all of it," you continue. "Parts of it are just... gone. But I remember the pain. I remember crying. I remember him finishing and then just... getting up. Getting dressed. He said something—I don't remember what. Maybe 'thanks' or 'that was fun' or something equally horrible. And then he left."

"He left you there," Barba says, and his voice is deadly quiet.

"I woke up a few hours later. Alone. My dress was torn. There was blood on the sheets. I hurt everywhere." You're crying again, but you barely notice. "I took a shower. I scrubbed my skin until it was raw. I threw the dress away. And then I went back to my hotel room and pretended nothing had happened."

"Did you tell anyone?"

"No. I couldn't. I didn't even know what to call it. I kept thinking that maybe I'd wanted it and just didn't remember. That maybe I'd said yes. That maybe it was my fault for going to his room, for drinking too much, for wearing that dress." You turn to look at Barba, and his face is wet with tears. "I was training to be a cop, Rafael. I knew what rape was. I knew the statistics, knew the law. But I couldn't apply it to myself. I couldn't admit that it had happened to me."

I couldn't admit that I let it happen to me.

"So you buried it," Barba says.

"I buried it. I told myself it was just a bad hookup. That I'd made a mistake. That I needed to move on. And I did, mostly. I finished my training, became a detective, moved to New York City, built a life. There were times when it would come back—when I'd work a case that hit too close to home, or when I'd see his name in the news—but I'd push it down and keep going."

"Until today."

You lean your head against his shoulder. "When he walked into the precinct, I felt like I was twenty-two again. Like no time had passed at all. And the worst part? He didn't even recognize me. I was just another girl. Another body. So forgettable that ten years later, he doesn't even remember my face."

"That's not about you," Rafael says fiercely. "That's about him. That's about the fact that he's probably done this so many times that the victims blur together. You're not forgettable. You're unforgettable. And the fact that he doesn't remember you just proves what a monster he is."

You want to believe him. You're trying to believe him.

"I'm so angry," you whisper. "I'm so fucking angry that he gets to walk around like a hero while I've spent ten years carrying this. That he gets to defend his rapist brother while I have to pretend I'm fine. That he took something from me and I never got it back."

"You have every right to be angry," Barba says. "I'm angry. I'm so angry I can barely think straight. I want to—" He stops, takes a breath. "I want to make him pay for what he did to you. I want to destroy his career, his reputation, everything. But that's not what matters right now. What matters is you."

"I don't know what I need," you admit.

"That's okay. We'll figure it out together." He shifts so he can look at you properly, his hands coming up to cup your face. His thumbs brush away your tears with infinite gentleness. "Listen to me. What happened to you was not your fault. You didn't ask for it. You didn't deserve it. And you are not broken because of it. You're strong and brave and incredible, and I love you so much it terrifies me."

The words hit you like a physical thing. You've said "I love you" before—whispered it in the dark, said it casually over morning coffee—but this is different. This is him seeing the worst parts of you, the broken parts, and loving you anyway.

"I love you too," you say, and it comes out like a sob.

He kisses you then. Soft and careful, like you're made of glass. His lips are salt-wet with tears—yours or his, you're not sure—and it's not passionate or heated. It's just... present. A reminder that you're here, that you're alive, that you survived.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. "What do you need right now? Tell me how to help you."

"Just... hold me. Please."

He does. He shifts you both so you're lying on the couch, your body tucked against his, his arms wrapped around you like a shield. You bury your face in his chest and breathe in the familiar scent of him—coffee and expensive cologne and something uniquely Rafael.

"I need to tell the squad," you say after a while. "I can't keep this from them. Not if Brandon's going to be involved in the case. Not if I'm going to help Emma."

"Are you sure?" Barba asks carefully. "You don't owe them your trauma."

"I know. But I can't do my job if I'm hiding this. And Emma deserves better than a detective who's too broken to fight for her." You take a shaky breath. "Besides, if we're going to build a case around the Mitchell family's pattern of behaviour, I know it's a long shot but my assault is relevant. It establishes that Brandon has a history. That this isn't just about Chase—it's about a culture that protected Brandon and taught Chase that he could get away with it too."

Barba is quiet for a long moment. You can practically hear his lawyer brain working, weighing the implications.

"If you testify about what Brandon did to you, it opens you up to cross-examination," he says finally. "His brother's lawyers will try to discredit you. They'll ask why you didn't report it. They'll imply you're lying or misremembering. They'll drag your name through the mud. And Brandon won't even be the one on trial."

"I know."

"They'll make it public. Your assault will be in the court record. In the media. Everyone will know."

"I know," you say again. "But if I don't speak up, he wins. Again. And I can't—I can't let him win anymore, Rafael. I can't let him or his brother destroy another girl's life the way he tried to destroy mine."

Rafael's arms tighten around you. "Then we do this together. We tell the squad. We build the case. We make sure both Mitchell brothers face consequences." He pauses. "But we do it on your terms. You're in control here. If at any point you want to stop, we stop. Understood?"

"Understood."

"And I'll be with you every step of the way. In court, at the precinct, wherever you need me. You're not alone in this anymore."

You tilt your head up to look at him. His eyes are rimmed with tears, his face drawn with exhaustion and emotion, but there's a fierce determination there that makes your chest ache.

"Thank you," you whisper. "For believing me. For not making me feel broken."

"You're not broken," he says firmly. "You're a survivor. And you're the strongest person I know."

You don't feel strong. You feel like you've been shattered into a thousand pieces and you're not sure how to put yourself back together. But maybe that's okay. Maybe you don't have to be whole right now. Maybe it's enough to just be here, in Rafael's arms, taking it one breath at a time.

"Stay with me tonight," He says. It's not really a question.

"I wasn't planning on going anywhere."

"Good." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "We'll deal with tomorrow when it comes. But tonight, you rest. You let yourself feel whatever you need to feel. And you let me take care of you."

"I'm not very good at being taken care of," you admit.

"I know, neither am I." He teases with a gentle smile. "But you're going to try anyway. For me."

You nod against his chest. "For you."

You lie there in the darkness, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and for the first time in ten years, you feel like maybe—just maybe—you're going to be okay. Not today. Not tomorrow. But someday.

And for now, that's enough.

Wednesday, 8:15 AM

You don't sleep much. When you do, you dream of hotel rooms and spinning ceilings and a voice that says thanks like you were a transaction. You wake up gasping at 3 AM, and Barba is already awake, his hand finding yours in the darkness.

"I'm here," he says. Just that. Nothing more.

By the time morning comes, you're exhausted but resolute. You shower, dress in your usual work clothes—jeans, blazer, boots—and try to make yourself look like someone who has their shit together. It's not entirely convincing, but it'll have to do.

Rafael makes you breakfast. Scrambled eggs and toast that you pick at while he watches with barely concealed concern.

"You don't have to do this today," he says quietly. "We can wait. Give you more time."

"No." Your voice is firm. "If I wait, I'll talk myself out of it. And Emma doesn't have time for me to be a coward."

"You're not a coward. You're the bravest person I know."

You manage a weak smile. "You said strongest last night. Now I'm brave too? You're really overselling me here, Counselor."

"Impossible to oversell the truth." He reaches across the table, takes your hand. "I'll be right there with you. Every second."

"I know."

The drive to the precinct is quiet. Barba keeps one hand on your thigh, grounding you, while you watch the city wake up outside the window. People going to work, getting coffee, living their normal lives. You wonder what it's like to be them. To not carry this weight.

When you walk into the bullpen together, Fin looks up from his desk and does a double-take. "You two carpooling now? That's new."

"Something like that," Barba says smoothly.

Carisi's at his desk, surrounded by case files. He glances up, starts to make what's probably a joke about Barba's tie, then stops when he sees your face. "You okay?"

"I need to talk to everyone," you say. Your voice sounds steadier than you feel. "Is Liv in?"

"Yeah, she's in her office. You want me to grab Dodds?"

"Please."

Five minutes later, you're all crammed into Olivia's office. It's not a big space—barely room for her desk, a small couch, and a couple of chairs—but somehow you all fit. Olivia's behind her desk, her expression already concerned. Fin leans against the wall by the window, arms crossed. Carisi's perched on the arm of the couch, legal pad in hand like he's not sure if he should be taking notes. Dodds stands near the door, his cop posture perfect but his eyes worried.

Barba positions himself next to you, close enough that your shoulders touch. A silent reminder that you're not alone.

"Okay," Olivia says gently. "What's going on?"

You take a breath. Then another. Your hands are shaking, so you clasp them together in your lap.

"I need to tell you something about the Mitchell case. About Brandon Mitchell specifically." Your voice is clinical, detached. It's the only way you can do this. "Ten years ago, in Toronto, during the World Junior Hockey Championship celebration, Brandon Mitchell sexually assaulted me."

The silence that follows is deafening.

Fin's arms drop to his sides. Carisi's pen stops moving. Dodds' jaw clenches so hard you can hear his teeth grind. Olivia's face goes through about five different emotions in two seconds before settling on something that looks like grief. Over the years she's learned not to be taken by surprise, but she can't lie, this has shocked her.

"I was twenty-two," you continue, forcing the words out. "Fresh out of the academy. My family was in Toronto for vacation, and a friend invited me to a party where the Canadian team was celebrating their gold medal. Brandon was there. He was nineteen, tournament MVP, everyone wanted to talk to him."

You're aware of Barba's hand finding yours, squeezing gently. You hold on like it's a lifeline.

"He was charming. Funny. He seemed genuinely interested in me. We talked for about an hour, and he kept getting me drinks. Champagne. I wasn't trying to get drunk, but I stopped keeping track after a while." You swallow hard. "He said there was a quieter place we could talk. His hotel room. I went with him willingly."

"That's not consent," Olivia says immediately, her voice fierce.

"I know that now. I didn't know it then, even though I should have." You force yourself to keep going. "Once we were in his room, things got fuzzy fast. I remember feeling wrong—too drunk, too dizzy. I remember him kissing me, and then his hands were everywhere. I tried to say stop. I tried to push him away. But I couldn't make my body work right."

Dodds makes a sound low in his throat that might be a curse. Something that sounds a lot like Jesus.

"He raped me. On his hotel bed, while I was incapacitated, unable to consent or fight back. And then he left. Just got dressed and walked out like it was nothing." Your voice cracks slightly, but you push through. "I woke up alone a few hours later. My dress was torn. There was blood. I was in pain. And I had no idea what to do."

"Did you go to a hospital?" Olivia asks. Her voice is gentle but professional. She's slipped into investigator mode, and you're grateful for it.

"No. I took a shower. Destroyed the evidence. Threw away the dress. Went back to my hotel room and pretended nothing happened." You look down at your hands. "I didn't report it. I didn't tell anyone. Not until much later, a couple years after Amanda started working with the unit, when everything was going down with Chief Patton, I told her." Barba's eyebrows shoot up at this. He didn't know you'd told Rollins anything. But it makes sense...you were bonding over shared trauma.

"I convinced myself that maybe I'd wanted it and just didn't remember. That maybe it was my fault for going to his room, for drinking too much. I buried it so deep that most days I could pretend it never happened."

"Until Chase Mitchell's case," Barba says quietly.

"Until Chase Mitchell's case," you confirm. "When I heard the name, I knew. And when Brandon walked into this precinct on Monday, I—" Your voice breaks. "I fell apart. He didn't even recognize me. I was just another girl. Another body he used and forgot about."

Fin pushes off from the wall and crosses to you in two strides. He crouches down in front of your chair, takes both your hands in his, and looks you dead in the eye.

"Listen to me kid," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "That man is a predator. What he did to you was not your fault. Not even a little bit. And the fact that he doesn't remember you? That just proves what a piece of shit he is."

You nod, tears spilling over despite your best efforts to hold them back.

Carisi's voice comes from behind you, shaky with anger. "I'm gonna destroy him. I'm gonna dig up every single thing he's ever done and I'm gonna bury him with it."

"Get in line," Dodds says. His voice is cold, controlled, but there's a fury underneath that makes you shiver. "I grew up around guys like him. Star athletes who thought the rules didn't apply to them. Who had coaches and parents and whole institutions protecting them because they could score goals or make saves. I saw what they got away with." He looks at you, and his eyes are blazing. "They don't get away with it anymore. Not on my watch."

Olivia stands up, comes around her desk, and kneels next to Fin. She takes your face in her hands, gentle but firm, and makes you look at her.

"I'm so sorry," she says, and her voice is thick with emotion. "I'm so sorry that happened to you. I'm sorry you carried it alone for so long. And I'm sorry I didn't see it sooner."

"You couldn't have known, I didn't want anyone to know—"

"I should have. I've been doing this job long enough. I should have seen the signs." She brushes a tear from your cheek with her thumb. "But we see them now. And we're going to make this right."

"That's why I'm telling you," you say, finding your voice again. "Brandon being involved in Chase's defense—it's not just about protecting his brother. It's about protecting himself. About maintaining the narrative that guys like them don't do things like this. That the girls are lying or confused or asking for it."

"Pattern evidence," Barba says, his lawyer brain already working. "Your assault establishes Brandon's history of predatory behaviour. It shows that this isn't an isolated incident with Chase—it's a learned behaviour. A family culture of entitlement and violence against women."

"Exactly." You sit up straighter, feeling something shift inside you. Purpose, maybe. Or just anger finally finding a direction. "If we can establish that Brandon has a history of sexual assault, it undermines his credibility as a character witness for Chase. It shows the jury that the Mitchell family has a pattern of this behaviour and a pattern of covering it up."

"But it means you'll have to testify," Olivia says carefully. "You'll have to tell this story in court. Under cross-examination. With Brandon sitting right there."

"I know."

"His lawyers will come after you hard," Barba adds. "They'll ask why you didn't report it. They'll try to poke holes in your memory. They'll imply you're lying or that you have an agenda."

"Let them try." Your voice is steady now. "I've been silent for ten years. I'm done being silent. Emma deserves better than a detective who's too scared to fight for her. And every other girl Brandon and Chase Mitchell have hurt—the ones who didn't report, the ones who were too afraid, the ones who thought no one would believe them—they deserve to know that someone finally stood up and said 'no more.'"

Fin squeezes your hands. "That's my girl."

Carisi leans forward, his expression serious. "Okay, so we need to build the case around pattern and practice. We establish Brandon's assault on you, then we dig into his history. There have to be other women. Guys like him don't just do it once. I know he's not the one on trial here, but if we can discredit him enough, it makes him useless to his brother's case."

"I'll start pulling records," Fin says, standing up. "Any complaints filed against him, any whispers, any rumours. If there's something out there, I'll find it."

"I'll work the legal angle," Barba says. "Figure out how to introduce your testimony without it being prejudicial to Chase's case. It's a fine line, but it's doable."

"What about the media?" Dodds asks. "Brandon's already using his platform to defend Chase. Once we go public with this, it's going to be a shitstorm."

"Let it be a shitstorm," you say. "I'm tired of these guys controlling the narrative. It's time someone told the truth."

Olivia nods slowly. "Okay. But we do this carefully. We protect you as much as we can. And if at any point it becomes too much—"

"It won't."

"If it does," Olivia continues firmly, "you tell me. You don't have to be a martyr here. You're allowed to have limits."

You nod, because you know she needs to hear it. But you also know you're not going to stop. Not now. Not when you're this close to finally making Brandon Mitchell face consequences.

"So what's the timeline?" Carisi asks, flipping to a fresh page in his legal pad.

Barba leans back against Olivia's desk, his hand still holding yours. "We need to move fast. Chase's arraignment is in two days. We'll need to file a motion to introduce pattern evidence, which means we need your formal statement on record." He looks at you. "Are you ready for that?"

"Yes."

"It'll be detailed. Specific. Everything you remember about that night—the timeline, the location, what he said, what he did. It's going to be hard."

"I know. But I can do it."

Fin crosses his arms, a small smile playing at his lips. "You know what the best part of this is? Brandon Mitchell thinks he's untouchable. He thinks his fame and his money and his Vezina Trophy make him bulletproof. He's about to find out he's not."

"I almost feel bad for him," Carisi says, then pauses. "Actually, no I don't. Fuck that guy."

Despite everything, you laugh. It's a small, broken sound, but it's real. "Eloquent as always, Carisi."

"Hey, I save the fancy words for court. In here, I can say what I really think." He grins at you, and there's something fierce and protective in it. "Which is that Brandon Mitchell is a piece of shit who's about to get what's coming to him, and so is his brother."

"Amen to that," Fin mutters.

Dodds moves from his position by the door, comes to stand in front of you. "I want you to know something," he says quietly. "I played hockey growing up. I was good—not NHL good, but good enough to see how the system works. How the star players get protected. How coaches look the other way. How parents make excuses." His jaw tightens. "I hated it then, and I hate it now. What Brandon did to you, what Chase did to Emma—it's not just about them. It's about every coach who covered for them, every parent who made excuses, every institution that valued winning over doing the right thing."

"That's why this matters," you say. "It's not just about getting justice for me or for Emma. It's about breaking the cycle. About showing that fame and talent don't put you above the law."

"Damn right," Dodds says.

Olivia stands, her lieutenant voice firmly in place. "Okay. Here's what we're going to do. Fin, you start digging into Brandon's history. Talk to anyone who might have information—former teammates, coaches, women who were around the team. Be discreet, but be thorough."

"On it," Fin says.

"Carisi, you work with Barba on the legal strategy. Figure out how to introduce the pattern evidence without giving the defense grounds for a mistrial."

"Got it, Lieu."

"Dodds, I want you to re-interview Emma. Tell her what we're doing, make sure she's comfortable with the direction this is taking. This is still her case, and she needs to be on board."

"Understood."

Olivia turns to you. "And you—you're going to give your formal statement to Barba. Everything you remember, on the record. Maybe talk to Rollins, see if she's willing to testify to your disclosure. Then you're going to take the rest of the day off."

"Liv—"

"That's not a suggestion. You just disclosed a decade-old sexual assault to your entire squad. You're allowed to take a breath." Her voice softens. "We've got this. We've got you. But you need to take care of yourself too."

You want to argue, but the exhaustion is suddenly overwhelming. The adrenaline that's been keeping you upright is fading, and you can feel yourself starting to crash.

"Okay," you say quietly. You'll do what she says, but you're going to leave Amanda out of it. There's no chance you're dragging her out of her maternity leave for this.

Barba's hand tightens on yours. "I'll take her home after we do the statement."

"Good." Olivia looks around at the assembled team. "We're going to do this right. We're going to build an airtight case, and we're going to make sure both Mitchell brothers face consequences for what they've done. But we do it by the book. No shortcuts, no vigilante justice. We use the system to beat them."

"The system that protected them in the first place?" Carisi asks, a bitter edge to his voice.

"The system that we're going to make work this time," Olivia corrects. "Because we're not going to let them slip through the cracks. Not again."

There's a moment of silence, and then Fin speaks up, eyes catching yours. "You know what? I'm proud of you." He's looking at you, his expression serious. "It takes guts to come forward. Especially after all this time. Especially when the guy who hurt you is famous and powerful and surrounded by people who'll call you a liar. But you're doing it anyway. That's courageous."

"Fin's right," Dodds nods. "You could have stayed quiet. Could have recused yourself from the case and no one would have blamed you. But you didn't. You're choosing to fight."

You feel something crack open in your chest—something that's been locked tight for ten years. It's not healing, not yet. But it's the beginning of it. The first step toward something that might eventually look like peace.

"Thank you," you say, and your voice breaks on the words. "All of you. For believing me. For having my back. For not making me feel like I'm crazy or broken or—"

"You're not broken," Olivia says firmly. "You're a survivor. And you're one of the best detectives I've ever worked with. That doesn't change because of what happened to you. If anything, it makes you stronger."

Carisi stands up, stretches. "Okay, so who wants to place bets on how fast we can make Brandon Mitchell's lawyers cry?"

"Carisi," Olivia says, but there's no heat in it.

"What? I'm just saying, once we hit them with pattern evidence and a decade of covering up sexual assaults, they're going to wish they'd taken a plea deal."

"There's not going to be a plea deal," Barba says coldly. "Not for Chase, and definitely not for Brandon once we're done with him."

"Music to my ears, Counselor," Fin says.

You stand up, your legs shaky but holding. Barba's hand is still in yours, and you're grateful for the anchor. "I should go give that statement before I lose my nerve."

"You're not going to lose your nerve," Barba responds. "But yes, let's get it done."

As you move toward the door, Dodds stops you with a hand on your shoulder. "Hey. If you need anything—and I mean anything—you call me. Day or night. I don't care if it's three in the morning and you just need someone to talk to. You call."

"Same goes for me," Fin adds.

"And me," Carisi chimes in.

"All of us," Olivia says. "You're not alone in this anymore. You've got a whole squad behind you."

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. The weight you've been carrying for ten years is still there, but it feels different now. Lighter, maybe. Or just more evenly distributed. Shared among people who care about you, who believe you, who are willing to fight alongside you.

As you leave Olivia's office with Barba at your side, you hear Fin say to the others, "I'm going to enjoy watching Brandon Mitchell's world burn."

"Get in line," Dodds replies.

And despite everything—despite the pain and the fear and the long road ahead—you smile.

Because for the first time in ten years, you're not fighting alone.

Friday, 3:47 PM

The media storm hits exactly the way you knew it would.

Brandon Mitchell holds a press conference outside Madison Square Garden, surrounded by teammates and his agent. He's wearing a Rangers jersey, wrapping himself in the team's brand, in the city's love for their star goalie. The cameras eat it up.

You watch it on the television in the break room, your coffee going cold in your hands.

"My brother Chase is innocent," Brandon says, his voice steady and sincere. The same voice that told you that you were pretty, that he just wanted to talk. "He's a good kid who made the mistake of hooking up with someone at a party. Now that person is trying to destroy his future because she regrets her choices. It's not right. It's not fair. And I'm going to stand by my brother because that's what family does."

The reporters eat it up. Questions fly—about Chase's hockey career, about the "allegations," about whether this will affect Brandon's performance in the playoffs. No one asks about Emma. No one asks about the Rohypnol in her system or the rape kit or the witness testimony.

"Turn it off," Barba says from the doorway. You didn't hear him come in.

You don't move. You can't look away from Brandon's face on the screen, from the way he's positioned himself as the victim here. The protective older brother. The voice of reason.

"He's good at this," you say quietly. "At making people believe him."

"He's had practice." Barba crosses the room, takes the remote from your hand, and turns off the television. The sudden silence is jarring. "Don't let him get in your head."

"Too late for that."

"Then let me rephrase: don't let him stay in your head." Barba sets down the remote and takes your hands in his. "He's playing a game he thinks he's already won. But he doesn't know what's coming. He doesn't know about you, about your testimony, about the pattern we're going to establish. He thinks his fame makes him and his brother bulletproof."

"Maybe it does."

"It doesn't." His voice is firm. "Not anymore. Not with what we have."

You want to believe him. You're trying to believe him. But you've seen how this goes—how men like Brandon Mitchell skate through life without consequences, how their victims are dismissed as liars or opportunists or girls who just regret their choices.

Your phone buzzes. It's a text from the victim advocate assigned to Emma's case.

Emma's here. She's asking for you.

"I have to go," you say, pulling away from Barba.

"Want me to come with you?"

"No. This is something I need to do alone."

You find Emma in Interview Room B, sitting at the table with her arms wrapped around herself. She looks smaller than she did a week ago, like she's trying to take up as little space as possible. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and there's a laptop open in front of her showing a news article with Brandon Mitchell's face.

"Hey," you say softly, closing the door behind you. "You okay?"

It's a stupid question. She's clearly not okay.

Emma looks up at you, and her expression is so lost it makes your chest ache. "Did you see it? The press conference?"

"I saw it."

"Everyone believes him." Her voice cracks. "I've been reading the comments online—I know I shouldn't, but I can't stop. They're calling me a liar. A gold digger. A slut who regrets a hookup. They're saying I'm trying to ruin Chase's life because I want attention."

You pull out the chair across from her and sit down. "Emma, listen to me. Those people don't know you. They don't know what happened. They're reacting to a narrative that Brandon Mitchell carefully constructed because that's what he does. He controls the story."

"But what if they're right?" Emma's hands are shaking. "What if I'm remembering it wrong? What if I did say yes and I just don't remember? I was so drunk, and everything's so fuzzy, and—"

"Stop." Your voice comes out harder than you intended, and Emma flinches. You soften it. "I'm sorry. But you need to stop doing that to yourself. You need to stop questioning your own reality because other people are trying to rewrite it for you."

"How can you be so sure?" Emma asks, and there are tears streaming down her face now. "How can you be so sure I'm not just... confused?"

You take a breath. This is the moment. This is where you decide whether to use your own pain to help someone else, or whether to keep it locked away where it's safe.

You choose Emma.

"Because ten years ago, I was you," you say quietly.

Emma's eyes widen. "What?"

"I was twenty-two. I went to a party in Toronto. A hockey player—a star, someone everyone loved—he was charming and funny and he made me feel special. He got me drinks. He took me to his hotel room. And then he raped me while I was too incapacitated to fight back or say no properly." You hold her gaze. "And for ten years, I asked myself the same questions you're asking now. Did I say yes? Was I too drunk to remember? Was it my fault for going to his room, for drinking too much, for wearing the wrong thing?"

"Oh my god," Emma whispers.

"I never reported it. I convinced myself it wasn't rape because I couldn't remember every detail, because I'd gone with him willingly, because he was this rising star and I was nobody. I buried it so deep that most days I could pretend it never happened." You lean forward. "But it did happen. And it wasn't my fault. Just like what happened to you wasn't your fault."

"Who was it?" Emma asks. "The hockey player. Who was he?"

You pause, then decide she deserves the truth. "Brandon Mitchell."

The colour drains from Emma's face. "Chase's brother? The guy who just—"

"The guy who just held a press conference defending his rapist brother, yes." Your voice is steady now, clinical. "That's what these men do, Emma. They protect each other. They use their fame and their money and their charm to control the narrative. They make us doubt ourselves, make us think we're crazy or lying or confused. Because if we doubt ourselves, we won't fight back."

"But you're fighting back now," Emma says. "You're testifying. Is that what detective Carisi meant when he told me you were getting involved?"

You send her a weak nod. "I am. Because I'm done letting him win. I'm done carrying his shame like it's mine." You reach across the table, take her hands in yours. "And you need to be done with it too. What Chase did to you was rape. Clear-cut, unambiguous rape. You were drugged. You were incapacitated. You couldn't consent. That's not confusion—that's a crime."

"I'm so scared," Emma whispers. "Of the trial. Of having to tell the story again. Of everyone judging me."

"I know. And I'm scared too. But we're going to do it anyway. Because the alternative is letting them get away with it. Again." You squeeze her hands. "You're not alone in this. You have me, you have the whole SVU squad, you have Barba who is going to fight like hell for you. And when you get on that stand and tell your story, I'm going to be right there in the courtroom. You look at me if you need to. You remember that I believe you, that I know you're telling the truth, that you're not crazy or confused or any of the things they're going to try to make you feel."

Emma nods, wiping at her tears. "Thank you. For telling me. For trusting me with that."

"Thank you for being brave enough to report it. For doing what I couldn't do ten years ago." You stand up, but keep holding her hands. "You're going to get through this. We both are."

"Together," Emma says.

"Together," you confirm.

Manhattan District Attorney's Office

Monday, 10:15 AM

Barba's office is organized chaos—case files stacked on every surface, legal pads covered in his precise handwriting, coffee cups in various states of emptiness. You sit in the chair across from his desk while Carisi perches on the windowsill, his own legal pad balanced on his knee. Fordham should let him graduate early for this, he's practically practicing real law already.

"Okay," Barba's voice carries drastically, flipping through his notes. "Let's run through your testimony one more time. I need to make sure you're ready for what Buchanan's going to throw at you."

Buchanan. Brandon Mitchell's lawyer. He's the kind of defense attorney who makes his living destroying victims on the stand.

"I'm ready," you say, even though your stomach is churning.

"You'll be on direct examination first. I'll walk you through the events of that night in Toronto—the party, meeting Brandon, going to his hotel room, the assault itself. I need you to be specific but not graphic. Clinical. The jury needs to understand what happened without feeling like we're trying to manipulate their emotions."

"Got it."

"Then Buchanan gets his turn." Barba's expression hardens. "He's going to try to discredit you. He'll ask why you didn't report it at the time. He'll imply you're lying or misremembering. He'll suggest you have an agenda—that you're trying to get revenge on Brandon by helping prosecute his brother."

"Let him try," you say, but your voice wavers slightly.

Carisi leans forward. "He's also going to ask about your relationship with Barba. He'll try to suggest that you're biased, that you're testifying because your boyfriend is the ADA on the case."

"We disclosed the relationship," you rebuke. "It's on record. It's not a secret."

"Doesn't matter. He'll still use it to try to undermine your credibility." Barba sets down his pen and looks at you directly. "I need you to stay calm. Don't get defensive. Don't let him bait you into an emotional response. Just answer the questions honestly and let the facts speak for themselves."

"What if I can't?" The question comes out small. "What if I get up there and I see Brandon and I just... fall apart?"

"Then you take a breath. You look at me. You remember why you're doing this." Barba's voice softens. "You're not that twenty-two-year-old girl anymore. You're a decorated SVU detective with a decade of experience. You know how these cases work. You know how to handle yourself under pressure. And you know that what happened to you was real, no matter what Buchanan tries to suggest."

"Plus, you've got all of us," Carisi adds. "Fin's going to be in the courtroom. Dodds too. Liv if she can swing it. 'Manda's just a phone call away. You're not going to be alone up there."

You nod, trying to absorb their confidence. "Okay. Let's run through it again."

For the next two hours, they drill you. Barba asks questions, Carisi plays devil's advocate, and you answer until the words start to feel automatic. By the time you're done, your throat is dry and your head is pounding, but you feel more prepared.

"You're going to be great," Barba says as you stand to leave. "I mean it."

"I hope you're right."

He catches your hand as you pass his desk, pulls you close enough that Carisi politely looks away. "I am right. And when this is over, we're going to celebrate. Somewhere expensive where the wine list is longer than the menu."

Despite everything, you smile. "That's a date, Counsellor."

Manhattan Criminal Court

Wednesday, 9:00 AM

The courtroom is packed.

You knew it would be—high-profile case, celebrity defendant's brother, media circus—but knowing it and experiencing it are two different things. There are reporters in the gallery, sketch artists, curious onlookers who probably lined up at dawn for a seat. The energy is electric, anticipatory.

You sit in the front row of the gallery with Fin on one side and Dodds on the other. Olivia's in the back, ready to testify about the investigation. Carisi's at the prosecution table with Barba, both of them in their best suits, looking like they're ready for war.

And at the defence table, flanked by three expensive lawyers, sit Chase and Brandon Mitchell.

Chase looks young in his suit, almost innocent. He's clean-cut, well-groomed, the picture of a promising athlete whose life is being ruined by false accusations. Brandon sits next to him, one hand on his brother's shoulder in a gesture of support. He's wearing a tailored navy suit that probably costs more than your monthly rent, and his expression is calm, confident.

Your hands clench into fists in your lap.

"You good?" Fin murmurs.

"No. But I will be."

Judge Barth enters—a no-nonsense woman in her sixties who's presided over more SVU cases than you can count—and everyone rises. The bailiff calls the court to order, and suddenly it's real. It's happening.

Barba stands for his opening statement, and the courtroom goes quiet.

"Your Honour, ladies and gentlemen of the jury," he begins, his voice clear and commanding. "This case is about power. About entitlement. About a young man who believed that his status as a star athlete put him above the law. On the night of March fifteenth, Chase Mitchell drugged and raped Emma Sullivan at a fraternity party. The evidence will show that he provided her with a drink laced with Rohypnol, that he took her to his room while she was incapacitated, and that he sexually assaulted her while she was unable to consent or defend herself."

You watch the jury. They're listening, attentive.

"The defence will try to tell you that this was a consensual encounter. That Emma Sullivan is lying or confused or seeking attention. But the evidence doesn't lie. The rape kit doesn't lie. The Rohypnol in her system doesn't lie. And the pattern of behavior we'll establish—a pattern that includes Chase's own brother, Brandon Mitchell—doesn't lie."

At the defence table, Brandon's expression doesn't change. But you see the slight tightening of his jaw.

"Emma Sullivan is nineteen years old. She's a pre-med student with a bright future ahead of her. On March fifteenth, Chase Mitchell tried to take that future away from her. But she fought back. She went to the hospital. She reported the assault. She's here today to tell you the truth. And when you hear her testimony, when you see the evidence, you'll know beyond a reasonable doubt that Chase Mitchell is guilty of rape in the first degree."

Barba sits down, and Buchanan rises for the defence.

He's older, dark-haired, big-framed, with the kind of gravitas that comes from decades of winning cases. The kinds of cases you suppose one sells their soul to be victorious in.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he starts with a smug grin, "this is a case about regret. About a young woman who made choices she later wished she hadn't made, and who decided to blame someone else for those choices. Chase Mitchell is not a rapist. He's a college student who had a consensual sexual encounter at a party. Was alcohol involved? Yes. Were both parties drinking? Yes. But that doesn't make it rape."

Your stomach turns.

"The prosecution wants you to believe that Chase Mitchell is some kind of predator. They're going to bring up his brother, try to suggest that there's some family pattern of violence. But Brandon Mitchell is not on trial here. He's a decorated athlete, a Stanley Cup champion, a role model, a man who's never been accused of any wrongdoing. The prosecution's attempt to smear him is nothing more than a desperate attempt to distract you from the weakness of their case."

Fin mutters something under his breath that sounds like "bullshit."

"When you hear all the evidence—when you see that Emma Sullivan went upstairs with Chase willingly, that she was drinking voluntarily, that there's no evidence of force—you'll see this case for what it really is. A tragedy of miscommunication and regret. Not rape. Thank you."

The opening statements are over. Judge Barth calls for the first witness.

"The People call Emma Sullivan," Barba says.

Emma walks to the stand with her head held high, but you can see the tremor in her hands as she's sworn in. She's wearing a simple blue dress, her hair pulled back, minimal makeup. She looks young and vulnerable and brave.

Barba approaches the stand with gentle confidence. "Ms. Sullivan, can you tell the jury what happened on the night of March fifteenth?"

Emma takes a breath. "I went to a party at the Sigma Chi house with my roommate. It was a Friday night, and we just wanted to have fun. I had a couple of drinks—vodka cranberries. I wasn't trying to get drunk."

"What happened next?"

"Chase Mitchell came over and started talking to me. He was really friendly, charming. He offered to get me another drink, and I said yes. When he came back with it, it tasted weird. Stronger. But I drank it anyway."

"And then?"

"Then everything got fuzzy really fast. I felt dizzy, like I was way more drunk than I should have been. Chase said there was a quieter room upstairs where I could rest. I remember going up the stairs with him, but I could barely walk. I had to lean on him."

Emma's voice is steady, but you can see the effort it's taking. You lean forward slightly, trying to send her strength through sheer force of will.

"What do you remember about the room?"

"It was dark. There was a bed. I sat down because I felt like I was going to pass out, and then Chase was next to me. Touching me. I tried to say no, tried to push him away, but my body wasn't working right. Everything was so heavy."

"Did he remove your clothing?"

"Yes. My jeans. My underwear. I remember trying to say stop, but I don't know if the words came out right. And then he was—" Her voice breaks. "He was on top of me, and I couldn't stop him."

Barba gives her a moment. "Did you consent to sexual intercourse with Chase Mitchell?"

"No. I didn't. I couldn't. I was barely conscious."

"Thank you, Ms. Sullivan. No further questions."

Buchanan rises for cross-examination, and the temperature in the courtroom seems to drop ten degrees.

"Ms. Sullivan, you testified that you had several drinks that night. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And you chose to drink those beverages voluntarily?"

"Yes, but—"

"Yes or no, please. You chose to drink."

Emma's jaw tightens. "Yes."

"And you chose to go upstairs with my client."

"I was incapacitated—"

"Did you physically resist when he suggested going upstairs?"

"I could barely walk—"

"That's not what I asked. Did you say 'no, I don't want to go upstairs'?"

Emma's eyes fill with tears. "I don't remember exactly what I said. Everything was fuzzy."

"So you don't remember saying no."

"I don't remember saying yes either."

Buchanan smiles slightly. "Ms. Sullivan, isn't it true that you've been following my client's hockey career? That you knew who he was before that night?"

"I knew of him. Everyone on campus knows who he is."

"And isn't it true that you were attracted to him? That you wanted his attention?"

"No. I mean, I thought he was being nice, but I wasn't—"

"You weren't interested in hooking up with a star athlete?"

Barba stands. "Objection. Argumentative."

"Sustained," Judge Barth says. "Mr. Buchanan, rephrase."

But the damage is done. You can see it in the jury's faces—the seed of doubt has been planted.

Buchanan continues for another ten minutes, picking apart Emma's timeline, questioning her memory, implying that she's lying or confused or seeking attention. By the time he's done, Emma is crying openly on the stand, and you want to climb over the gallery railing and throttle him.

"No further questions," Buchanan finally says, sitting down with a satisfied expression.

Judge Barth calls for a recess, and Emma practically runs from the courtroom. You follow her into the hallway, find her in the bathroom, sobbing into her hands.

"I messed up," she chokes out when she sees you. "I couldn't remember everything, and he made me sound like I was lying—"

"You didn't mess up." You pull her into a hug, let her cry into your shoulder. "You told the truth. That's all you had to do. Buchanan's job is to make you doubt yourself, to make the jury doubt you. But you were strong up there. You were brave. And the jury saw that."

"I don't feel brave."

You pull back, look her in the eye. "You did good, Emma. Really good. Now go home, rest, and let us handle the rest."

She nods, wiping at her tears. "Thank you. For everything."

"That's what I'm here for."

As Emma leaves with the victim advocate, you lean against the bathroom wall and take a shaky breath. Tomorrow, it's your turn. Tomorrow, you face Brandon Mitchell on the stand and tell the world what he did to you.

Tomorrow, you fight back.

Barba's Apartment

Wednesday, 11:47 PM

You can't sleep.

You've been lying in Barba's bed for two hours, staring at the ceiling, watching shadows from the street lights outside paint patterns across the plaster. Rafael's beside you, his breathing deep and even, one arm draped across your waist. He fell asleep an hour ago, exhausted from days of trial prep and courtroom battles.

You're glad one of you can rest.

Your testimony is scheduled for nine AM. In less than ten hours, you'll walk into that courtroom, take the stand, and tell a room full of strangers about the worst night of your life. You'll have to look at Brandon Mitchell—really look at him, not just glimpse him across a bullpen or a courtroom gallery—and describe what he did to you while he sits there, probably looking concerned and innocent.

Your stomach churns.

You slip out of bed carefully, trying not to wake Barba, and pad into the living room. The city sprawls below, still awake even at this hour. You curl up on the couch, pulling one of Barba's throw blankets around your shoulders, and try to breathe through the anxiety clawing at your chest.

"Can't sleep?" Rafael's voice comes from the doorway, rough with sleep.

"I'm sorry Rafi. I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't." He crosses the room, sits next to you on the couch. He's wearing the Harvard Law t-shirt he sleeps in, his hair mussed, and he looks more human than you've ever seen him. It feels good to be the one to see him so at ease. "Talk to me." He encourages.

"I'm scared," you admit. The words come out small. "What if I freeze up there? What if I can't get the words out? What if Buchanan tears me apart and the jury thinks I'm lying?"

"You won't freeze." Barba takes your hand, threads his fingers through yours. "And Buchanan can try to tear you apart, but he won't succeed. You know why?"

"Why?"

"Because you're telling the truth. And the truth has a weight to it that lies don't. The jury will feel it." He shifts closer, his shoulder pressing against yours. "You've been preparing for this. You know what he's going to ask. You know how to answer. And more than that—you know why you're doing this. For Emma. For yourself. For every woman Brandon Mitchell and Chase Mitchell have hurt."

"I just keep thinking about him sitting there, watching me. Hearing me describe what he did. And he'll probably look sympathetic, like he feels bad for me, like I'm some confused woman who's misremembering a consensual encounter from a decade ago."

"Let him look however he wants. The jury isn't stupid. They've heard Emma's testimony. They've seen the pattern. Your testimony is going to be the piece that makes it all click into place." Barba cups your face with his free hand, makes you look at him. "Like I said before, you are not that twenty-two-year-old girl anymore. You're a decorated detective with a decade of experience. You've testified in dozens of cases. You know how to handle yourself in a courtroom."

"This is different."

"I know it is. But you're not alone up there. I'll be right there with you. You look at me if you need to ground yourself. You remember that we all believe you, that we all have your back."

You lean into him, rest your head on his shoulder. "What if it's not enough? What if Chase gets acquitted and Brandon just walks away from this unscathed?"

"Then we keep fighting. We find other victims. We build other cases. But I don't think that's going to happen." His arm comes around you, solid and warm. "I've been doing this job for a long time. I know what a strong case looks like. And this is a strong case. Emma was credible. The physical evidence is damning. And your testimony is going to seal it."

"You sound very confident for someone whose girlfriend is about to be cross-examined by a shark."

For the first time in a while, he chuckles a real laugh. He's imagining Buchanan as the Great White from Jaws, and honestly, it's not far from reality.

"I'm confident in you. There's a difference." He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "And for the record, Buchanan's not as good as he thinks he is. He's used to intimidating victims who don't have your training and your experience. He's going to underestimate you. That's his mistake."

You sit in silence for a while, listening to the city hum below. Barba's presence is grounding, his steady breathing a reminder that you're not alone in this.

"Thank you," you say finally. "For believing me. For standing by me."

"You're a survivor." Rafael states with as much assertion as you've ever seen from him. "And tomorrow, you're going to show everyone else what I already know—that you're extraordinary."

"Okay, now you're just buttering me up."

"Is it working?" He teases, eyes shining with a hint of mischief.

Despite everything, you smile. "Eh. Maybe a little."

"Good." He stands, pulls you up with him. "Come back to bed mi vida. You need rest, even if you can't sleep. And I need you next to me."

You let him lead you back to the bedroom, let him tuck you against his chest, let his heartbeat lull you into something that's not quite sleep but close enough. And when your alarm goes off at six AM, you feel more ready than you did the night before.

Manhattan Criminal Court

Thursday, 9:03 AM

The courtroom is even more packed than yesterday. Word has gotten out that a detective is testifying about being assaulted by Brandon Mitchell, and the media is salivating. You can see reporters with their notebooks, sketch artists with their charcoal, curious onlookers who probably think this is entertainment.

You sit in the gallery between Fin and Dodds, your hands clasped in your lap to keep them from shaking. You're wearing your best suit—charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, the one you save for court appearances. Your hair is pulled back, your makeup minimal. You look professional. Competent. Like a detective, not a victim. Maybe that isn't what you should be going for.

Except today, you're both.

Barba catches your eye from the prosecution table and gives you a small nod. You've got this.

Judge Barth enters, and the bailiff calls the court to order. Barba stands, his voice clear and steady.

"The People call Detective (Y/n) (L/n)." He uses your full name, your rank, establishing your credibility from the start.

You stand. Your legs are shaking, but they hold. You walk to the stand with your head high, your shoulders back, every inch the decorated detective you are. You're sworn in, and you sit, and suddenly Brandon Mitchell is right there, fifteen feet away, watching you with an expression of polite concern.

Your stomach lurches, but you don't look away. Not yet.

Barba approaches the stand. "Detective, can you state your current position for the record?"

"I'm a detective with the Manhattan Special Victims Unit, sixteenth precinct. I've been with SVU for six years, and I've been a detective for ten years total."

"And in your capacity as an SVU detective, how many sexual assault cases would you estimate you've investigated?"

"Hundreds. Maybe close to a thousand at this point."

"So you're familiar with the dynamics of sexual assault. The way predators operate. The way victims respond."

"Yes."

"I'm going to ask you some questions about an incident that occurred ten years ago in Toronto, Canada. Can you tell the jury what happened?"

You take a breath. This is it. "In January of 2005, I was twenty-two years old. I'd just graduated from the police academy. My family was in Toronto for a vacation, and I had a friend from college who was living there at the time. She invited me to a party celebrating Canada's gold medal win at the World Junior Hockey Championship."

Your voice is steady. Clinical. You're in detective mode now.

"The party was at a hotel—the Fairmont Royal York. It was crowded, lots of people celebrating. Players from the team, their friends, fans. I was having a good time, drinking champagne, talking to people." You pause. "That's when I met the defendant's brother Brandon Mitchell."

At the defense table, Brandon's expression doesn't change. But you see his lawyer lean over, whisper something in his ear.

"Can you describe that meeting?"

"He approached me. Introduced himself. He was charming, funny. He'd just been named tournament MVP, and everyone wanted to talk to him, but he seemed genuinely interested in me. We talked for about an hour. He kept getting me drinks—champagne from the bar. I wasn't trying to get drunk, but I wasn't counting either."

"What happened next?"

"He suggested we go somewhere quieter to talk. Said his hotel room was upstairs, that it would be easier to hear each other. I agreed. I went with him willingly." You look directly at the jury. "That's important. I made the choice to go to his room. But that's not the same as consenting to sex."

"What do you remember about the hotel room?"

"It was nice. Expensive. There was a king bed, a sitting area. We sat on the couch at first, still talking. But I started to feel wrong. Dizzy. More intoxicated than I should have been given how much I'd had to drink. I remember thinking that the champagne must have been stronger than I realized."

"Did you later come to a different conclusion about why you felt that way?"

"Yes. Based on my training and experience investigating sexual assault cases, and based on the symptoms I experienced, I believe I was drugged. Most likely with Rohypnol or a similar substance."

Buchanan starts to stand, probably to object, but Barba cuts him off. "Detective, you're not offering a medical diagnosis, correct? You're offering an opinion based on your professional experience."

"Correct. I can't prove I was drugged because I never had a tox screen done. But the symptoms match—rapid onset of severe intoxication, memory gaps, loss of motor control."

"What do you remember happening next?"

This is the hard part. You force yourself to keep your voice level. "I remember Brandon kissing me. I think I kissed him back at first—I was attracted to him, I'd been enjoying talking to him. But then his hands were everywhere, and I felt wrong. Too drunk. Too dizzy. I tried to say something—stop, or wait, or slow down—but my mouth wasn't working right. The words came out slurred."

"Did he stop?"

"No. He pushed me down on the bed. I remember the ceiling spinning. I remember trying to push him away, but my arms were so heavy. I couldn't make my body work." Your voice cracks slightly, but you push through. "He removed my dress. My underwear. I tried to say no. I'm certain I tried to say no. But I couldn't make the words come out clearly, and even if I had, I don't think he would have stopped."

"Did Brandon Mitchell penetrate you?"

"Yes. Vaginally. Without my consent. I was incapacitated. I couldn't fight back. I couldn't clearly communicate. I couldn't consent."

"What do you remember after the assault?"

"Not much. I think I passed out. When I woke up, it was several hours later. I was alone in the room. My dress was torn. There was blood on the sheets. I was in pain—vaginal pain, bruising on my thighs and wrists. I knew something bad had happened, but I was confused. Disoriented."

"What did you do?"

"I got dressed. I left the hotel room. I went back to where my family was staying, and I took a shower. A very long shower. I scrubbed my skin until it was raw." You swallow hard. "I destroyed the evidence. I threw away the dress. I didn't tell anyone. I didn't go to a hospital. I didn't report it."

"Why not?"

This is the question you've been dreading. But you're ready for it.

"Because I was ashamed. Because I blamed myself for going to his room, for drinking, for not being more careful. Because I wasn't sure what had happened—the memory gaps made me doubt myself. I thought maybe I'd said yes and just didn't remember. Maybe I'd wanted it and was just too drunk to recall." You look at the jury. "And because Brandon Mitchell was a rising star. Nineteen years old with a bright future. Everyone loved him. Who was going to believe me over him?"

"Do you believe that now? That you consented?"

"No. I know now that I didn't consent. That I couldn't consent. That what happened to me was rape." Your voice is firm. "But it took me years to accept that. Years of working in SVU, of seeing other victims struggle with the same questions, the same shame, before I could apply that understanding to myself."

Barba nods. "Detective, when you learned that Chase Mitchell was accused of sexually assaulting Emma Sullivan, and that his brother was Brandon Mitchell, how did that affect you?"

"It was triggering. Seeing Brandon's name, knowing I'd have to potentially interact with him—it brought everything back. The assault, the shame, the fear. When he came to the precinct to defend his brother, I had a panic attack. I couldn't be in the same room with him."

"But you're here now. In the same courtroom. Why?"

You look directly at Brandon Mitchell for the first time since you sat down. He's staring at you, and there's something in his eyes now—not concern, not sympathy. Fear.

"Because I'm done being silent. Because Emma Sullivan deserves a detective who will fight for her, and I can't do that if I'm hiding from my own past. And because Brandon Mitchell needs to face consequences for what he did to me, and for the culture of entitlement and violence he's perpetuating by defending his brother."

"Thank you, Detective. No further questions."

You exhale slowly. The hard part is over. Except it's not. Because now Buchanan stands, and his smile is sharp as a knife.

"Detective," Buchanan begins, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "That was a very compelling story. Very emotional. But let's talk about facts, shall we?"

You keep your expression neutral. "Of course."

"You testified that this alleged assault occurred in January of 2005. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Ten years ago."

"Yes."

"And in those ten years, you never reported it. Never went to the police. Never filed a complaint. Never even told anyone what supposedly happened. Isn't that true?"

"I told detective Amanda Rollins a few years ago. I told ADA Barba, several days ago. I told my squad. And I'm telling this jury now."

"But for ten years, offically, you were silent."

"Yes."

"Why should this jury believe that something happened ten years ago when you have no evidence, no medical records, no police report, no contemporaneous complaint to anyone?"

You lean forward slightly. "Because I'm a detective with the Manhattan Special Victims Unit. I've investigated hundreds of sexual assault cases. I know what the research shows—that the majority of sexual assaults go unreported. That victims often don't come forward immediately because of shame, fear, self-blame, or concern that they won't be believed. I know this because I've seen it in countless victims. And I know it because I lived it."

"Or," Buchanan says smoothly, "you're a detective who knows exactly what to say to make a story sound credible. You know the language, the patterns, the excuses for why there's no evidence."

"If I wanted to fabricate a story, I would have fabricated evidence too. I would have reported it at the time, gotten a rape kit, built a case. The fact that I didn't report it doesn't make it less true. It makes it more consistent with how most sexual assault victims actually behave."

Buchanan's smile tightens. "Let's talk about your relationship with ADA Barba. You're romantically involved with the prosecutor on this case, correct?"

Barba stands, "Objection, Your Honour, relevance?"

"It goes to state of mind." Buchanan sneers.

The judge nods, "Overruled, the witness will answer."

Your gaze meets Rafael's for a brief moment before you respond. "Yes. We've been together for eight months. The relationship has been properly disclosed to the NYPD and the DA's office."

"How convenient that your boyfriend is prosecuting the brother of the man you claim assaulted you."

"I didn't choose to work this case because of my relationship with Rafael. I was assigned to it before I knew who the accused was. And when I learned about the connection to Brandon Mitchell, I disclosed my history to my squad and to ADA Barba specifically so there would be no question of impropriety."

"Or you saw an opportunity for revenge. A chance to destroy Brandon Mitchell's reputation by helping convict his brother."

You keep your voice level. "If I wanted revenge, I would have come forward years ago when Brandon was first making a name for himself. I would have gone to the media, written a book, done a tell-all interview. I didn't. I stayed silent because I was ashamed and scared. I'm only coming forward now because Emma Sullivan's case made it impossible for me to stay silent anymore."

"Isn't it true that you have a bias against athletes? That you see them as entitled predators?"

"I have a bias against rapists. Athletes who rape people fall into that category."

A few people in the gallery laugh. Judge Barth shoots them a warning look.

Buchanan's jaw tightens. "You testified that you believe you were drugged. But you have no proof of that, do you?"

"No. I didn't get a tox screen."

"So you're speculating."

"I'm offering a professional opinion based on my symptoms and my training. But you're right—I can't prove it. Just like I can't prove that Brandon Mitchell raped me, because I destroyed the evidence and didn't report it. That's the reality of most sexual assaults, Mr. Buchanan. They happen in private. The evidence is often destroyed or never collected. And victims are left with their word against their attacker's."

"Which brings us back to the central question: why should this jury believe you?"

You look at him directly. "Because I have nothing to gain from lying. I'm a detective with a good reputation. Coming forward about this has been humiliating and painful. It's opened me up to exactly this kind of cross-examination, where my credibility is attacked and my trauma is questioned. I'm doing this because it's the right thing to do. Because Emma Sullivan deserves justice. And because Chase Mitchell needs to be held accountable."

Buchanan tries a few more angles—questioning your memory, implying you're confused, suggesting you're motivated by publicity—but you don't break. You answer every question calmly, professionally, refusing to be rattled.

Finally, he says, "No further questions," and sits down with a frustrated expression.

You step down from the stand, your legs shaking but holding. As you walk past the defence table, you make eye contact with Brandon Mitchell one more time.

He's not smiling anymore. There's fear in his eyes—real fear, maybe for the first time in his life. Fear that his past is catching up with him. Fear that his charm and his fame aren't going to save him this time.

You hold his gaze for a long moment. Then you walk past him, head high, and take your seat in the gallery between Fin and Dodds.

Fin squeezes your shoulder. "You were incredible up there."

"Fucking warrior," Dodds murmurs.

You don't feel like a warrior. You feel exhausted and raw and like you've just run a marathon. But you also feel something else. Something that might be pride. Or maybe just relief.

You did it. You told the truth. And you didn't break.

Friday, 2:47 PM

By the next day, the closing arguments have been given, and the jury deliberates for less than four hours.

You spend that time in the DA's office with Barba and Carisi, pretending to work on other cases but mostly just staring at the walls and drinking bad coffee. Barba keeps checking his phone, waiting for the call from the court clerk.

When it finally comes, you all move as one.

The courtroom is packed again. Emma is there with her victim advocate, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The Mitchell family sits behind the defense table—parents, aunts and uncles, Brandon looking grim. The media fills the back rows.

You sit in your usual spot between Fin and Dodds. Barba and Carisi take their places at the prosecution table. Chase Mitchell is brought in, looking pale and scared for the first time since this whole thing started.

Judge Barth enters. "Has the jury reached a verdict?"

The foreperson stands. "We have, Your Honour."

"On the charge of rape in the first degree, how do you find?"