#frank question

💛 for jessica’s honest opinion of 

pietro:

Sometimes, it feels like all she has are bad memories. It’s too cold to go out tonight, with her jacket ruined, so she’s stuck pacing inside her apartment, walking in circles among the chaos. Stuck with her own thoughts, going back and forth, bottle tapping against her leg as she walks. 

“I hate you,” she calls to the folder laying open on her desk. She has a folder on him, labeled ‘Asshole Twin One.’ (Above that, is a series of thick, heavy, sloppy lines, crossing out the name Pietro.) On nights like this, when sleep is a goddamn joke and she feels like torturing herself, she pulls it out. His photo is lying on top, staring at her across the room. “I really fucking do,” she slurs to it, but even now, the words ring hollow.

Because sometimes, she realizes she has good memories too – or at least ones that don’t hurt as much. Like meeting him in an alleyway, watching him twitch at the mention of crowds, laughing with him, talking about nothing.

Or the feel of his arms, slowly reaching for her while she shook and cried, for Luke, for Reva, for Kilgrave, for herself. The way he didn’t run. The way he whispered, your mind belongs here. 

It’s hard to hate someone like that.

Even when they’ve also called you a monster.

In the end, she doesn’t know what to think of him. She keeps going in circles, walking from her office, to her kitchen, to her bedroom, and her mind spins right along with her. She hates him one minute, and the next she misses him. It isn’t until she goes into the bathroom, stares at her own reflection in the mirror that she figures it out.

She doesn’t hate him. At least, not as much as she hates herself. 

clint:

“Shit,” she mutters, staring up at her ceiling. Her phone’s been going off like crazy, because apparently, Clint doesn’t sleep either. But she’s not even mad when it chimes again. She replies, mocks him a little, and then tosses it aside. “I think we might actually be goddamn friends.”

It’s hard to be annoyed at this inevitable fact. Because Clint has a way of laughing at the world even when it’s trying to knock him down. A way of treading lightly and never pushing too hard. Not to mention great taste in pizza – and women. He might actually be the best goddamn Avenger, if only because he doesn’t need a superpower to save the goddamn world. He’s just purely himself, and there’s something about that, something that seems so impossible to her, but he pulls it off so easily. 

& frank: 

She goes to visit the grave. Of the trafficker, the one she didn’t get paid for. She doesn’t expect to feel anything, standing there in the goddamn cold, kicking at a headstone with a name that means nothing to her. She doesn’t even think about him, how he looked as the EMTs carted him off on the stretcher. She thinks about the man who put him there.

She’s started looking for him on other rooftops. Casting glances over her shoulder whenever she has a summons to serve to another douchebag. But apparently, the Punisher is a sneaky motherfucker. Or maybe he’s just busy in a different part of the city.

She doesn’t know what to make of him. He reminds her of herself, rough and ragged and scarred the fuck up by life. She can’t imagine losing what he did – she’s never even let herself dream of a family, a normal life, not in any real detail. She lost her mind, her will, but she got them back in the end. What Frank lost, that’s not coming back.

She’s still jealous of him.

Because despite all that, he’s found a way to deal with it. A way to make it goddamn right, and he’s not fucking scared to stick with it. She doesn’t agree with his methods, but then, most people don’t agree with hers either. She finds solace in the bottom of a bottle, he finds it through a scope, fingers on the trigger.

She wishes she could have that kind of conviction. There’s something to be said for it, at least he doesn’t waver between guilt and shame and indignation. Like she does. Her mood changes on a dime – some days she’s proud of what she did to Kilgrave, proud to have been the one to finally end him. And some days… most days, it eats her up inside. 

She’s not okay with being a murderer. That’s never been her way. 

But Frank is, somehow. And she’s not exactly okay with him being a killer, but she isn’t going to stand in between him and a target again.

She’s not sure what that says about her. Not sure what bringing flowers to a dead trafficker’s gravestone says about her, either. 

💙 for a confession about frank:

She looks into him. After that second conversation on the rooftop, the one where he doesn’t kill anyone. The one where he seems almost human for a second -- or at least, as human as she is.

It’s sick, and it’s twisted, and it’s what she does. She spends hours, combing the internet and old news articles until she finds enough to piece it together. What happened to his family. She even finds a few pictures of them together, prints them out and clips them into a folder. They look happy, his kids. His wife does, too. Like they can’t even imagine what’s coming for them.

  ✺ - for jessica to help frank get through a frightening situation:

She sees Frank a lot. Casualty of her sleepless nights and his. Hell’s Kitchen is only so big.

They don’t usually acknowledge each other, beyond the occasional nod. When she sees him, she usually packs up, hops across rooftops until there’s a few blocks between them. Until she’s far enough away that she can pretend the gunshot and sirens have nothing to do with him. Just because they have an understanding doesn’t make her okay with what he does.

Tonight is different. 

He’s not toting that dufflebag. There’s no gun in his hand. He’s not even on a rooftop – he’s down in the street. Carrying a dog. 

She peers at him through her camera. It’s one of the rare nights she spots him before he does her. She can’t exactly blame him though, he looks more distracted than she ever imagined he could be. When he’s staring down a scope, he’s laser focused, his jaw set, his muscles tight and on-point. 

Tonight is different.

He’s not just distracted, he’s distressed. The dog in his arms is bloody, gashes across its thin body, back leg twisted at an odd angle. She moves before she can think anymore, stuffs the camera in her bag, leaps off the fire escape. She lands behind him with a thump, the snow muffling the sound. 

“Castle!” she calls out. He stops, glances over his shoulder. Then he keeps on moving. Stumbling, shuffling forward. 

It takes less than a second for her to catch up to him. “What the hell happened?” she asks, because neither of them have ever been great at small talk. She can see the damage on both the dog and him up close now. There’s an open cut across Frank’s forehead, bruises all across his face and neck, and his breath comes in jagged gasps. 

He shakes his head, keeps his eyes forward as he shuffles forward. “Dog fighting ring,” he mutters, and the hate in his voice is almost enough to mask everything else. But not quite. She picks up on that note of genuine fear. 

Frank Castle, the Punisher, is scared.

She puts a hand on his shoulder. Has to use some of her strength to physically stop him from moving. “Okay, stop. Stop,” she says, turning him towards her.

His eyes are wild and wide. “I don’t have time for this, Jones!” he shouts, right in her face. 

She gives him a look, manages not to flinch. “And neither does she,” she says, nodding towards the dog. “You have any goddamn idea where you’re going? Or you just gonna run until you find a vet open at 2am somewhere?”

He scoffs, breathing heavily. Can’t meet her eyes.Then slowly, shakes his head. “Thought so,” she says. “Give her here,” she says, not giving him a choice before gently scooping the animal into her arms. “Easier for me than it is for you, I guarantee.”

“She needs help,” he mutters, the fear and desperation more pronounced now.

“I know that,” she says flatly. Then she turns, heading down a side street. “I know a nurse. She’s good at this kind of shit. On people anyway,” she says. She can hear him behind her. “You sit,” she says, turning around. “You’re ragged. At least a broken rib or two from what I can tell. So I know I can run faster than you. I’ll take her first, then I’ll be back. Stay here,” she says, her voice deadly serious. She nods towards the curb. 

He huffs. Doesn’t sit, but stops walking towards her. Good enough. 

“She’ll be okay,” Jessica says, glancing down at the dog in her arms. She’s breathing rapidly, but Jessica can feel her heart thumping against her hand. There’s still a chance. “She got a name?” she asks, as she starts forward again.

“No idea,” he calls after her. 

She nods, then breaks into a steady run, bracing the dog close to her chest. “We got this, Hope,” she says, looking down at the dog. “It’s gonna be okay.”