#frankcastleedit

Jon Bernthal as Frank Castle and Deborah Ann Woll as Karen Page

A/N ~ I know it has been forever since I have written for Frankie but we are back! This randomly started brewing in my head and I think Frankie would protect you if he met you in a random diner one night.

To my Bruce Wayne readers, the imagines are still being drafted. More to come for him too.

Check out my master list.

Summary ~ You leave home upset and find an unexpected connection with a mysterious stranger at your local diner.

It was the worst. The worst pain possible so sharp that it nearly split you open. You hadn’t meant to say the things you said, not really but he just pushed and pushed until you couldn’t stop. It was always like this. Always. You had never been with someone so infuriating. Then, you had said it. The one thing you could never take back. 

 “I want a divorce.” 

The word divorce tasted strange, almost foreign. Yet, somehow, achingly right. Before you could second-guess yourself, you turned and stormed out.

You didn’t wait for his reply. You didn’t even look back. You just headed for your car, slammed the door and sped down the street as fast as your shaking hands would allow.

Tears blurred your vision, rage rising in hot waves as you drove with no destination, no plan just motion. When you finally stopped, you found yourself in the dim parking lot of a diner, neon buzzing overhead.

You turned off the ignition and exhaled a trembling sigh.

“What am I doing?” you whispered to the empty car.

Your life wasn’t terrible. Not really. You had a steady job, a safe home, enough money to keep the lights on and food in the fridge. Your life was fine.

It was your husband, your soon-to-be ex, who had never fit. The piece that never matched the picture, no matter how tightly you tried to press it in. People warned you from the beginning. You knew it, and they knew it. You just ignored the signs.

Here you were, alone, in a dimly lit parking lot with nowhere else to go.

With a weary breath, you decided there was no point sitting in the car any longer. You stepped out and headed inside.

The diner was far busier than you expected. Friday night, apparently, was the peak hour for comfort food, in this town. You pulled your coat tighter around yourself as you moved through the narrow aisles between crowded tables, the hum of conversation buzzing around you. Every booth seemed taken until you spotted one empty seat in the far back corner.

The only problem was the man occupying the other side of the booth.

You couldn’t see his face at first; a black jacket hunched around him and a navy cap was pulled low over his eyes. But as you approached, his features sharpened into view and suddenly it made sense why he was trying to hide. Cuts marked his skin and a large, ugly bruise was blooming purple and blue across the right side of his face. He stared out the window at the setting sun, expression distant, until your reflection must have caught his attention. He turned toward you.

You must have looked just as rough: your brown hair twisted into knots, mascara smudged around your eyes, your black coat wrapped tight around you like armour. You were exhausted, hungry and on the edge of falling apart. You didn’t have it in you to search for another place.

The man frowned.

“You okay, ma’am?”

His voice was deep, low and rough around the edges. The polite ma’am caught you off guard; you wouldn’t have expected it from someone who looked like he’d been on the losing end of a fight.

“Um…” You tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear,  “Do you mind if I sit here?” 

You gestured to the empty side of the booth.

“Sure.”

You slid into the seat, unsure what to do with your hands, your eyes, your breathing, any of it. A discarded menu lay off to the side, next to an empty plate smeared with the last traces of pie and a mug stained with the remnants of coffee.

“You sure you’re okay, ma’am?”

You looked up. His eyes were dark, steady, fixed on you like he was trying to read something you didn’t want to expose.

“Yeah… yes. I just need some food, that’s all.”

He didn’t believe you. You could see that much but he let it go. Instead, he nudged the menu toward you with a quiet scrape across the table.

“The pie’s really good.”

You nodded, grateful and glanced down at the options. A burger, fries and a milkshake sounded perfect. Comfort you could eat. Something warm, something sweet, something uncomplicated. Exactly what you needed right now.

When you looked up again, a waitress was already at your table. You gave your order, trying to keep your voice even.

“So,” he said once she’d walked away, “Where are you coming from?”

The question hit deeper than it had any right to. Where were you coming from? Home, yes, but also from a fight that felt like it had lasted your entire marriage.

“I was just coming from work,” you said.

A lie. Easier than unraveling the truth for a stranger.

He nodded, accepting it without comment.

“What about you? Those bruises…”

Deflecting was always easier. You’d never liked the spotlight, never liked the feeling of someone peering too closely at the cracks. Other people’s stories were easier to listen to than telling your own.

“You should see the other guy,” he said.

“Should I?” You raised a brow, unsure if he was joking or warning you.

He gave a rough, short laugh and rubbed his hands together. That’s when you noticed them; raw scrapes and angry red cuts across his knuckles. Every sign pointed to stay away. He was a living, breathing warning flag and yet… there was something else. Something you couldn’t quite name. Something off but not in a way that made you afraid. More like curious.

Your food arrived then, breaking the moment. The waitress topped off his coffee and moved on. You ate in silence, grateful for the distraction. Your eyes fixed on your plate, his attention drifting to the window. Still, you caught him stealing glances at you now and then. Quick. Subtle. Like he couldn’t quite help it.

When you finished, you pushed the empty plate aside and pulled your milkshake closer.

“Guess you were really hungry, huh?” he said, nodding toward the clean plate.

You lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

“Did somebody hurt you?” he asked, his voice low, strangely gentle.

You shook your head, “Just been a long day, is all.”

He took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes never really leaving you.

“Is it to do with your husband?” he asked.

You looked up sharply, startled. How could he possibly know?

He dipped his chin toward your hand. The gold band on your ring finger glinted under the diner’s lights.

“Oh… um…” You slipped your hands into your lap, suddenly feeling exposed.

“Did he do something to you?” he pressed.

“No, it’s not that.” You exhaled, shaking your head. 

“We… I mean, it was a stupid fight. That’s all.”

A humourless laugh escaped you.

“A never-ending, stupid fight and I finally ended it.”

Your gaze fixed on a faint stain on the red tabletop beside your milkshake glass. Anything to avoid meeting his eyes. 

“Sorry to hear that,” he said quietly.

“I’m not.”

The truth surprised you even as it slipped out. 

“He never deserved me anyway. I was stupid to think he was the one. Clearly, I was wrong.”

You took a long pull from your milkshake, the cold sweetness humming through your nerves.

“Nah,” he murmured, “I wouldn’t say you were stupid. You just made a mistake, is all.”

His eyes had softened. The first real warmth you’d seen in them. Comforting in a way that made something in your chest unclench.

“You don’t know me,” you said, laughing lightly. It felt good. Freer than you’d felt in months.

“Don’t have to,” he replied, “You don’t seem like the stupid type. Just someone who made a wrong choice.”

You nodded, at a loss for words.

“So,” you ventured after a moment, “What about you? Got a wife?”

Something flickered across his face: sharp, pained, gone almost as quickly as it appeared. His expression tightened, shadowed by something you couldn’t name.

“No, I used to,” he said quietly.

“What happened? You made a wrong choice like me?” you asked, half-joking.

“No… she died.”

The words hit like ice water poured over your head.

“I… I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I’m such an idiot,” you stammered, immediately regretting the words.

“Don’t apologise. You didn’t know,” he said softly.

He signaled to the waitress. 

“Ma’am,” he said, pointing at his near-empty cup, “A bit more, please.”

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out and froze for a moment. Your ex-husband’s name flashing on the screen. Silencing it, you exhaled a shaky sigh.

“Was that him?” he asked, stirring his freshly filled cup.

“Yeah. Probably wondering where I am. I… I left. Didn’t know what else to do.”

“Are you going back there?”

“To be honest… I don’t know. Feels like I just want to leave, you know? Get out of here and never look back.”

“I know the feeling,” he said quietly and for a moment you felt the weight of that shared understanding.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” you asked, curiosity breaking through your gloom.

“No,” he replied, a small shrug in his voice, “Just passing through.”

The diner had begun to thin out, the hum of conversation fading to the occasional clatter of a dish or the scrape of a chair. You pushed your empty cup away, the last swallow of milkshake leaving a cool, sweet trace on your tongue. His dark eyes followed your movements but he didn’t say anything. He let the silence linger comfortably between you as if the world outside had shrunk down to this small booth.

“I’m… y/n,” you said finally, breaking the quiet.

“Frank,” he replied simply, his voice low and steady.

“Nice to meet you,” you said, offering a small smile.

“Likewise,” he said, a hint of warmth threading through the words.

The waitress had arrived with the bill. You insisted on paying your share but Frank waved you off, sliding some notes across the table. You argued lightly, laughing at his stubbornness but in the end he insisted and you let him.

Outside, the parking lot was cloaked in darkness, the weak glow of a streetlight casting long shadows across the parked cars. The air was crisp sending chills through you as you both came to a stop in the middle of the lot.

“Well, this is me,” you said, gesturing toward your car.

“Right,” he replied, taking his keys out of his pocket. You noticed his hands again and wondered what had caused the scrapes but didn’t ask. Some questions weren’t yours to voice.

You exchanged quiet goodbyes and began moving toward your respective vehicles. Frank hesitated before reaching his truck, his brow furrowing as if debating something in his head. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, jingling his keys nervously.

“You… uh… you wanna go for a ride?” he asked finally, his voice tentative, almost unsure of himself. Frank could tell that you didn’t want to go back home, that wherever you’d left behind wasn’t safe or comfortable. He didn’t want to push, didn’t want to overstep but he couldn’t let you walk back into that either.

You stopped, your hand hovering over the driver’s side door handle.

Frank was a stranger, someone you’d just met. The bruises and cuts on his face and hands made him look dangerous. He could probably be a killer for all you knew. Yet, somehow, climbing into his truck felt like a better option than going back to your awful husband. Better than returning to the fight, the lies, the suffocating familiarity. Getting into a truck with a stranger you barely knew… somehow didn’t feel entirely unsafe. That probably said a lot about the state of your head right now than anything else. Besides, you had pepper spray tucked in your pocket. You could handle it.

“Sure,” you said.

You walked over to where he stood by his truck, your heart beating a little faster than you expected. 

____

“Maybe that’s all we’ll ever be—an incomplete sentence or a book that someone put down halfway through and never picked back up. Finished without an ending.”

From December 29 to January 4, this blog is hosting an entire week about Matt Murdock and Frank Castle, but their exact relationship is up to you - lovers, fuckbuddies, enemies, friends, partners… you pick! You can also do a Matt-only or a Frank-only work. OT+ (Fratt+) welcome as well!

All versions of Frank Castle & Matt Murdock are welcome: comics, TV shows, movies… All lengths and sizes, all types of fanworks welcome: fic, art, fibercraft, translation, podfic (don’t forget to check in with the original creator if you’re podficcing/translating!)… or a new chapter of a fic, an outtake from a series…

Each day comes with a theme:

Monday 29: Club(s) Tuesday 30: Car / Van / Vehicle Wednesday 31: Hour Thursday 1: Scar Friday 2: Rope Saturday 3 Law Sunday 4: Free topic / Amnesty day!

You can post on Tumblr during the week and @frattweek as well as #frattweek, but don't forget the AO3 collection! On Nov 30, the collection will be set so that all new works are invisible! All newly posted works will be revealed on Fratt Week, so you can start as early as you’d like ^_^

More info in the FAQ (open the link in a browser!) and if you can’t find your answer, send an ask or leave a message on DW!

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Awesome banner art by @rivlin8781 ! Detailed ID under the cut.