get a window seat, honey, there is so much to see

Frank had never liked hospitals.

It wasn’t the smell. Most people complained about the antiseptic that clung stubbornly to every wall, every sheet, every article of clothing that spent more than an hour inside the building. To him, it had never been that. Hospitals smelled of people fighting to stay alive, of blood hidden beneath disinfectant, of exhaustion carried by doctors who had long forgotten what a full night’s sleep felt like, and of families waiting outside operating rooms with the desperate hope that a pair of swinging doors would open to deliver good news instead of condolences. He had spent enough hours sitting in those hallways throughout his life to know that hope and grief often shared the same chair.

The dull ache radiating from his ribs reminded him where he was before his eyes had even fully opened. He remained motionless for a few seconds, staring at the pale ceiling while his mind slowly pieced together the fragmented memories that had followed the gunshot. 

Jean Grey. Parker throwing himself into the line of fire before anyone could react. The deafening crack of his sniper echoing through the street. Blood spreading far too quickly across the kid’s suit. Then shouting. Sirens. Someone forcing him to sit down because he looked ready to collapse despite insisting he was fine. After that, little more than scattered moments interrupted by fatigue, until sleep had claimed him without asking for permission.

His gaze drifted instinctively toward the second bed.

Peter hadn’t moved.

The machines surrounding him continued their steady rhythm, indifferent to the panic that had consumed everyone only a handful of hours earlier. Bandages disappeared beneath the hospital gown, fresh gauze wrapped tightly around the wound in his shoulder, and the faint rise and fall of his chest was enough to tell Frank the boy was still breathing. 

Alive.

The word should have brought relief. Instead, it settled somewhere beneath his ribs with an uncomfortable heaviness that refused to leave. He had pulled the trigger with complete certainty. Years of experience had taught him exactly when to fire, exactly where the bullet would land. Except this time, someone faster, younger, and far more reckless had stepped between him and the target.

Peter Parker had taken a bullet meant for someone else.

For the first time in years, Frank had missed. Not just in the shot, but also in the intention. He did everything wrong, all wrong again.

The quiet click of the door interrupted the thought before it could circle back into the familiar territory of blame. His head turned almost automatically, and every muscle in his body tensed out of habit before recognition replaced instinct.

You stepped into the room without noticing he was awake.

A clipboard rested against your hip, several loose reports tucked beneath your arm, and the stethoscope hanging around your neck shifted gently as you crossed the room with the purposeful stride of someone who had repeated the same routine countless times throughout the night. The white coat you wore had acquired the inevitable wrinkles that came after too many uninterrupted hours on duty, and faint shadows rested beneath your eyes despite the composure you carried with effortless familiarity. You looked tired. Not unusually so—not in the dramatic way exhaustion is often described—but in the quiet, ordinary manner that belonged to doctors who had spent the better part of the last twenty-four hours choosing which emergencies demanded their attention first.

You hadn’t changed as much as he thought you would.

Or perhaps you had, and he simply remembered you too well to notice.

Months had passed since the last time he’d seen you. Long enough for seasons to change, for addresses to become obsolete, for bruises to heal and new scars to replace the old ones. Long enough for him to convince himself that disappearing had been the right decision. That cutting every line connecting him to you before someone else could do it with bullets or threats or a body left in an alley was the closest thing to mercy a man like him could offer. He had repeated that justification often enough that, eventually, it stopped sounding like an excuse and began resembling something dangerously close to the truth.

Until he’d needed you.

The memory returned with humiliating clarity. His thumb lingering over your contact information longer than it should have.

Wondering whether the number would still belong to you.

Wondering whether you’d answer. 

Wondering whether you should.

Wondering.

He had expected anger or silence. Perhaps even the call ending the moment you recognized his voice. Instead, after the second ring, you had simply answered.

“Frank.”

Not surprised, not cold… not warm, either.

You had spoken his name with the calm neutrality of someone waiting for him to explain why a ghost had suddenly remembered the living.

He hadn’t known how to begin.

There were apologies that had remained trapped somewhere behind his teeth for months, explanations he’d rehearsed during sleepless nights inside abandoned apartments, reasons that had sounded convincing until the exact moment he heard your voice again. Every single one of them disappeared beneath the weight of something infinitely more urgent.

“Need your help.”

That was all he’d managed.

No greeting. No apology. No attempt to soften the request after vanishing without a word.

Just the truth.

Need your help.

You hadn’t asked where he’d been or demanded an explanation.

You hadn’t reminded him that months earlier he’d walked away believing he was protecting you by making the decision for both of you.

There had only been the brief sound of pages turning on your end of the line before your voice returned with the same composure that had always made him think of operating rooms rather than conversations.

“Which hospital?”

Nothing more.

Looking at you now, quietly reviewing Peter’s chart while comparing it against the monitor beside his bed, Frank realized he had known the answer before he’d even made the call. He hadn’t reached out because you were simply one of the best trauma surgeons in New York. He had called because, somewhere beneath all the stubbornness that had convinced him staying away was the right thing to do, there had remained one certainty he had never questioned.

If someone’s life depended on you...

You would come.

You always did.

You moved around Peter’s bedside with the same concentration that had once fascinated him enough to keep him awake through entire nights simply watching you work. Your fingers adjusted the IV line almost absentmindedly while your eyes remained fixed on the monitor, mentally comparing numbers before jotting down another note on the chart. Then came the stethoscope, the careful examination of the dressing beneath his shoulder, the practiced movement of lifting the blanket just enough to inspect the surgical site without disturbing him any more than necessary. Every gesture blended seamlessly into the next, neither rushed nor unnecessarily delicate, as though your body had long since learned a language your conscious mind no longer needed to translate.

Frank remembered those hands differently.

They had stitched bullet wounds while arguing with him over whether he needed anesthesia. 

Pressed against his jaw when nightmares left him too disoriented to distinguish memory from reality.

Wrapped around paper cups of terrible coffee during mornings neither of you admitted you hadn’t slept.

Curled lazily against his chest while rain battered apartment windows neither of you planned on staying in for more than a week.

He remembered every scar decorating your fingers.

He wondered whether you remembered his.

Only after finishing your examination did you finally look up from the chart, intending to leave the room before your eyes settled on him.

For the first time since answering that phone call...

You realized he was awake.

Frank didn’t realize he was staring until you finally lowered the clipboard.

The silence that settled inside the room wasn’t uncomfortable, though it carried the unmistakable weight of two people who had spent months apart with far too many conversations left unfinished. You glanced over Peter’s latest bloodwork one last time before slipping the chart back into its place at the foot of the bed, your eyes lingering on the unconscious young man for another second, almost as if reassuring yourself that nothing had changed during the few minutes you’d spent inside. Only then did you turn fully toward Frank.

“You’ve been awake for long?” Your voice hadn’t changed.

It still carried that same quiet steadiness capable of filling a room without ever becoming loud, the same tone that had once calmed frightened patients, exhausted residents, and, on more than one occasion, an injured vigilante stubborn enough to insist he didn’t need stitches while actively bleeding onto your apartment floor.

Frank shook his head once. “Couple minutes.”

You nodded absentmindedly, accepting the answer without further questions before your gaze drifted almost instinctively toward the monitor attached to him. His pulse had risen slightly since waking, though not enough to concern you. Habit more than worry guided your steps toward his bedside, your fingers wrapping around his wrist for a brief moment while comparing the pulse beneath your fingertips to the numbers displayed on the screen.

“You shouldn’t be sitting up too quickly,” you murmured, more doctor than anything else. “You have three cracked ribs.”

“...Had worse.”

“I know,” there wasn’t the slightest trace of amusement in your reply.

You simply knew.

The words settled between you with surprising ease, carrying the familiarity of a truth neither of you had ever needed to explain. There had been too many nights spent removing bullets, stitching knife wounds, resetting fingers and shoulders after fights that should have ended very differently. Three cracked ribs barely deserved a place on the list.

Frank watched you as you finished checking his vitals, realizing with uncomfortable clarity how natural all of this still felt. Months had passed since he’d walked away without giving you the chance to argue with his decision, yet here you were, adjusting the blanket over his legs with the same absent-minded gesture you’d performed dozens of times before, as though your body remembered habits your heart had every right to abandon.

His jaw tightened. “...You saved him.”

You looked back toward Peter. “I operated on him.”

“Saved him.”

A small sigh escaped through your nose. “It wasn’t just me.”

“It was.”

You remained quiet for a moment, not because you agreed, but because you had never cared much for praise after surgery. Frank remembered that well enough. He remembered residents trying to congratulate you after impossible operations only to receive the same answer every time—that medicine wasn’t something anyone accomplished alone. Nurses, anesthesiologists, technicians, residents... every person inside that operating room mattered.

You had never liked carrying victories that belonged to an entire team.

“He was lucky,” you finally replied.

Frank let out a humorless breath. “...Luck had nothin’ to do with it.”

Your eyes found his again. “No?”

“No,” he held your gaze for several seconds before lowering it toward his own hands. “I pulled the trigger.”

The admission came quietly.

Matter-of-fact.

There was no attempt to soften it or shift responsibility elsewhere. He had replayed the scene often enough since arriving at the hospital that every second had become painfully familiar. The angle. The distance. Jean Grey’s movement. Peter throwing himself forward. The recoil against his shoulder.

One decision. One mistake.

One kid lying unconscious because Frank Castle had failed to account for someone else’s instinct to save people.

“I know,” your answer arrived without hesitation.

Not accusing or forgiving. Simply acknowledging reality.

Frank rubbed a hand across his face before letting out a tired exhale. “...Kid almost died ’cause of me.”

“He almost died because he made a choice.”

His head lifted.

You hadn’t moved.

Your posture remained relaxed, both hands tucked into the pockets of your coat as you looked at Peter rather than him.

“You didn’t intend to shoot Peter.”

“...Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to him,” you said.

Frank frowned. 

“You know as well as I do that Peter would make the exact same decision again tomorrow.”

That earned the faintest snort from him. “...Yeah.”

“And the day after.”

“...Yeah.”

“And probably every day after that.”

Despite himself, the corner of Frank’s mouth twitched for barely a second before disappearing again. “...Kid’s got somethin’ wrong with him.”

A barely perceptible smile crossed your face. “I’ve been saying that for years.”

The room fell quiet again, though lighter than before. Not because either of you had forgotten why you were there, but because Peter Parker possessed that peculiar ability to make even the bleakest situations sound almost absurd when spoken aloud.

Frank looked at you again. This time, the weight in his chest had very little to do with Peter. “...Shouldn’t’ve called.”

You blinked once. “What?”

His eyes remained fixed somewhere beyond your shoulder. “...Should’ve left y’outta this.”

There it was.

Not an apology. Frank Castle rarely knew how to apologize directly.

Instead, guilt surfaced sideways, disguised as practical statements that somehow managed to reveal far more than he’d ever intended.

“You disappeared,” you answered quietly, your voice neither sharp nor wounded, merely factual. “Then months later you called because someone needed help,” he didn’t answer. “I would’ve come regardless of who was on the other end of that phone.”

“...I know.”

“But…” Your sentence faded before it truly began.

Frank looked back at you, noticing for the first time that exhaustion wasn’t the only thing shadowing your features. There was something else there, something quieter, carefully restrained beneath the same professionalism you’d carried since entering the room.

“...But it was you.”

Neither of you spoke.

There wasn’t much left to add. Because that was precisely the part neither of you had managed to outrun.

Frank had convinced himself that leaving was an act of protection.

You had never tried to stop him.

Yet when he finally reached for you again, you had answered before asking a single question. The realization sat heavily between you, too complicated to untangle inside a hospital room where another man’s heartbeat continued its steady rhythm only a few feet away.

Frank shifted toward the edge of the bed before planting both feet carefully against the floor. The movement pulled sharply at the bruises along his ribs, forcing him to grit his teeth, but remaining in bed while talking to you suddenly felt wrong. He pushed himself upright despite the dull protest radiating through his side, one hand instinctively gripping the metal railing until the dizziness passed.

You took half a step forward. “Frank—”

“’M alright.”

“You’ve been unconscious for hours.”

“’M still standin’.”

“You are,” you agreed, watching the faint tension around his jaw betray just how much the movement had hurt, “but that doesn’t mean it was a good idea.”

He ignored the remark, taking another slow step until barely a couple of feet separated the two of you. Standing now, the difference in height returned so naturally it almost felt cruel after months apart. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed something as ordinary as looking down at you.

Neither of you noticed the subtle change in the room until a hoarse voice, rough with anesthesia and sleep, broke the silence.

“...You know…”

Both heads turned at once.

Peter’s face twisted into a pained grimace as his eyelids fluttered open, squinting against the brightness above him before his unfocused gaze drifted lazily between the two of you.

“...If... this is... your way…” He swallowed, wincing immediately afterward. “...of getting back together…” Another shallow breath. “...I’m gonna be... really offended…”

For the first time since waking, Frank let out something dangerously close to an actual laugh. It lasted barely a second, rough and disbelieving, disappearing almost as quickly as it had come.

“...Kid…” he muttered, shaking his head. “...You’re... unbelievably dramatic.”

Peter managed the weakest grin imaginable. “...Says... the guy... who shot me…”

Peter’s eyes never stayed open for very long before another wince betrayed exactly how much the anesthesia was beginning to wear off. The pain hadn’t fully settled in yet—that much you could tell from the way he still found enough energy to smile through it—but it was coming, slow and inevitable, replacing the comforting numbness left behind by surgery. His pulse climbed a few beats on the monitor, his breathing became fractionally shallower, and before either of the men in the room could say another word, your attention shifted entirely back to your patient.

Professional habit had always outweighed everything else.

You crossed the small distance separating you from the bed, the teasing smile Peter’s comment had drawn from you disappearing into the quiet concentration Frank remembered so well. Your fingers found Peter’s wrist first, counting almost absentmindedly while your other hand reached for the monitor to silence the brief warning that had accompanied the change in his heart rate. Only once you seemed satisfied did you rest your palm lightly against his shoulder, careful to avoid the fresh dressing covering the wound.

“Easy,” you said softly. “You just woke up after major surgery. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try proving you’re indestructible during the first five minutes.”

Peter blinked several times, his expression still clouded by medication before recognition finally settled in. “...Doc.”

“You remembered me. That’s encouraging.”

“I remember…” He frowned thoughtfully, clearly trying to organize his memories. “...there was a lot of yelling.”

“There usually is when someone gets shot.”

“...Fair.”

You couldn’t help smiling.

Frank watched the exchange in silence.

It struck him almost immediately that you spoke differently to Peter than you ever had to him. Not because you were treating him like a child—God knew Peter Parker would hate that—but because your voice carried an ease that belonged to someone accustomed to calming frightened patients without making them feel fragile. You never lied to them. You simply had a way of delivering the truth that somehow left enough room for people to breathe.

Peter shifted slightly before immediately regretting it, a sharp hiss escaping through clenched teeth. “...Okay... yeah…” he muttered, abandoning the movement altogether. “...Turns out getting shot really hurts.”

“I did warn you against trying it,” you said.

“I wasn’t exactly planning on making it a hobby,” Peter said.

Frank snorted quietly. “...Could’ve fooled me.”

Peter looked toward him with exaggerated offense despite the obvious discomfort pulling at every movement. “I was saving your grumpy old self. Saving New York and Jean too!”

“...Didn’t ask.”

“No, but I feel like deep down you’re grateful.”

“I ain’t.”

“You are.”

“I ain’t.”

Peter turned toward you with the air of someone seeking professional validation. “...Doc, can you check if emotional repression is a side effect of being sixty?”

Frank’s head snapped toward him. “...I’m forty somethin’.”

“Oh,” Peter nodded solemnly. “My mistake,” a brief pause. “...You complain like you’re sixty.”

The expression that crossed Frank’s face was so profoundly unimpressed that you had to lower your head for a moment, pretending to check Peter’s IV while unsuccessfully hiding the smile tugging at your lips.

“...You’re both impossible,” you murmured.

“I like her,” Peter informed Frank matter-of-factly.

“...Didn’t ask you.”

“I know,”  Peter smiled wider. “I just enjoy telling you things.”

Frank let out a long breath through his nose that sounded suspiciously like the beginning of a sigh, though whether it came from annoyance or reluctant amusement was difficult to tell.

While the two continued staring at one another with the stubbornness of men separated by nearly three decades and united by an equally questionable tendency toward self-sacrifice, you quietly reached for the clipboard resting at the foot of Peter’s bed and flipped through several pages before handing it to him.

“Before you start worrying,” you said, already anticipating the question forming behind his eyes, “there’s something you should know.”

Peter looked down at the paperwork with visible confusion. “...Should I be scared?”

“No,” you said.

“...That’s usually what people say right before giving me bad news.”

“You don’t have any medical records here.”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“I erased them.”

Frank’s attention shifted toward you immediately.

Peter stared at you for several long seconds before looking back at the folder in his hands, flipping through it despite the obvious discomfort in his shoulder. Every page carried the same generic information: unidentified male, approximate age, emergency surgical intervention, no identifying features beyond the details absolutely necessary for postoperative care.

No name.

No fingerprints.

No DNA samples.

Nothing that could ever connect Spider-Man to Peter Parker.

“I also made sure every nurse assigned to this floor signed confidentiality agreements under a completely different case number,” you continued, your tone so matter-of-fact one would’ve thought you were discussing tomorrow’s weather. “Your blood samples were destroyed after the necessary testing, radiology archived under an anonymous emergency file, and the operating room logs were rewritten before they ever reached the hospital database.”

Peter looked at you as though you’d casually announced you’d reorganized Manhattan over lunch. “...You... did all that?”

You gave a small shrug. “It seemed easier than letting the government discover Spider-Man’s civilian identity.”

“...Easier.”

“Mhm,” you nod.

“...Your definition of easier is terrifying.”

Frank folded his arms. “...How the hell d’you even know how t’do all that?”

Your eyes shifted toward him, and for the first time since entering the room, genuine amusement settled across your features. “I’ve had practice.”

Frank frowned. “Practice.”

You nodded once. “It wasn’t exactly the first masked vigilante I’ve had to patch up.”

There was enough innocence in your voice that anyone unfamiliar with you might’ve believed the remark accidental.

Frank knew better.

Peter, unfortunately for him, understood immediately.

“...Wait,” Peter said, his eyes lighting up despite the lingering effects of the anesthesia. “You’re talking about—”

“Daredevil,” you said, smiling. Oh yeah, smiling.

Frank’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

Peter’s gaze bounced enthusiastically between the two of you.

“...Hold on,” another pause. “...The Daredevil?”

You nodded. “For quite a while.”

Peter looked positively delighted. “...This just became the coolest hospital stay of my life.”

Frank muttered something under his breath. “...Jesus Christ.”

Peter ignored him entirely. “So... he was your patient?”

“For years.”

“...And?” 

“And what?” You couldn’t help but smile at Peter’s enthusiasm.

Peter grinned. “...That’s definitely not the whole story.”

You hesitated just long enough for Frank to know exactly where the conversation was heading. “...We dated.”

Silence lasted perhaps half a second.

Then Peter’s eyes widened with theatrical excitement.

“No way!”

Frank closed his eyes. “...Kid.”

“So you dated Daredevil…” Peter continued, clearly having discovered today’s favorite subject. “”...and now you’re—”

“We’re not discussing my personal life while you’re recovering from surgery.”

Peter looked almost offended. “I think discussing your personal life is helping my recovery.”

“...It isn’t.”

“It really is!”

You shook your head with an exasperated smile that Frank remembered all too well, one reserved almost exclusively for stubborn men convinced they were charming.

Peter tilted his head toward Frank with exaggerated subtlety. “I think somebody looks jealous.”

Frank actually laughed this time, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “...Jealous.”

“A little.”

“I ain’t jealous.”

Peter looked at you. “He sounds jealous.”

“He does,” you admitted with infuriating calm.

“I ain’t.”

“You’ve denied it three times already,” Peter pointed out.

“...Means you’re lyin’.”

You nodded thoughtfully, joining the conspiracy with far more ease than Frank appreciated.

“Statistically speaking,” you said, folding your arms with mock professionalism, “patients who repeat the same denial multiple times tend to be compensating for something.”

Peter gasped dramatically. “Oh my God.”

You looked at him. “What?”

“You just diagnosed him with jealousy,” he said, dramatically.

“I did no such thing.”

“You absolutely did.”

Frank looked from one of you to the other, his expression flattening with every passing second as the realization settled that, somehow, despite one of you having been unconscious less than five minutes ago, the two of you had already formed an alliance against him.

“...Y’know,” Frank muttered, shaking his head as he looked toward the ceiling, “startin’ t’think lettin’ the kid sleep was the better option.”

Peter’s grin widened immediately. “See?” He looked triumphantly at you. “That’s his coping mechanism.”

You smiled—small, genuine, impossible to miss. “I know.”

And somehow, though Frank would have denied it under oath, hearing you say those two simple words hurt far less than it should have. Because beneath the teasing, beneath Peter’s relentless commentary and your quiet amusement, lingered the unmistakable reminder that, despite the months he’d spent trying to convince himself otherwise, there were still parts of him you knew by heart.

Peter remained awake for another twenty minutes, though “awake” was perhaps too generous a word for someone whose sentences grew increasingly incoherent each time the medication pulled at his consciousness. You stayed long enough to adjust his pain medication after he finally admitted—under considerable dramatic protest—that perhaps getting shot had, indeed, been a terrible experience. The complaint earned him nothing more than a raised eyebrow and the reminder that most people reached that conclusion before the bullet, not after it. He insisted the distinction was important. You informed him it wasn’t. Frank watched the exchange from the chair he’d reluctantly occupied again, saying little beyond the occasional dry remark whenever Peter’s teasing wandered too close to provoking another argument.

Eventually, however, the medication won.

Peter’s eyelids grew heavier with every passing minute until even maintaining a conversation demanded more effort than he was willing to spend. His words began to blur together, his thoughts drifting somewhere between consciousness and sleep, and when you finally noticed him answering questions with little more than sleepy hums, you smiled almost to yourself before pulling the blanket a little higher over his chest.

The kid, as Frank told him, deserved to rest. Not just for carrying New York on his shoulders, but because he really seemed to need a break after… so much. You didn’t quite know what happened, who this Jean Grey was, but you knew Peter Parker needed help, needed someone to watch his back. You were glad Frank was there, even though he was partly to blame for Spider-Man almost dying hours before.

At least the drawings and stuffed animals served to remind Spider-Man that there were people waiting for him to recover, and that there were also people who wanted Peter Parker to be okay too.

“I’ll be back in a little while,” you said quietly. “Try not to move your shoulder.”

Peter barely cracked one eye open. “...No promises…”

“I know.”

“...But... I’ll... consider it…” Peter said.

“You do that.”

His mouth curved into the faintest grin before sleep reclaimed him entirely.

You waited another few seconds, watching the steady rhythm of the monitor settle once more into reassuring regularity before making a small note on his chart. Only after confirming that everything remained exactly as it should did you close the folder and glance toward Frank.

“He’ll sleep for a while.”

Frank nodded.

You hesitated for barely a moment before continuing. “You two probably have things to talk about.”

He understood what you meant immediately.

Peter deserved the truth.

Not today—not while the anesthesia still clouded his thoughts—but eventually. About Jean Grey. About the shot. About the guilt Frank had been carrying ever since watching the boy collapse in front of him.

“...Yeah.”

“I’ll give you some privacy.”

Without waiting for an answer, you stepped quietly out of the room, allowing the door to close behind you with little more than a muted click.

By the time you returned almost forty minutes later, the hallway outside had grown noticeably quieter.

Night had settled fully over the city, leaving only the soft glow of Manhattan filtering through the hospital windows while the floor gradually surrendered to the peculiar calm that only arrived after visiting hours ended. Somewhere in the distance, a nurse laughed quietly at something another doctor had said before the sound disappeared just as quickly, swallowed by walls that had heard thousands of similar conversations over the years. 

There were still people outside the hospital hoping Spider-Man would get better. Mostly adults, because the children were forced to leave their hero’s watch.

You pushed the door open carrying a fresh chart beneath one arm.

Peter was asleep again. This time deeply.

His breathing had evened out, the tension that pain had carved into his features finally beginning to loosen beneath the effects of medication. You approached automatically, checking the surgical dressing for any signs of fresh bleeding before reviewing the monitor once more. Blood pressure stable. Oxygen saturation normal. Heart rate slower now, no longer racing against the lingering adrenaline of waking after surgery.

Satisfied, you quietly scribbled another note across the chart.

“He’s doing well,” the words left your mouth almost absentmindedly before you realized Frank hadn’t answered.

You looked up.

He was standing.

Not beside his own bed anymore. Not near Peter’s either.

He had moved closer to the window sometime while you were gone, though judging by the stiffness in his posture, every step had probably cost him more pain than he cared to admit. One hand rested inside the pocket of the gray hospital sweatpants someone had convinced him to wear, while the other remained loosely folded across his ribs. Outside, rain had begun falling again, blurring the lights beyond the glass into streaks of gold and white. It was clear that Frank’s gaze was fixed on the people who were beginning to disperse, people who wanted to wait for Spider-Man to be alright, but the rain demanded a break.

For a brief second neither of you spoke.

Then he turned toward you. “...He asleep?”

You glanced once more toward Peter before nodding. “For the night, hopefully.”

“...Good.”

The room fell quiet again. Not because there was nothing to say, quite the opposite.

The silence existed because both of you understood that, for the first time since he’d called you, there were no patients demanding your attention, no interruptions waiting to rescue either of you from the conversation you’d both been quietly avoiding since the moment you stepped into the hospital.

You closed Peter’s chart before placing it gently at the foot of the bed.

“I should let you rest too.”

You had barely taken a step toward the door when his voice stopped you.

“...Don’t.”

It wasn’t loud.

Frank never needed volume to command attention.

You turned back. He hadn’t moved.

His eyes remained fixed on you with an expression you couldn’t immediately place, something caught somewhere between hesitation and determination, as though speaking suddenly required far more courage than facing armed men ever had.

“...Stay.”

You looked at him for several long seconds before quietly walking away from the door.

The distance between you wasn’t large. It only felt that way.

“You wanted to talk,” it wasn’t a question.

Frank lowered his gaze briefly, rubbing the back of his neck with a tired hand before letting out a slow breath through his nose.

“...Been tryin’ t’figure out what I’d say…” A humorless smile ghosted across his face. “...Turns out I’m still no damn good at this.”

“You never were.”

“...Yeah.”

Another silence followed, though this one carried none of the uncertainty from before. It felt strangely familiar instead, like dozens of evenings the two of you had spent sitting together after difficult days, neither expecting the other to fill every quiet moment with conversation.

Frank looked toward the sleeping figure across the room before speaking again.

“...Thought leavin’ was the right thing,” you didn’t interrupt him. “...Figured…” He swallowed once. “...figured if I wasn’t around... nobody’d use y’ t’get t’me,” his jaw tightened. “...Kept tellin’ myself I’d made peace with it,” you remained perfectly still. “...Didn’t.” The admission barely rose above a murmur.

“I know,” you whispered.

His eyes found yours again. “...No,” he shook his head once. “...Y’ don’t.”

Something inside his expression shifted, the stubborn certainty he’d carried for months beginning to crack beneath exhaustion.

“I thought about callin’... every damn week.”

Your fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the chart you still held.

“...You didn’t.”

“’Cause every time…” he laughed quietly at himself, though there wasn’t an ounce of amusement behind the sound. “...Every damn time I’d hear your voice in my head tellin’ me I was an idiot…”

A faint smile tugged unwillingly at the corner of your mouth. “I probably would’ve.”

“...Yeah,” another breath. “...But I also knew…” His voice grew quieter still. “...Soon as I heard y’ again…” He stopped.

Not because he didn’t know the words, but because saying them aloud somehow made them heavier.

“...I’d wanna come home.” The sentence settled gently between you.

Not dramatic or poetic... just honest.

Frank looked away toward the rain streaking across the window. “...An’ I couldn’t.” his shoulders rose and fell with a tired sigh. “...Didn’t trust myself.”

You watched him for several moments before finally speaking. “So you decided for both of us.”

He closed his eyes. “...Yeah.”

“You never asked what I wanted.”

“...I know.”

“You decided I was safer without you.”

“...Yeah.”

“And you never considered that maybe I would’ve preferred having the chance to make that choice myself,” you said, swallowing hard, because suddenly the words were harder to come out.

Frank nodded once, slowly. “...Yeah.”

No excuses. No attempt to defend himself. Only acceptance.

You took another small step toward him until barely an arm’s length remained between you. “I was angry.”

“...I know.”

“I thought something had happened to you,” you confessed.

His breathing caught almost imperceptibly.

“I spent weeks wondering whether you were dead.”

Frank lowered his head. “...I know.”

“I hated you,” the words came quietly.

“I know.”

“And somehow…” You let out the smallest laugh, one filled more with exhaustion than humor. “...I still answered the phone.”

Frank finally looked back at you.

There was something almost unbearable in his expression now, something raw enough that it made him seem older than you had ever remembered.

“...Yeah.”

Another silence.

Then, with all the awkward honesty that had always belonged exclusively to Frank Castle— “...Missed y’.”

You didn’t answer.

He swallowed. “...Missed y’ every damn day.” The confession seemed to leave him almost embarrassed, his eyes dropping briefly toward the floor before returning to yours with stubborn resolve. “...Still do,” his voice had become rougher now. “...Didn’t matter where I went,” another pause. “...Didn’t matter how many nights I told myself I was doin’ the right thing,” he shook his head faintly. “...I’d still wake up…” his laugh came again, quieter than before. “...Reach across the bed…” He looked down at his own hand. “...And remember you weren’t there.”

For the first time since entering the room hours earlier, there was no doctor standing before him.

No composed surgeon.

No woman quietly hiding exhaustion behind professionalism.

Only you.

And Frank realized, with painful certainty, that disappearing had never once taught him how to stop loving you.

“...I miss ya, sweetheart.”

The words came so softly they almost disappeared beneath the steady beeping of Peter’s monitor.

“...I never stopped.”

You remained standing where you were, saying nothing for what felt like an eternity, though in reality only a handful of seconds passed before the silence settled into something neither of you felt compelled to interrupt. Frank had never been a man who filled empty spaces with words, and you had long since learned that the things he struggled most to say were often the truest. Throughout your relationship, it had never been lengthy declarations or carefully rehearsed speeches that convinced you of what he felt. It had been the way he’d silently pulled your coat tighter around your shoulders when winter nights became colder than either of you had expected. The way he’d memorized which cabinet held your migraine medication without ever being asked. The way he’d begun sleeping a little deeper simply because your heartbeat had become familiar enough to convince his own body that, for a few hours at least, the war outside could wait.

Frank loved with actions.

Perhaps that was why words sounded so unbearably vulnerable coming from him now.

His confession still lingered between you, fragile in a way that felt almost foreign on a man who had spent most of his life convincing the world that nothing could reach him. You could see it in the tension around his jaw, in the way his shoulders remained rigid despite the exhaustion weighing on him, in the uncertainty quietly settling behind his eyes as though, after finally saying everything he’d kept buried for months, he no longer knew what came next.

You looked at him for several more seconds before letting the chart slip onto the nearby counter.

Neither of you spoke.

You simply closed the remaining distance.

It wasn’t dramatic.

There were no tears, no hurried embrace born from months apart, no desperate attempt to erase everything that had happened with a single gesture. That wasn’t who either of you had ever been. Whatever existed between you had always been built patiently, through ordinary moments repeated often enough that they eventually became something impossible to imagine living without.

When you stopped in front of him, Frank didn’t move. Perhaps he wasn’t sure he was allowed to.

You lifted one hand slowly before resting it against the side of his face.

The roughness of his stubble brushed gently against your palm, exactly as you remembered. He hadn’t changed his aftershave. You doubted he had even noticed there was still a faint scent of gunpowder clinging stubbornly to his skin beneath the antiseptic smell of the hospital. His cheek was warmer than your hand, and beneath your fingertips you could feel the subtle tightening of his jaw before, almost cautiously, he leaned into the touch.

Only slightly. Almost imperceptibly. Enough for you to know it hadn’t been unconscious.

Frank closed his eyes.

The movement was so small that anyone else might have missed it, yet you knew him well enough to understand what it meant.

Relief.

Not because everything had been fixed. Nothing had.

Months of silence couldn’t simply disappear because one difficult conversation had finally taken place. The hurt remained. The questions remained. So did the certainty that, eventually, both of you would have to talk about everything that had happened between the day he left and the day that phone call brought him back into your life.

But for now...

You hadn’t stepped away. Your thumb brushed quietly across the scar beneath his eye.

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

Frank opened his eyes again. “...Yeah.”

“If you think leaving is the answer next time…” A faint smile appeared despite yourself. “...you’re going to have to survive me first.”

Something remarkably close to amusement flickered across his face. “...Sounds ’bout right.”

You shook your head, your hand never leaving his cheek. “You are unbelievably stubborn.”

“’M aware.”

“It was a very selfish decision,” you accused.

“...Yeah.”

“You hurt me,” the words came gently. Not as an accusation, simply as truth.

His expression faltered. “...I know.”

“And I’m still angry.”

“...Yeah.”

Another silence settled between you.

Then, unexpectedly—

“So…” Frank cleared his throat awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture you’d seen countless times whenever he found himself navigating emotions he’d rather face with a loaded rifle. “...Guess I oughta start listenin’ more.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think?”

“...Peter yelled at me.”

A surprised laugh escaped you. “Peter yelled at you?”

“He wouldn’t shut up.”

“What did he say?” you asked.

Frank let out a tired breath through his nose. “...Kept sayin’ disappearin’ never fixed anythin’.” 

Funny coming from Peter Parker himself, considering his own life.

You tilted your head slightly. “...He’s not wrong.”

“No.” Frank looked briefly toward the sleeping young man across the room before returning his attention to you. “...Kid spent years thinkin’ carryin’ everything alone’d keep people safe,” his voice grew quieter. “...Didn’t work for him,” his eyes met yours again. “...Didn’t work for me either.”

There it was; not another apology, but a realization.

Perhaps the first one he had truly allowed himself to accept.

Frank had always believed love meant becoming a target. That anyone standing close enough to him would inevitably suffer because of it. Walking away had seemed like protection. Especially considering everything that happened to his family, how he lost them, what he lost of himself.

Now, after watching Peter nearly die trying to bear the weight of the world by himself...

After watching you come running the moment he called despite every reason not to...

He finally understood something neither of you had managed to convince him of before: distance protected no one. It only made loneliness easier to justify.

His hand rose hesitantly before settling against your waist. Unlike yours, his touch wasn’t cautious. It never had been. Frank had always held you as though reassuring himself you were real.

His thumb absentmindedly traced slow circles against your side while he searched your face for something you hadn’t yet said. “...Can I…” He stopped.

You smiled softly. “Frank.”

“...Yeah?”

“You’ve never been very good at asking.”

A quiet snort escaped him. “...Workin’ on it.”

“I noticed.”

For another heartbeat neither of you moved.

Then Frank did what had always come more naturally than speaking.

He leaned down and kissed you slowly. Not with the urgency of someone terrified you’d disappear if he let go. Nor with the desperate hunger born from months apart.

Instead, it was the kind of kiss that only existed between two people who already knew one another by heart, who had spent countless mornings sharing terrible coffee, countless nights patching each other back together after impossible fights, countless quiet moments learning that intimacy often lived in the smallest gestures.

His hand remained at your waist.  Yours stayed against his cheek. Everything else quietly disappeared. When he finally rested his forehead against yours again, neither of you spoke immediately.

There wasn’t much left to say.

Frank let out the smallest breath of laughter. “...Missed that.”

“So did I,” you whispered, with a small smile.

His eyes softened. “...Y’ just admitted it.”

“I did.”

“...Think I should shoot Peter more often,” he blurted it out with a tiny smile.

You frowned immediately. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

“’M kiddin’.”

“I know…” you said.

“You smiled,” Frank said, keeping his smile.

“I did no such thing.”

“...Liar.”

A familiar voice, still rough with sleep but carrying entirely too much satisfaction for someone recovering from surgery, drifted across the room before either of you could continue. “...Wow…”

Neither of you moved.

“...That…” Peter’s voice stretched lazily as if he’d just witnessed the ending of a particularly good movie. “...was actually... really sweet.”

Frank’s eyes closed slowly. Painfully.

“No,” Frank almost growled.

Peter grinned without opening his own. “...Yep.”

“You were asleep,” Frank accused.

“...Was,” a beat. “...Then I wasn’t,” Peter said.

Frank turned just enough to glare at the bed. “...How long?”

Peter finally cracked one eye open. “...Long enough to know…” He pointed weakly between the two of you. “...communication solved literally all your problems.”

Frank stared at him. “...Y’ little shit.”

Peter smiled wider. “I prefer ‘friendly neighborhood therapist.’”

“...You’re unconscious.”

“I don’t think I am,” Peter said, calmly.

“...You are now.”

“You can’t threaten hospital patients,” Peter said, and the smile didn’t seem to want to leave his face.

“I absolutely can,” Frank grunted.

“You already shot me!” Peter exclaimed, and you almost giggled at what you were witnessing.

“...Accident,” Frank said.

“It still counts.”

Frank pointed toward the IV stand. 

“...Doctor.”

You looked between them with impeccable composure. “Yes?”

“I need permission t’smother him with that pillow.”

Peter gasped dramatically. “I knew this hospital had terrible patient care.”

“I’m considering it,” you replied thoughtfully, folding your arms.

Peter looked horrified. “Doc!”

You hummed, pretending to weigh the options. “...Legally, I probably shouldn’t.”

Frank nodded once. “...Hear that?”

Peter sighed in exaggerated relief. “‘Probably.’” Another pause. “...That’s not the reassuring answer I was hoping for.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Then another.

Frank looked at you instinctively, his expression softening the moment he heard it.

Months had passed since he’d last been the reason for that sound. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it.

Peter, of course, noticed immediately. “...Oh, he’s doing the face again.”

Frank blinked. “...What face?”

“The one where he looks at you like you’re the greatest thing that’s ever happened to him,” Peter said.

Frank looked ready to deny it. Instead, he simply muttered under his breath— “...Fucking kid.”

Peter’s grin only widened. “...Love you too, Frank.”

“...Don’t push it.”

“Why not? I saved your old ass on Staten Island first…”

“Fuck off!” 

Your laughter filled the hospital room again, blending with Peter’s amused chuckle and Frank’s long-suffering sigh until, for the first time that day, the room no longer felt like a place where someone had almost died.

It simply felt... lived in.

And somehow, none of you seemed eager to leave it just yet.

notes: i started this as soon as i finished Brand New Day because i loved the dynamic between peter and frank, lmao.

clearly, i changed things for the sake of the one-shot! but hey, i needed to do this, especially since Brand New Day feels like a journey of three people trying to reconnect with others after being alone for so long (peter mostly, then frank and jean).

The gun had still been smoking when it’d clattered at your feet. 

Regret felt like a wet blanket on your shoulders, suffocating in its weight. You couldn’t stand it.

Couldn’t stand.

Asphalt dug into your knees, crumpling at the man's side. Your hands had been shaking as you grabbed his wrist, searching for a pulse, praying for it in the way a sinner prays for absolution.

You found none. 

No pulse. No absolution. 

Still, you tried. Locked your fingers over his chest—pressing and pressing, trying and trying. Until thick ribs cracked and caved, until your palms were drenched in warmth and death and–

Rain. 

It was raining. 

Little drops, softly pattering all throughout the alleyway. You watched, dazed, as they slid down the lit-up screen in your hands. 

You didn’t remember pulling out your phone, but you remembered making the call. 

Calls. 

In the Bible, the number seven is considered sacred. Symbolic of divine oaths and promises, of perfection in the purest, most angelic sense. 

Seven times you called the Devil. 

Seven times he didn’t answer. 

You tilted your head back. The rain fell faster, cool drops steady rolling down your cheeks. The sky was a yawning, starless expanse. In the past, you’d always said that’s why you hated the city. The lack of stars—veiled by pollution and human selfishness, replaced by a twinkling skyline made of artificial hope. 

But tonight was different. Tonight, you were glad for their absence. 

At least the stars hadn’t seen what you’d done. 

Blood smeared across the phone screen as you dialed your eighth call. A different tone than before; a number not saved but remembered. 

A number you’d promised Matt you’d never call again. 

{In case you ever need it—} 

[—I don’t trust him.] 

What is trust? 

Once, it felt like the comfort of sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Sitting amidst the oaken pews with a man at your side—a soft man dressed in a sharp suit, his glasses tinted red and his heart pure gold. 

Now, trust felt like the relief of a call that rang only once. Of cold fear melting into the gruff warmth of another’s voice, heavy with concern as they answered: “You alright?” 

You almost laughed. 

No. Of course not—because why would you call Frank Castle if you were anything other than desperate? 

“Are you busy?” you asked, awkward and hesitant. 

In hindsight, the question felt stupid. There was a body lying in front of you, and certainly no amount of busyness took precedence over that. But then, Matt must’ve been busy. Playing dutiful layer or God’s lone soldier. That’s why he hadn’t answered. 

Unless… 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

{—That what we are?} 

On the other end of the line, Frank urged, “C’mon now, doll, you gotta answer me, alright?” Had he asked something? You hadn’t noticed. “Where’re you at?” 

“An alley.” 

A rough, humorless chuckle. “Little more specific, sweetheart.” 

Five blocks from Matt’s apartment, you thought. 

“Off West 51st,” you said. 

“Don’t move.” There was the sound of a door slamming, of boots pounding down a flight of stairs. “I’m on my way.” 

Panic thrashed in your veins, anticipating the sharp click of a call gone dead. “Wait!” A cry, a plea—but for what? You had no clue what to say next. 

You hadn’t told him about the man, or the gun, or the sin. 

And Frank hadn’t asked. You knew this was because the Why? for your call hadn’t mattered to him. 

Only that you had. 

{You call, I come—} 

[—Frank Castle is a murderer.] 

Your eyes squeezed shut. You went to rub them, then remembered the blood dripping from your hands. 

So am I, you thought. So am I. 

Frank said your name. Once, twice. 

Quietly, you asked, “Will you stay on the phone?” 

The sound of another door pushing open, a great whoosh! of air as the city unfolded around him: sirens screaming, traffic blaring. With your eyes closed, you could almost see—shoving from his apartment building, marching down darkened sidewalks with a determined clench in his jaw. 

It wasn’t a man coming to save you, nor a vigilante. 

It was a soldier. 

After drawing in a breath, Frank uttered, “‘Course.” 

Time dragged. 

Hell’s Kitchen droned around you. Occasionally, Frank would ask: You good? to which you replied: How far are you? At some point, you drifted further from the man’s body. Ended up sitting on the ground, your back pressed to a brick wall. 

Your emotions were still fuzzy, as dull as the blunt edge of a knife. But your nerves… those were razor sharp. 

You watched both ends of the alleyway. Vigilant, afraid. Your muscles tensed whenever a car door shut too loud, whenever a stranger passed beneath the distant, buzzing streetlights. 

What if someone noticed? 

Gunshots weren’t such a strange thing in the Kitchen. The Devil couldn’t be everywhere at once, and the cops were either too busy or too lazy to investigate every bang! in the night. 

But if someone noticed you like this—curled on the ground, a dead man at your feet and violent red on your skin… 

He started it, you reminded yourself. Self-defense is absolvable. 

[To a judge? Or to God?—] 

God doesn’t matter. 

[—Why didn’t you call 9-1-1?] 

Why didn’t you answer? 

Your grip tightened around the phone. “How far now?” 

“Check your nine.” In the second it took for you to envision a clock, Frank had already amended, “Left, sweetheart.” There was the barest hint of a smile in his voice. “Look left.” 

You did. 

Frank was little more than a formless figure approaching. He was dressed in all black, his hood up against the rain. You couldn’t see his face, but you didn’t need to. His presence was enough to ease the frantic beat of your pulse. 

When he was close enough to hear, you hung up the phone. Wiped your nose on your sleeve and sniffed, “Took you long enough.” 

Cool and calculating—two descriptors that fit Frank best as he scanned the scene. He took note of the discarded gun, the puddle of watered down blood, the man with three bullets in his chest. 

You were the last thing he noted, and the only one to put a crack in his stern exterior. 

“Smart enough to practice law,” Frank lightly joked, “but not to read a goddamn clock, huh?” 

A laugh sputtered past your lips, melding into a broken sob. 

“Paralegals don’t practice,” you argued, ignoring the tears wetting your cheeks. “And I can read a clock just fine, asshole.” 

There was a softness to his face, one brow raising. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” So long as it’s in front of you, and you’re telling time and not direction. 

Frank hummed, his knees popping as he crouched down beside you. “Well I ain’t got a watch,” he said, “so I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.” 

Another weak laugh faded into quiet. 

Then, more hesitant than you’d ever heard him before, Frank asked, “You wanna tell me what happened?” 

Something about the way he said it struck you as odd. Like it was a choice—that you didn’t have to explain. If you wanted, the secrets of tonight could remain just that: Secrets, known only by you and a man who had no voice to share them. 

[Do you remember Psalm 80:9?—] 

Even secret sins are exposed in His light. 

{—How do you deal with it? All Red’s Catholic bullshit?} 

By believing in it. 

Frank took your silence for an answer. Shifted as if he might reach out, offer comfort. Instead, his fingers curled into loose fists. 

“How ‘bout you go wait around the corner,” he offered, “and let me take care of all this?” 

You weren’t sure what Frank’s version of ‘taking care of this’ entailed, but you knew you were comfortable with never finding out. 

Frank followed suit as you pushed off the ground. His movements were precise and easy, while yours were graceless and weighted. Standing, the world seemed to shift beneath your feet. Your mind was still hazy, your bones tired. 

Existence had become an arduous task. 

“When you’re… done,” you managed, your arms curled tight around your waist, “what then?” 

You didn’t want to go home—or to Matt’s. 

You didn’t want to feel alone. 

As if he understood this, Frank simply answered, “I’ll take you back to my place. Get you cleaned up, let you rest awhile.” His head tilted slightly. “You like pizza?” 

The world was ending. 

And yet here stood Frank—no Bible quotes or Hail Mary’s, no judgement for the sin you’d committed or the mess he had to clean. He offered only calm, only patience—and pizza of all things. 

[What do you see in him?—] 

{—Let me take care of all this.} 

You nodded. 

Frank’s apartment was bleak. 

One room total—unless you counted the cramped shoebox of a bathroom, which you did not. The front door opened into a shoddy kitchenette, connected to a living room that clearly doubled as his bedroom. 

He owned minimal furnishings. There was a lumpy couch, a small table with one chair, an old doormat that read Stay Awhile! except the Awhile had been all but completely rubbed off. You assumed that’s why it was inside instead of out—because even indirectly, Frank Castle wasn’t the type to ask anyone to Stay. 

Behind you, Frank grunted as he kicked his boots off onto the mat. You wondered if you should do the same, but didn’t. 

It felt strange to be in Frank’s apartment. Not because it made you uncomfortable, but because it didn’t. You felt fine. Still shaken, still a little sick—but safe. 

Would Matt be able to tell? Would he smell the gunpowder and Old Spice clinging to your skin and know that you’d been with Frank? 

That’s how you knew when he’d been with Elektra. You didn’t need super senses to smell her perfume—a heady mix of cloves and something citrus, lingering on his shirts as plain as if it were lipstick on the collar. 

Unthinking, you said, “You should get a bird.” 

Frank chuckled. “Yeah? And why’s that?” 

You weren’t sure. It was just the first thing that had come to mind, a means of evicting Elektra from your thoughts. 

“It could liven the place up,” you suggested. Though, after taking another glance around, you realized that might be asking too much of one little bird. 

He’d need a flock. 

Frank slipped past you, warmth crawling up your spine at the slight brush of his hand against your back. You told yourself it was unintentional—no more intimate than someone scooting past you in a crowded bar or a grocery store aisle. 

Still, the warmth lingered. 

“Don’t think I’m much of a bird guy,” Frank admitted from the kitchenette. Then, nodding towards the couch, he added, “Sit.” 

You drifted that way and sank into the cushions. The springs were practically nonexistent, and the brown leather peeled like a bad sunburn—impossible not to pick at. 

“What kind of guy are you, then?” you asked, more interested in a distraction than his answer. 

Frank dug around in the cabinets, grabbed a plastic mixing bowl, and went to the sink. “I like dogs,” he told you, loud enough to be heard over the running water filling the bowl. 

You pretended not to hear him anyway. 

After starting at Nelson & Murdock, you’d planned to get a dog. It seemed like the right time. You had your own place, your own income—and you knew Foggy would love having something cute and furry around the office. But then you got closer to Matt, and the dream died before it ever began. 

Dogs were too much for Matt. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many textures. Back then, you’d thought it was a reasonable sacrifice. No dog in exchange for an incredible boyfriend. 

You knew better now. 

You should’ve picked the dog. 

Dragging the lone chair from the table, Frank settled in front of you with the bowl of steaming water and a thin cloth. His eyes went straight to your hand. You assumed it was because of the dried blood until he said, “You’re fucking up my couch.” 

You stopped picking, dusting the flakes of leather onto the floor. “It was already fucked,” you defended. 

“So you gotta make it worse?” 

You fixed him with a blank stare. “Nothing could make this couch worse.” Short of setting it on fire, that is. 

“That how we’re gonna play this?” Frank looked like he was holding in a laugh. “I let you in, offer you food—and you pay me back by talkin’ shit about my couch?” 

“It’s not just the couch,” you stated plainly. “It’s the whole apartment.” 

It reminded you of prison—a place that you, Foggy, and Matt had worked hard to keep Frank out of. Even if the trial hadn’t gone as expected, you hated the idea that all that fight had been for this: A peeling couch, a faded doormat, a lonely little chair. 

Frank deserved better than that. 

[Have you forgotten?—] 

[Castle was charged with 37 counts of murder] 

[—Why are you so attached to this case?] 

With the bowl balanced on top of his legs, Frank dipped the cloth in and wrung it out as he joked, “Guess I need that bird.” 

Your lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. 

“Guess so.” 

Frank held out an open palm. Without thinking, you laid your hand against his. 

The water was too hot. Not quite burning, but still uncomfortable as he pressed the cloth to your wrist. But you didn’t flinch, utterly motionless as he wiped in slow, circular motions. 

His touch was far lighter than you’d imagined. 

Not that you ever had imagined it. 

As the cloth moved down to your fingers, Frank’s focus grew more intent. He was meticulous in cleaning every line of your knuckles, the dried blood caked under your nails. 

Only when the water in the bowl had turned the color of rust, the cloth stained and your skin spotless, did Frank trade one of your hands for the other. 

Only then did you confess. 

“He had a knife.” 

Half a second—that’s how long Frank’s movements faltered before he kept on cleaning. You were thankful he didn’t try to look you in the eye. That he didn’t have to for you to know he was listening. 

“Foggy has a deposition in the morning,” you continued shakily. “He always forgets to print his motion, so I stopped by the office to do it for him and… I don’t know. On the way back home, I could just feel it, you know? That someone was there. That they were following me.” 

An understanding nod as Frank moved the cloth to your index finger. 

“I know it’s stupid,” you told him. “But I thought if I cut through the alley, got closer to Matt’s, then–” 

He’d hear it, if the worst happened. The Devil would come. Your boyfriend—if you could even still call him that—would save you. 

But that had been a stupid, childish thought. 

“I figured I could lose him,” you said instead. “That I could turn the corner and just run in circles until he gave up. But he was fast. I wasn’t even halfway down the alley when he ran up behind me, when grabbed my shoulder and–” 

Your breath caught. Frank’s touch moved slower, gentler—a feat you wouldn’t have thought possible. His eyes caught yours in a concerned glance. Only then did you remember how to breathe. 

“It was just a knife, Frank. A knife—and I pulled out a gun!” A short, hollow laugh. “I should have let him rob me,” you rationalized. “At least a wallet can be replaced. But him, his life–” 

Frank cut you off. “How do you know?” 

Your brows furrowed in answer. 

His hand went still against yours, holding the cloth wrapped around your ring finger. “That that’s all he wanted,” Frank gruffly clarified. “To rob you.” 

“I don’t, but–” 

“You remember what I told you? When I taught you how to shoot?” 

{You or them?—}

Frustrated, you insisted, “It’s not that easy, Frank. It’s not my choice!” 

[—It’s up to God, who lives and who dies.] 

Frank shook his head. “That’s the Catholic in you,” he argued. 

“I’m not Catholic,” you snapped, low but harsh. Frank looked confused, and you fought to keep the shame from your voice as you muttered, “Not anymore.” 

Religion, you learned, was a funny sort of thing. Even when you stop believing, it never truly goes away. God becomes a ghost under your skin, a divine haunting that borders on insanity. You will always think in terms of Sinners and Saints. You will always know that no amount of repentance will ever mold your soul into something more like the latter. 

Frank wasn’t the type to pry any further. 

Instead, he adjusted your hand. Carefully dragged the cloth along the curve of your fingernail. The water had cooled, now too cold where it was once too hot. 

“It doesn’t matter what he was going to do,” you decided. “It only matters that I killed him.” 

This time, it was Frank’s breath that hitched. 

“No you didn’t,” he said, and you had never heard someone tell a lie so matter-of-fact. 

“I did–” 

He looked up. A muscle feathered in his jaw, and when he spoke, it was with the steely resolve of a Marine.  

“No. I did.” 

You blinked at him. 

“I gave you that gun,” he continued. “Gave you that goddamn advice, too. That no matter what, you always gotta pick you. And see, I don’t regret that shit either because all that? It kept you alive. Kept you breathing. And if some no-good prick’s gotta so you get to live? Fine. Good.” 

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but stare at him. 

“But if someone’s gotta bear the weight of that guy’s miserable life,” Frank told you, “then let it be me, alright?” His gaze fell, lingering on your lips a moment too long before he uttered, “‘Cause I ain’t gonna let it be you.” 

[You care about him—]

[—Don’t you?] 

Do you care about her? 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

… 

[—Can you say the same about Frank?] 

You studied the man before you. 

Frank Castle. The Punisher. 

The one you shouldn’t call, shouldn’t trust. A murderer and a felon, a crack in your already crumbling relationship. Someone you tried to stay away from, tried to forget. 

A number not saved, but remembered. 

No, you thought, and wondered if Matt already knew. I can’t. 

Swallowing, you looked down at your joined hands. The blood was almost all gone now, washed away by someone far more damned than you. 

“Okay,” you said. There was no need to say anything else, no need to keep bearing the crushing weight of your newly acquired sin—not when God was a ghost and the Devil had abandoned you, not when a Soldier was so willing to bear it for you. 

“You know,” you said, deftly changing the subject, “my brain’s a little hazy, but I’m pretty sure you promised me pizza.” 

Frank fought the subtle curve of his lips. “Did I?” 

You nodded, and he chuckled. 

“Fine–” he refocused, back to cleaning off the last of the blood–“but you’re placin’ the order.” 

You mocked him, Fine!, while sliding your phone from your pocket. The screen lit up with two missed calls and one text. 

Matthew: Sorry, got caught up with something. Everything OK? 

Your thumb hovered over the message. 

In the Bible, the number eight is symbolic of many things. Resurrection is one of them; something dead brought back into eternal life. Once, you would’ve seen Matt’s text—a string of eight words—and wondered if that meant something. If maybe there was something left of your love to be resurrected. 

Now, you stole a glance at Frank—your eighth call—and thought of new beginnings. Of choosing your own path. 

You cleared Matt’s message. 

Tapped on the Safari icon and asked, “Do you want somewhere specific?” 

“Ever been to Lombardi’s?” suggested Frank. 

You shook your head. “Is it good?” 

Frank cut you a look. “‘Course it’s good. But knowin’ you, you’ll probably shit talk it the same way you did my couch.” 

A smile tugged at your lips. “Keep it up,” you teased, already typing the restaurant into the search, “and your only company’s gonna be the couch and the bird.” 

He chuckled. “I ain’t gettin’ a bird.” 

You'd just pressed the phone to your ear, already listening to it ring when you built up the nerve to ask, "What about a dog?"

Frank set the cloth in the bowl. Gave your hand a gentle squeeze. 

“Maybe a dog.”

a/n - this has been sitting in my drafts literally since january. i can't decide if i like it or hate it, but i've gotten into too much of a habit of writing, overthinking, and then never posting---so, here it is! thank you to anyone who takes the time to read it <3

Frank guided you down a flight of rusted metal stairs behind a maintenance gate you never would’ve noticed on your own— half-shielded by ivy and shadows, as if the city itself had tried to forget it existed. You ducked your head as he pulled open a reinforced metal door, the hinges shrieking their protest. He then led you down a series of long, concrete hallways, until finally his footsteps slowed. The floor inclined, just slightly, like you’d moved just barely underground. He led you to an old and rusted green door, with the words MGRS OFFICE affixed to the front in worn letters. There was a keypad lock keeping the door sealed shut, and he made quick work of twisting the numbers into combination and then pushed his way inside. You followed just a step behind.

Inside was nothing but darkness, the air thick and damp like an old tomb.

The moment you crossed the threshold, the scent of old concrete and machine oil wrapped around you like a worn blanket. Cold, metallic, just sharp enough to sting your nose. You winced, unable to stop yourself. It was the kind of smell that would linger on your clothes and in your hair. That told you this was not a place for comfort— this was a place for survival. As if Frank himself hadn’t already warned you.

A soft click sounded, and overhead, a string of bare bulbs buzzed to life. The light was dim and flickering, strung up across the ceiling by stripped copper wire. They cast long, uneven shadows against the concrete of the walls, of the floor, revealing just enough of the room to let your imagination fill in the rest.

It was… small. Not cramped, but close. Like the space itself had been carved out in secret and never meant to be found again.

You turned slowly in place, taking it all in. Utility shelves were piled with supplies, dozens of canned goods and other non-perishables. Upon closer inspection, you noticed several boxes of MREs— your brow furrowed at the sight, your heart clenching within your chest. If this had been how Frank had been living, it was no wonder he’d seemed to savour every bite of the breakfast you’d made that morning.

As you looked around, you somehow managed to keep your expression guarded, neutral. You could feel the weight of Frank’s eyes on you— just for a beat, just long enough for him to step around you, immediately crossing the room. Getting to work. Not a second to waste.

Two small windows sat high on the far wall— thin slits of glass fogged by time and purpose. The panes were clouded, blurred with privacy film or something like it, designed to let light in but keep the world out. You couldn’t see through them— just barely-there hints of shifting shapes, the vague suggestion of movement. Like shadows behind a curtain. If it weren’t night, you figured that sunlight would filter in soft and dull, casting a muted gray glow that would do little to brighten the space. The bunker— that’s what you likened it to— was just a floor below ground level.

Water stains crept like spiderwebs across the ceiling. A military cot sat pushed into one wall, a single gray blanket folded at the edge. There was a sad excuse for a pillow at one end, flat enough that it likely didn’t do much. Two battered metal desks were pushed together near the center of the room, their surfaces buried beneath weapons, maps, and stray boxes of ammunition— some open, others sealed tight. The far corner of the room, across from the door, held a folding chair draped with a flannel shirt, sleeves frayed at the edges, elbows worn straight through. Near it, a mini fridge kicked on with a groan, like even it was reluctant to keep going.

There were no photos. No books. No softness.

You could feel Frank in every inch of it. This was who he was, when you weren’t around.

You stepped closer to the desks, further into the room, careful not to make too much noise. The back wall of the room was completely covered in notes, maps, blurry black-and-white photographs with red circles drawn around faces. Some had Xs through them, others didn’t. You knew what that meant.

Most of the faces in the photos were strangers. A few… weren’t. The men from the subway that first night, weeks ago, were there. Already marked as dead. And the men from the hospital, too. Red marker connected both sets of men— and in the middle— a photo of you. It was a candid shot, taken from distance, just outside your apartment building. It was from before the hospital— so he’d been watching you before that, too. Around your photo there was no red circle, no messy printing with details or crimes, just your first name scrawled beneath. The ink ran a bit around the last letter of your name; like his hand had paused there for a beat too long.

Everyone else on the board had more information affixed to the space around their photo; news articles, print-offs from the web, crimes they’d been accused of. But not you. There was no deep dive, no history searched and shared. Just your name, handwritten in that sharp, slanted scrawl you were starting to recognize. It made something stir in your chest— something you didn’t have the name for. He hadn’t needed more information. He’d already made up his mind about you.

You swallowed the knot in your throat and stepped back again, gaze flicking to the ceiling.

You could hear the city moving just overhead— traffic rumbling, pipes groaning, someone’s muffled footsteps echoing through old infrastructure. On the way over, Frank had told you this place used to be a building manager’s office— tucked in the basement of some forgotten apartment complex on the far edge of Hell’s Kitchen. While people still lived in the many floors above, the basement hadn’t been used in decades and he’d been here for months. Knew every bolt, every blind corner. Every way in… and out. He told you that tomorrow, he would run you through each of them, just in case.

Just as you turned towards him, Frank shifted in your direction, one of his hands lifting towards your back. You paused, waiting to see what he was doing, before you realized— his hand slid over your shoulder and wrapped around the strap of your backpack, giving it a gentle tug until it began to slide backwards. He removed your bag and carried it towards the cot— the one cot— before he set it down at the edge.  

Then he turned to you, expression clear in the half-light, waiting. He looked exhausted— not just from the day, but from the weight he always seemed to carry. You knew it well. Still, there was something in the way he watched you. Like he was waiting for you to flinch, or settle, or leave. But you didn’t do any of those things.

“I’ve had worse,” you said, voice a little quieter than you meant it to be.

One corner of his mouth curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. Just that unreadable expression he always wore when he didn’t want you to see how he really felt.

You weren’t sure what you wanted to see, anyway.

The bunker was cold. That much was obvious, but you imagined it was intentional, too. Frank couldn’t afford warmth. Not in his body, not in his bones, and definitely not in the places he chose to rest his head. Comfort made you soft, slow. And he didn’t survive by being either of those things.

You were grateful for the jacket you’d grabbed before you left. Grateful for the extra layers beneath it, even though the fabric was already starting to cling in the wrong places— damp from exertion, heavy with the day. Still, the chill found its way in. It crept under the hem of your sweater, licked at the delicate skin between your knuckles. Settled at the base of your neck and stayed there. A hint of what was to come.

Without realizing it, your feet had carried you toward the desks in the middle of the room. His base of operations.

You paused a few inches away from the edge of the nearest desk, your eyes drifting across the objects arranged there. Not messy, not cluttered— just deliberate in a language you didn’t speak. Clips. Ammunition. An oversized, cracked radio with the casing half-screwed off. The thing had dial upon dial on it, and you wondered if it might have been older than you were. You’d never seen anything like it before. Next to it, there was a notepad filled with numbers, scratched out and rewritten again. Frequencies, maybe. Paths he’d tried to explore and deemed unworthy.

You didn’t touch anything. You just looked, scanning over his world without stepping into it.

Frank wasn’t far. He’d dropped into the nearby folding chair, a half-turn away from you. One of his pistols lay disassembled in front of him on the other side of the desk, pieces laid out like organs on a metal table. He moved with that same precision of motion he always did— like he was saving every ounce of energy he had for something that might need killing later.

He reached for a small black bottle with no label and uncapped it. The sharp, chemical scent of it hit the air instantly, and your nose scrunched before you could help yourself. It was acrid and bitter, something that didn’t belong in lungs. But Frank didn’t flinch. Instead, he poured a bit onto an old rag, the cloth already dark from past use, and started to press it delicately against specific spots along the exposed barrel. He moved with surgical precision; a man who’d done this a time or two before.

It was like watching a ritual. Not worship, not quite. But familiar. His shoulders stayed low, steady, the way they always did when his mind was a thousand miles away but his hands remembered the route. Autopilot.

You leaned your hip against the edge of the desk, arms crossed loosely over your chest, and watched him for a while.

He looked up once, just for a split second. His gaze met yours, weighted and familiar, but he said nothing.

He just kept going.

When the weapon was finished— clean, reassembled, gleaming beneath the low light— he cleared his throat. He didn’t look at you this time, just tilted his head slightly toward your bag at the foot of the cot.

“Hand yours over,” he said, voice low, steady. “Gotta keep a weapon like that clean. Can’t afford to let it jam.”

You hadn’t even considered it, the idea of cleaning your gun. The idea that you’d need it more than once. But of course he had— of course Frank had already thought through every variable. His back-up plans had back-up plans.

You moved back toward your bag and unzipped the front pocket, fingers closing around the familiar shape of your weapon. When you returned, you didn’t set it down in front of him. You just stood there, waiting. Waiting for him to look up.

And when he did, you held his gaze, a sharp set to your jaw.

“Show me how,” you said. Quiet, but firm. Your voice was steady, even if your insides weren’t. They trembled beneath the weight of what you were asking for— the burden you were willingly taking on. You knew that if Frank taught you, he’d expect you to keep up with it. It would be a job that would be all yours. “I need to learn, don’t I?”

Frank’s eyes held yours for a long moment. He didn’t blink. You could see something working behind those coffee-coloured irises, the amber in them flickering in and out of sight. It was like he was trying to read you, figure out what it meant that you were asking this, and what it might cost. You or him, you weren’t entirely sure.

Finally, he exhaled.

“S’not a bad idea,” he muttered, dragging his hand across his jaw. “Just surprised, is all.”

You won’t always be around, you wanted to say. But you knew if you did, the words would come out laced with hostility— like you were bitter. And that wasn’t how you meant it; not really. It was more like you had grown… resigned… to that fact. That as much as the two of you had begun to accept this new dynamic, as partners, there was an inevitable expiration date. And each day brought you closer to it.

You knew that no matter when that time came, it would be too soon. Because now that you’d begun to know him, how could you go back to being only strangers?

You swallowed the emotion clawing at the back of your throat, doing what you could to push it down, shove the thoughts away. You could wallow in it all later; for now, you needed to focus.

The bunker around you was quiet, still. The air in here didn’t seem to move much, growing stagnant around you, pinning you down with the weight of it. One of the bulbs overhead flickered, just once, and your gaze briefly darted up towards it. It didn’t flicker again; you wondered, for a beat, if your mind was playing tricks on you. If it was an external representation of the turmoil happening inside.

You set the gun down on the desk before him, next to his own. Frank looked at it for a second, then shook his head. He didn’t reach for it. Instead, he nudged it gently back toward you with one finger, eyes dipping between your face and the weapon.

“Nah,” he said. “Keep your hands on it. This is yours now.”

He reached across the desk, clearing space, shifting aside a rag and an open bottle of that same, bitter solvent. Then he leaned back, and nodded to the gun in front of you.

“Alright. Clip comes out first.”

Your fingers wrapped around the grip and you did as you were told. You heard the clip click free, felt the subtle shift in weight as the metal slipped from the grip. It startled you, for a beat, how easily handling the weapon had become. Your hands were steady, no hint of shakiness.

“Now pull back on the slide, there— yeah, like that. What do you see?”

You squinted, turning it onto its side, peering inside the open chamber. “Nothing… it’s empty.”

“Good. You gotta check that every time. Don’t skip it.”

You nodded, jaw set tight, even as your heartbeat pounded at the base of your throat.

“Now you need to pull the trigger.”

You hesitated, eyes flaring wide. You gaze jolted to Frank’s. “What?”

“There’s no round, no clip, no danger. It’ll click. You gotta hear that. Then rack it again.”

You obeyed, the sharp metallic click breaking the silence between you.

He walked you through the next steps— each motion careful, efficient. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t over-explain. Just simple, spare instructions, delivered in that gravel-worn tone of his. You were clumsy at first— your fingers slipped, fumbled, and you cursed once under your breath when the recoil spring jumped sideways.

Frank stood and leaned into your side, the warmth of his chest brushing across your back, your shoulder. His hand closed gently over yours atop the weapon— not stopping you, just redirecting. He adjusted the pressure you used on the weapon, loosening your grip with a nudge of his fingers over yours.

“Here,” he murmured, voice low enough that you felt it more than heard it. “You’re pressin’ too hard. Let it slide into place. Don’t force it.”

You didn’t dare move. Couldn’t. The heat from his palm bled into your skin, and suddenly everything else in the room blurred into background noise. The hum of the lightbulb above you. The low buzz of the fridge. All of it, gone.

All that remained was the way his fingers wrapped around yours, the steady rhythm of his breath against your temple. His scent settled around you, hints of salt and something warm, like a late-night campfire on the beach, waves rolling against the shore. For another moment he didn’t move, just stood there, hand on yours, like he wasn’t sure whether to pull away or press in closer.

When he finally pulled away, it wasn’t abrupt. More like the kind of retreat that takes effort— like the parting of hands that almost forget they don’t belong there. You watched him as he went, unable to tear your gaze away. His eyes lingered a second too long on your fingers before he reclaimed his seat, jaw tight like he’d given away more than intended.

“You’re getting it,” he said, voice rough again, but not unkind. He watched each of your movements carefully, like a teacher who knew you could do it on your own— but wanted to stay within arms reach, just in case. “Keep goin’.”

You did. You finished the disassembly, with his instructions, and lined up the pieces of the weapon in the same way he had. Next, he handed you the rag he’d used on his own weapon, and you turned your gaze to his, your eyes hesitant, questioning.

“How much do I use?” you asked, teeth digging into your bottom lip. He chuckled and nodded, unscrewing the cap from the solvent for you. Not overstepping, but helping.

“It’s not like WD-40,” he said. “It’s just for slippin’ between the parts. Keepin’ it smooth. A few drops is all you need.”

And so you did as he told you; you dabbed a few drops of the oil in the areas he pointed to with one of those long, thick fingers of his. It took you a beat too long to draw your eyes away from it. He then walked you through how to reassemble the weapon, only stepping in with instruction when you paused, eyes wandering to his, lost. You managed to work your way through a few of the steps on your own, and your eyes flickered to Frank’s when you finished— the warmth in his gaze made your heart soar within your chest.

You handed it back to him for a once-over and he didn’t hesitate. The way the weapon moved in his hands was much different to how it had in yours— to you, it was unfamiliar, a new object you weren’t sure you wanted to learn. But to Frank, it was like an extension of himself, something he knew like the back of his hand.

He checked it through once. Twice.

You waited with bated breath, nerves frayed, eyes locked on his face. And finally, his gaze lifted to yours, and his lips curved just slightly in one corner. You were startled by how much amber had leaked into his eyes— more than you’d ever seen before. The shade of his eyes nearly glowed in the dim light coming from above.

“Atta girl,” he said, the words coated in nothing but warmth. Pride. “Good work. Real good.”

The praise landed like a match to dry grass, a sudden flame that caught too fast. It travelled across your entire body, your cheeks flushing, crimson springing to your pale skin. Then it traced a trail down the center of your body, pooling at your core, burning you from the inside out. Your lips parted, breath catching on nothing, and for a moment, you couldn’t even remember how your hands worked. You were still. There was nothing within your mind, just the echo of those words— “Atta girl”— circling around and around, like a carousel you couldn’t climb off of.

You weren’t used to hearing praise like that. Not from someone like him. Not from anyone. It lodged somewhere deep, unfamiliar— dangerous, maybe, given how much you wanted to hear it again. Like there was a tank that needed to be filled, and he’d just given you the first few drops. You were an addict and he’d slipped you your first taste.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed— how long you’d allowed the room to lapse into silence. When your heart had finally stopped pounding against your ribs, your eyes refocused, and you found that he was still watching you. There was a hint of something on his face, like he was weighing his options again… trying to decide whether or go left or right. Just as your lips parted, about to ask him what he was thinking, he stood from the chair and began to nod his head. He’d made up his mind. Chosen his path.

“Now what do you say I teach you how to use this thing properly, yeah?”

You went still all over again; the gun in your grasp suddenly gaining weight. It shouldn’t have— you’d already fired it once, been prepared to use it a second time, if it hadn’t been Frank who’d appeared in your apartment the day before. But he was right. You didn’t have the first clue what you were doing when that cool metal was pressed into your palm. And if you wanted to keep going on this path, walking alongside him, you’d need to learn.

Who better to teach you than him?

Slowly, you began to nod, a nonverbal confirmation. You were buying in; whatever he wanted you to know, you’d do your best. He was the expert… and you hoped you could be a fast learner. You hoped he might give away some more of those warm words, the one that had you shift your weight again, your insides still overheated.

You wanted to believe that what you lacked in strength, you could make up for with speed and agility. Before the last few weeks, you had regularly been going to the gym, always focused on endurance training and gradually increasing your strength in the areas you needed it. But you’d been losing weight, too, and you had a feeling that a lot of what you’d lost had been muscle. It would take time to build that up again.

“Alright,” Frank said, pulling you from your thoughts. With a jerk of his head, he directed you to back up a few steps, spread further into the room where there were less obstacles. His gaze never left you, even as you moved. It was hard not to shrink beneath the weight of his eyes, because this time, he was looking for something in particular— he was critiquing. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Back foot slightly behind. Put your weight on the balls of your feet— knees soft, not locked.” He paused, waiting for you to do as he’d said.

You adjusted, shifting until you found something that felt like balance. It wasn’t comfortable, not even remotely, and didn’t feel natural. But it felt like you could move in any direction, quickly, if you needed to. That was probably the point.

He approached you, then, and began to move around you in a slow semi-circle. He was quiet, just watching. There was something about the way he moved— measured, assessing. Like he was watching not just your stance, but the way you held your fear. Like he was deciding what kind of fighter you might become.

“Now your grip,” he said and you lifted the gun in your hands, eyes following the movement as you stared at the way you held it in your grasp. “Two hands, dominant one high and tight on the backstrap. Other hand wraps the fingers— thumbs pointing forward, not crossed.” When your hands finally settled as he’d instructed, he hummed, the sound reverberating through his chest. He was somewhere behind you, peering over your shoulder.

He stepped in behind you to guide your hands, then, his palms brushing over the backs of yours. His fingers adjusted the placement of your thumbs, just slightly, his knuckle grazing the inside of your wrist. You committed the placement to memory, flexing the joints of your fingers, getting a sense for how it felt, too.

“You don’t wanna be fighting the recoil,” he murmured, close enough for the sound to settle behind your ear. His smell began to wrap around you again and you held your breath, trying to keep a hold of your composure. Your knees wobbled at his proximity and your eyes pressed shut for a beat, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “Let the gun do what it’s built to do, but keep control of it.”

“Arms out, extend,” he said. “Straight, but not rigid. Shoulders down and elbows unlocked. Your grip’s where the strength comes from, not your arms.”

You extended and he watched. Not just the posture— you. Though you still couldn’t see him, not even from your periphery, you felt the weight of his gaze on every inch of you. Trailing over every area he commented on, ensuring you had it right.

He stepped forward again, fingertips brushing your upper arm. “Relax here. You're gonna tire yourself out faster if you stay tense.”

You tried. Loosened your shoulders. Let the weight of the weapon settle in your hands instead of your muscles.

“Now look down the sights,” he said, voice a little softer now. “Front post sharp. Rear blurred. Focus here—” his finger tapped the top of the slide, just above the front sight, “—and breathe.”

You lined it up as best you could, eyes narrowing, tongue pressed to the roof of your mouth in concentration. When you’d fired at the man in the hospital, you hadn’t even looked— your eyes had been pinched shut, too afraid to watch whatever you had been about to do. You could still feel the pull of that trigger, the slam of the gun in your hand, how your shoulders immediately burned with the effort. You could still hear the echo of it, too, the ringing in your ears. That blind panic, the wet slap of blood against tile. You hadn’t aimed. You hadn’t known how. And it was only luck— Frank— that kept you breathing.

“You want the shot to break at the bottom of an exhale,” he continued, low and steady. “Squeeze. Don’t jerk. Don’t anticipate. Just... let it happen.”

Your breath came out slow. You clicked the trigger. Even with no bullet, the release of tension jolted through your wrist.

Frank gave a low hum of approval, his exhale blowing against the side of your head, jostling a few strands of your dark hair. As if he, too, had noticed it, he reached up with a hand and brushed them away, tucking them back behind your ear. You were frozen solid at his gesture— the tension you’d just managed to release returning ten-fold.

That wasn’t instruction. That wasn’t survival. It was something else entirely, something heavier, something deeper and unspoken. It was something you didn’t know what to do with. Didn’t know if he did, either.

He moved around your side, appearing in your periphery before he was in front of you, just slightly to your left. You relaxed your hold on the weapon, dropped your arms a bit.

Then, without warning, he reached for the gun. “Now let’s see what happens when someone tries to take it.”

Your stomach turned and you flinched back a step, eyes flaring wide. “Wait—”

“You need to know this,” he said, already moving towards you again. “Don’t matter if it’s loaded or not. If you hesitate, you lose.”

He grabbed the barrel, slow and deliberate, watching your reaction. Your fingers froze around the grip. You didn’t move, didn’t react. Just let him grab it.

“You don’t fight the pull,” he said, stepping in close, his hand still wrapped around the front of the weapon. “You turn with it. Pivot your body, break the angle. If you don’t, you’ll end up with this in their hand. Pointed at you.”

He showed you— gentle, controlled— how your grip could be turned against you. How easily he could grab the weapon, pull you in, disarm you. Never once did his fingers grace the trigger— they always remained pointed straight, resting along the side of the barrel. He showed you again, slower. Letting you feel where to move, how to drop your weight, how to own the fight. He gave pointers, telling you where to focus your hits, giving you ideas of how to rattle your attacker. You were fast, you needed to use it— a foot behind an ankle, a hard kick against the back of a knee.

“Try it,” he said, goading you, leaning forward on the balls of his feet.

You hesitated again, not sure how you were supposed to take it all so seriously when it was him coming towards you. The last person you’d ever want to point a weapon at.

He didn’t hesitate this time, or take it slow.

His hand came down again, faster this time, and instinct took over. You twisted your wrist inward, ducked under his arm, pulled your shoulder across the centerline the way he’d shown. You slammed your back into his chest— rougher than you meant to— and he released you just as you moved. You staggered, half from force, half from the sheer charge of it. Then you twisted out of his reach and jolted forward, giving yourself more distance, though you weren’t exactly moving on solid feet.

Once you’d regained your footing, you looked up.

Frank was watching you with something unreadable behind his eyes. Not pride. Not quite. Something with a bit more of an edge— something a bit wearier.

“Again.”

Before you could so much as nod, he came for the gun.

You pivoted but this time, he blocked. You tried again. He caught your wrist and spun you with him, showing you how easily control could slip through your fingers. Your stomach dipped at the sudden exchange of power, your pulse racing against your throat.

You fought it. Let the weapon drop to your off hand like he’d told you to. You sent your elbow back towards him, perhaps a bit more force than you’d intended, but his freehand caught your forearm mid-swing.

“Not bad,” he muttered. Impressed.

You didn’t answer— couldn’t, not with the way he moved you. He ripped the pistol from your grasp, tossed it across the room, the sudden sound of metal against concrete making you flinch.

He pivoted behind you, one arm slipping across your chest to trap your movement, the other snaking low around your waist. He kept you there for a beat, anchored tight against him.

You stilled, holding your breath. Your lungs burned in protest. 

Every inch of him pressed into you— his chest flush against your spine, his thigh braced between your legs, the heat of his breath grazing the shell of your ear. One of his hands had splayed across your sternum, palm flat, fingers curled ever so slightly where your heart beat wild beneath them. The other rested just above your hip, low and heavy, keeping you grounded or caged— you weren’t sure which.

Finally you had to breathe— a sharp, shallow gasp, your entire chest trembling against his touch with the effort.

“Here,” Frank murmured, voice low and rough, the vibration of it pulsing through your back. “You feel that?” His hand shifted against your chest, not pressing, just… present. “That’s control. You’ve got the power but only if you don’t panic. Move fast. Use their momentum. Stop second guessing yourself.”

You barely heard the words. Not with the blood rushing in your ears. Not with the way every nerve ending had started to scream beneath your skin. Your fingers were wrapped around each of his wrists, tight, beginning to go numb from the pressure. You could feel the outline of his thighs pressing against yours, the steady drumbeat of his pulse against your shoulder blade.

His chin dipped slightly, breath exhaling slow against your neck, and you swore— swore— he lingered. Until slowly, he let go.

Not all at once. Not clean. His hand dropped from your chest first, fingers dragging lightly across the fabric of your shirt as they slipped away. Then the weight at your waist vanished, leaving behind only warmth and pressure and something you couldn’t name.

When you turned to face him, his expression was a wall of stone— completely, utterly unreadable. There was only darkness in his eyes, no hint of the amber you often searched for. His chest heaved with a long, extended breath of air, and then he nodded.

You bent at the waist and retrieved your weapon, rolling out your shoulders before you resumed your stance. It felt more comfortable now, more familiar.

Then it was you who said, “Again.”

Frank didn’t nod, didn’t acknowledge what you said. He just moved. Fast. No longer taking it easy on you.

He reached for the barrel with that same deliberate confidence, trying to test you again. His other hand went for your other wrist. But this time, you didn’t hesitate. You pivoted into him, not away, using the motion of his own hand to bring your body closer before swinging beneath his reach.

Your foot slid, caught behind his ankle. You twisted with the full weight of your hips, dropped your shoulder, and used the angle to pull him off balance. The gun was already halfway behind your back, safe in your other hand.

His grip faltered. Just for a second. But it was enough. You didn’t have the time to peek at his face— knew it would just push you off center. Instead, you shoved forward, into him— not brutal, just enough to unseat him— and he stumbled. Not far. Not hard. But he let it happen. That much you could tell.

And still, somehow, you ended up in his space again— chests nearly brushing, your hand against his wrist, your body angled into his like instinct had made the decision for you.

For a beat, you both just stood there.

The air between you went thick. He stared down at you, lips parted just slightly, breath caught somewhere between restraint and something else. You could feel the warmth of his skin through your sleeves, the flex of his arm beneath your palm.

“Boom,” you murmured, the word barely audible as it brushed past your lips. You wiggled the pistol in your other hand, alerting him to the fact that you had it pointed straight at his stomach. “Your dead.”

His mouth twitched. Barely. Just the ghost of a smirk.

“Good,” he said, voice low, almost gruff. He was nodding as he stepped back, his eyes on the floor beneath your feet. “Real good.”

You stepped back, too, brushing your wrist with your fingers, half expecting to feel a bruise. You didn’t. Just the ghost of his grip, like a mark no one else would see.

“You alright?” he asked.

You nodded, breath catching. “Yeah.”

He glanced at your feet. “Good. Practice makes perfect.”

Your fingers flexed around the grip of the gun; not quite steady, not quite certain. But not as afraid, either.

* * * * *

Time passed, taking you further into the night. The quiet hum of the bunker was your steady companion in the silence. You could count on the dim buzzing of the lights overhead, of the groan the mini fridge let out every few minutes. The rattle against the windows as cars drove past, ignoring speed limits, was just about your only reminder that the outside world continued to exist.

Frank had you run through the drills a few more times, testing you, building up your endurance. He commented and corrected you as he needed to, and gradually, he stopped making it so easy for you to come away victorious. By the time he finally declared you’d done enough for one night, you were nearly panting, your hair clinging to the back of your neck with sweat. Your fingers ached from the unyielding grip you’d held on the gun. And he remained unshaken, not a hair out of place. You were nothing of a formidable opponent for him.

It didn’t give you much hope for how you’d do against anyone else his size. But at least you’d do better than before.

Frank showed you to the bathroom— if you could even call it that— and you got ready for bed slowly, taking your time. You showered, though there wasn’t much in the way of hot water— hell, it hadn’t even reached warm. You were frozen to the bone as soon as you stepped out. You rushed to dress, pulling on wool socks, heavy sweatpants, and a long-sleeved shirt beneath your sweatshirt. Still, your body trembled, seeking warmth that wouldn’t come.

The mirror above the free-standing sink was cracked, the jagged edges of broken glass spreading out across your face, distorting your view of yourself. It was probably for the best, anyways. There was no room for vanity here. You made quick work of brushing your teeth and braiding your damp hair back, away from your face. Then you traced your way back to the bunker, following the hallway Frank had led you down a while earlier.

As you pushed open the door to the bunker, you pulled the sleeves of your sweater low over your hands, clinging to them with your nearly numb fingers. Frank looked up when you stepped inside, but only briefly. He was on the other end of the room, now, crouched to unroll a sleeping bag across the concrete, moving slow and quiet like he’d done this a hundred times before. He’d already told you— in no uncertain terms— that you’d be taking the cot.

Even still, as you approached it, you hesitated. “You sure you don’t want it?” you asked, voice low.

He didn’t look at you this time, just shook his head once. “Nah. It’s yours.”

You opened your mouth to argue. Closed it again. You knew better.

“Alright,” you said, softer now. “Thanks.”

He hummed in response— a vague sound of acknowledgement, maybe approval. You couldn’t tell.

You put away your bathroom items and dirty clothes, shoving them into the backpack that had come to house all of your remaining belongings. All of the things that hadn’t been left behind, locked within the walls of your apartment. A place you weren’t sure you’d be returning to anytime soon.

You climbed into the cot and lay on your side, facing the wall, your back to Frank and the rest of the bunker. The blanket was thin, scratchy. You curled beneath it anyway, tucking your hands beneath your chin. Frank moved behind you somewhere, the sounds distant but distinct: the creak of leather as he kicked off his boots, the muted thud of something set down, the low exhale of breath that carried more fatigue than he’d admit.

Then silence.

For a moment, you thought that might be it. No goodnight, no reminder that he was here.

Then his throat cleared. And into the cool air that enveloped you both, he said, “Get some rest.”

You turned your head, just slightly, until you could see the outline of him in the dark. He’d settled on the floor a few feet away, facing you with his back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him. His arms were crossed over his chest.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You too.”

Sleep came, but only in brief, sporadic bursts. The cold held you hostage, jostling you awake just when you’d thought you’d escaped it. It had seeped in past skin and muscle, lodged itself somewhere deep. The dampness in your hair didn’t help— you wouldn’t shower at night again. Not for a long time.

You shifted, subtly, trying to be quiet. You suspected Frank was the type to wake easily— especially here, especially now. You repositioned your body, curled in on yourself as tightly as you could, tugging your knees into your chest.

It didn’t help.

The shivering started in your fingers, traveled up your forearms. A low, bone-deep tremble that wouldn’t ease. You pressed your palms between your thighs, searching for any ounce of warmth you could find. You tried to breathe through it— mind over matter, right?— but even biting down on your tongue so hard you began to taste blood didn’t help.

Then came the teeth. You tried to hold your jaw still, you really did— but the chatter set in anyway, harsh and helpless and loud in the relative silence around you. Every so often you would press your palm over your mouth and hold your breath, listening for the sound of Frank’s breathing behind you— it remained slow, rhythmic. But you weren’t sure how long that would last.

A beat later, as if you’d asked for it, you heard him shift. You went still, palm still pressed over your mouth, though your teeth continued to grind against themselves involuntarily. His breathing hadn’t changed. Your mind flooded— then emptied. Had he ever been asleep at all?

His sleeping bag rustled and a soft creak sounded, his body rising from the floor. Your eyes pinched shut, your stomach twisting with shame. Your hand slowly lowered from your mouth, instead wrapping around the hem of the blanket, tugging it higher over you.

You tried to stay perfectly still, then, tried to pretend you were asleep. But it was no use.

Muffled, quiet footsteps sounded, him crossing the room towards you. You felt the weight of his gaze on your shadowed figure, but you didn’t turn towards him. Your eyes opened, stayed locked on the concrete wall in front of you.

The cot dipped behind you, the frame groaning under the sudden shift in weight. It startled you— not because you hadn’t expected it, but because you had. You’d felt it coming like a change in weather, like the static in the air before a storm. Your breath caught in your throat, sharp and immediate, your whole body stiffening with the tension of anticipation.

Frank didn’t speak. Not when he climbed in. Not when he tugged the blanket up higher, slow and careful, tucking it around you both like he’d done it before. Like this level of intimacy wasn’t brand new and terrifying for you both.

Then came his arm— slow at first, hesitant. It slid around your waist, that familiar weight settling low, the curve of his forearm bracing itself across your stomach, palm splayed wide just above your navel. As he moved, the hem of your sweatshirt rose, his fingertips brushing the exposed skin beneath. His hand was rough, calloused. Warm. You felt every ridge of it as it curved against you, fingers pressing lightly into the dip where your ribs met softness.

“Jesus,” he commented, voice low, the exhaled air warm against your neck. “You’re freezing.”

“Didn’t want to ask,” you whispered in a rush, the shame crawling up your throat. “Didn’t want to make it weird.”

Frank let out another slow, stifled breath. “Ain’t weird,” he said. “You’re cold. That’s all.”

But you didn’t believe him.

Not entirely.

His chest aligned with your back a moment later, and the contact there was overwhelming— startlingly solid. Like being braced against a wall. His body heat poured into yours at once, devastating in its relief. The contrast stole your breath. Warmth poured through you so fast it felt like pain— sharp and electric. A tremor rolled through your chest, this time from something deeper than cold. Your hips shifted, pressing back into him. Into his— was he—

Oh. He was.

Frank stilled behind you.

“Careful,” he warned, the hand against your stomach moving to your hip, pressing it forward an inch. You weren’t sure if he was trying to protect you, in the moment, or himself.

Your cheeks flamed and your eyes pinched shut. Horror washed over you like a tidal wave and you wished for a sudden, swift death.

“Sorry.”

You felt the slight lift of his chest as he inhaled, then the slow exhale that ghosted against the back of your neck again. Like he was trying to calm his own racing pulse. His hand returned to your stomach, then, fingertips flexing once against your abdomen. Not possessive. Not testing. Just a simple shift, like he was grounding you. Or maybe grounding himself.

Your own hand moved— slow, uncertain— until it hovered over his. You didn’t press down. Just let your fingers hover, shaking faintly from cold and tension and something else. A second passed. Then two.

Then you touched him.

Your fingers found the edge of his pinky first. Brushed the back of his hand. His thumb twitched in response, barely a movement, but it felt like a jolt straight to your sternum. You closed your hand over his gently, not intertwining, just holding. Just acknowledging. A silent thank you.

The cot was too small for both of you. His knees bumped the back of yours, the heat of his thighs bracketing yours completely. His other hand— where was it? Beneath the pillow? Tucked near his chest? You didn’t know. You couldn’t move enough to find out, terrified of pressing into that same, dangerous space you’d already discovered. The space between your shoulder blades and his collarbone shrank with every breath.

His nose brushed your hairline once. Not a kiss, not even intentional. Just the result of motion. But it burned like one.

You closed your eyes, willing your heart to calm down. Willed your breath to stay quiet. Willed your mind to stop cataloguing every inch of him— how warm his bicep was against your ribs, how his breath slowed against your skin, how the weight of his hand made you feel safe and exposed all at once.

You’d been freezing moments ago.

Now, you were burning alive.

But you didn’t move.