a/n: Hi everyone, this will be the series masterlist! I'm so so so excited to write and begin posting this story. I decided a main post where all the chapters are linked would be easiest. I'll reblog every time a new chapter is published!!
Summary: After escaping the Red Room alongside Natasha, you try to disappear into Hell's Kitchen, convinced your past has condemned you to a life in the shadows. But when your path collides with Frank Castle's, you discover the most dangerous battle isn't with the criminals you fight every night—it's believing you're worthy of a future.
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Summary: Insomnia drives you into the streets of Hell's Kitchen in the middle of the night. Wandering aimlessly, you find that trouble seems to find you everywhere...even bringing in the religious vigilante...NOT PROOFREAD
Warnings: Fight scene, descriptions of blood, violence
WC: 1.6k
a/n: FRANKIE MENTIONED WOOOO!!
You’ve tossed and turned for hours. Another sleepless night caused by the shadows of your past has graced you once more. You’d already been through this last night. And the night before that. And all the night since you’ve arrived.
The total number of hours you’ve slept since you arrived in New York could be counted on your hands.
It wasn’t as if you were trying not to sleep. In fact, these were the best sleeping conditions you’ve had all your life. The AC kept the room cool, the curtains covering the singular window in your room, and your makeshift bed on the floor even had the luxurious blanket to keep your bones from aching.
Yet, your mind wouldn’t allow you to rest.
With a huff, you rose from your “bed” and began changing out of your pajamas and into something more proper for stepping out into the streets.
Your front door clicked shut, the lock coming into place with the turn of your key.
The city hadn’t gone to sleep. It never does.
Neon signs hummed overhead, the only light illuminating the pavement. Taxi horns echoed a couple blocks away, drowned out every so often by the wail of sirens.
You walked without a destination
Hands buried in your pocket.
Eyes constantly moving in an almost paranoid manner.
The habits refused to die.
Every window of storefronts was used as an opportunity to check who was behind you. Every stranger who passed had been cataloged in your head by their height. Weight. Dominant hand. Threat level.
A raised voice in an alleyway made you come to a complete stop.
You should’ve walked away. Wanted to, in fact. It wasn’t your problem. You know firsthand what happens when you stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.
But your legs wouldn’t move, ears tuned into the conversation
“— I told you, I don’t have anything.” A woman’s voice, you noted. She sounded terrified.
A gruff, nastily voice replied. “Bullshit. We saw you locking up. Just go back in and open up the register for us, sweetheart.”
You remained where you were, tucked just beyond the opening of the alley.
Two men. One with a knife glinting under the mood light, the other with a handgun tucked into the back of his waistband.
You turned your head down the street. This wasn’t your fight. This wasn’t your mission.
There was no handler—no instructor waiting for a debrief. No consequences if you walked away. No orders.
This was exactly what you wanted. Freedom to choose.
So why couldn’t your feet move?
A sharp cry echoed through the night, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone hitting brick.
Your jaw clenched. “…блядь.” Fuck.
Before you could talk yourself out of it, your feet were already carrying you forward into the alley.
A middle-aged woman had been shoved against the back door of what looked to be a small family-run convenience store, her hands trembling around a ring of keys she’d dropped onto the pavement.
Two men stood over her.
One held a knife. The other simple looked down at the woman with a smile.
You recognized that smile. Predatory.
The kind that only men who believed they were untouchable wore.
“Walk away,” you said, voice even. Steady. Cold.
Three heads turned towards you.
One of the men barked out a laugh. “And who the hell are you?”
You didn’t answer. “I won’t tell you again.”
“Listen, sweetheart—”. He took one step towards you.
Wrong answer. None of them even see you move. The knife clatters to the pavement as you twist the man’s wrist backwards until a sickening crack echoes through the alley.
He screams. From your peripheral vision, you see the second man reaching for the handgun in his waistband.
A blur of crimson drops silently between you and the gunman.
A baton strikes the man’s forearm before he could manage to grasp the weapon. Your eyes lift.
A vigilante dressed in a form-fitting, crimson and black armored suit stood before you. His face was covered by a devil-like helmet, showing only his lower face.
He landed with practiced precision, shoulders squared toward the gunman. But his gaze wasn’t focused on the criminal. It was focused on you.
The way he landed. No hesitation or uncertainty. It was deliberate. Familiar
Your brow furrowed as you connected the dots. Impossible.
“You picked a bad night for a walk.” It clicked. The lawyer.
Beginning to piece everything that you’d dismissed during your appointment, you stared at his concealed face.
The way he moved around his office effortless, never searching or stumbling. Always knowing exactly where everything—everyone—was.
Mouth slightly agape, you finally spoke. “You..”
Matt’s body tensed, as if anticipating the worst outcome. But you recovered quickly, tightening the hold you had on the knife-wielding man.
He cursed. “What the fu—who the hell are you people?”. Neither you nor Matt answered.
The gunman lunged for the pistol lying several feet away. You moved first, shoving the other man into the wall head first before taking two strides towards the gun, reaching it first.
Instinctually, you lifted the gun, leveling the barrel at the center of his forehead. His predatory smile long gone and in its place was now a horrified expression. You thought he looked pathetic.
“W-Wait—”. He stuttered, trying to find the correct words. You knew he was trying not to set you off. But your finger settled against the trigger anyway.
One less predator. One less pathetic excuse of a man. One less woman who’d have to look over her shoulder while walking home.
A sharp crack echoed through the alley. Not the gun. Matt’s club struck your wrist just hard enough to force your aim off the man.
Your head snapped towards him, the control over your anger slowly waning. “What are you doing?”.
“He’s unarmed. He surrendered.”
You couldn’t help but let out a scoff, pointing the gun back towards the cowered man. “He’s unarmed because I disarmed him. He didn’t surrender, I forced him into submission.”
Furthering your point, you gritted out, “He’ll be back on the street by tomorrow.”
“And he’ll answer for what he did.”
You slowly moved your gaze from your target to Matt. Your face went neutral. Completely expressionless.
“He is.” The gun went off.
The alley fell silent right after the thud of the man’s body hitting the concrete. Smoke drifted from the barrel of the gun.
You saw the way Matt’s jaw tightened as he turned towards you, words already at the tip of his tongue. But your attention drifted past him, to the frightened woman pressed against the brick wall.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve—”. Whatever else Matt had to say was cut off as he heard you walk right past him.
You knelt in front of the woman, going still when she recoiled instinctively.
“Hey.” Your voice came out quieter than you expected, lacking the coldness it carried only moments ago. “Look at me.”
A moment passes before she does. She was shaking. Her entire body trembled beneath the weight of what had just occurred.
The ring of keys slipped from her fingers, clattering softly agains the pavement. Without thinking, you stretched your hand out and picked them up. Gently, so as to not frighten her further, you pressed them back into her palm, folding her fingers around the metal.
“Can you breathe for me?”. The woman starts crying.
“I thought-I thought…” her voice trailed off into another sob.
Your face was suddenly in a grim expression. Understanding. You remember the first time you’d seen death.
“I know.”
“Go home.” Your words soft but firm.
The woman hesitated, glancing towards the body.
“Don’t worry about him.” You don’t even look.
You’re caught completely off-guard when the woman suddenly hugs you. Arms limp at your side, your brain suddenly froze, not knowing what to do.
But slowly…very hesitantly…you pat the woman’s back, ignoring Matt’s piercing look.
The woman slowly let go of you, a dozen quiet "thank you's" tumbling from her lips as she backed away. She didn't stop looking at you until she'd reached the mouth of the alley, offering one last grateful nod before disappearing onto the sidewalk.
Silence settled over the alley once more.
You remained crouched for another beat before slowly rising to your feet.
Only then did you turn away. Matt hadn’t moved.
His head stayed fixed toward the alley's exit. You'd stopped trying to convince yourself it was a coincidence. Between his office and tonight, the evidence had become difficult to ignore. Matt Murdock was blind. But he certainly wasn't relying on his eyes.
He was the one to break the silence. “…I don’t understand you.”
Your eyebrows drew together. “You don’t know me.”
He continued anyway. “I’ve seen men pull the trigger with less certainty than you just did.” His jaw clenched. “But you comforted her…shielded her from your anger. Like a switch.”
You glanced towards the blood pooling beneath the gunman’s body. Then towards the knife-wielding man whose head wound dripped blood into the ground as well.
“You shot him unarmed.”
“Yes.” Unflinchingly.
He let out an exasperated sigh. “That’s it?”
“One less man that woman has to be scared of.”
You refused to move as Matt studied you. “This isn’t justice.”
“No.” You agreed. “This was damage control.”
You can tell his anger was rising. “You don’t get to play judge, jury, executioner.”
“I wasn’t taught to judge.” You admitted, giving him the smallest snippet of your past. “Only to finish the job.”
“This city already has someone who thinks exactly like you.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Someone who genuinely believes every problem can be solved with a bullet.”
“Does it work?”. His silence your only need for confirmation. “Thought so.”
You begin to walk away, deciding the conversation was over.
Matt calls out, “And after that? Where’s the end?”
“When they’re all dead.”
Matt watched you disappear toward the street.
Not once had you tried to justify yourself. Or claimed to be righteous. It was as if somewhere along the way…
You'd already accepted who you were. What they made you.
Summary: You're trying to adapt. Live a "normal" American life. But something doesn't feel right... NOT PROOFREAD
Warnings: Nothing
WC: 2.5k
a/n: i pinky promise frankie comes in soon!! just needed to world build a bit
Freedom was quieter than you expected. You thought as you stared down at the New York driver’s license that had your genuine information down.
Natasha and S.H.I.E.L.D. thought that because the Red Room must be in shambles after what happened in Budapest, there was no need to forge fake information. Your paranoia thought otherwise but you decided to go with it anyway.
The car slowly rolled to a stop outside a generic, slightly off-putting apartment building. It looked like it’d seen better decades.
Time had yellowed the brick structure, cracks crawling through every crevice like veins. The entrance almost comically small in comparison to the size of the building. It was squished between a bodega and a run down laundromat.
“Wow. The American Dream..” You remarked, voice flat, giving away your true thoughts on the structure.
Natasha merely gave you a look before getting out of the car, you following suit.
The two of you quickly passed through the lobby which was nothing special and began the ascent up the stairs. Each stair groaned beneath each step you took.
Most people would’ve called it rundown. Their last option they hoped they would never actually have to use.
You thought it was safe. No armed guards or even a doorman that stood watch. No surveillance cameras tracking your every move from every angle. No instructors barking orders, implicating discipline where they thought fit.
Ordinary. Normal. Safe.
Natasha stopped at the top of the stairwell and glanced down the narrow hallway. Only four apartments occupied the floor, two on either side. She led you to the last door on the left, fishing a key from her jacket before slipping it into the lock.
A quiet click was heard before she twisted the handle, opening up the door to your new life.
It was underwhelming. You liked that.
The apartment was modest, almost painfully ordinary.
A plain grey couch sat opposite a small television, separated by a modern coffee table. The kitchenette blended seamlessly into the living space, no room for a full dining table but the island and pair of stools would suffice. Only two closed doors broke up the open floor plan, which you assumed led to the bedroom and the bathroom.
"Fury had it furnished before we got here," Natasha said, closing the front door. "I swept the place myself. No cameras. No bugs."
You gave a distracted nod, your eyes continuing to sweep the room. The walls were mundane white, sunlight filtering in through the window making it even brighter.
Though you trusted Natasha, you couldn’t stop your gaze from sweeping every possible exit. The window, the front door, the fire escape.
Some habits were harder to kill. Those included the ones ingrained into you by the Red Room.
The sound of paper making contact with the kitchen island pulled you away from your inspection.
You opened the manilla folder and slowly made your way through each item: an American passport, a forged birth certificate, and an apartment lease. As you slowly made your way through the papers, your attention froze on one with the header Nelson & Murdock.
"Lawyers?" you questioned.
Natasha's eyes dropped briefly to the paperwork before lifting to meet yours, carefully gauging your reaction.
“Fury wants to legitimize everything. Air-tight story. Thinks some small lawyers confirming your identity and papers can smooth out the transition.”
You grumble incoherently, throwing the stack of papers back down onto the counter before heading towards what you assume is the bedroom.
"Might wanna work on the accent," Natasha called out from behind you. "Your Russian slips through whenever you're angry."
Without missing a beat, you raised your hand and flipped her off.
The moment you turned the handle and stepped into the bedroom, you immediately knew Natasha had been the one to decorate it.
It wasn’t because of any lavish furniture. It was because it was the embodiment of you.
A king-sized bed dominated the room, dressed in patterned cotton sheets. Pressing down on the mattress slightly, it was impossibly soft — a luxury you had never experienced. One you had once mentioned to Natasha about dreaming of. The first few nights would most likely be spent on the floor until you couldn’t resist the urge.
A dark oak dresser occupied one corner of the room, a half-filled bookshelf tucked diagonally across from it. Your eyes skimmed the shelves, pausing on the familiar spines. Russian folklore.
A small smile threatened the corner of your mouth.
Спасибо, Наташа. Thank you, Natasha.
Your attention was ripped away by the single frame adorning the top of the nightstand on the left side of your bed. Confusion was evident by the crease between your brows.
The Red Room was not a place to carry sentimentals. Besides, there were no photographs of you or anyone to frame.
Drawing closer, though, you realized it wasn’t a photo. Inside was a letter with writing you’d recognize anywhere. Yelena.
Willing your hand to stop shaking, you brushed your thumb over the glass.
You'd memorized every word years ago. On a mission that had nearly broken you, you'd read the letter until the paper softened beneath your fingertips and the ink became as familiar as your own heartbeat.
Natasha's presence appeared behind you. “Thought it’d be a nice touch, y’know? A bit of the old life into the new.”
You knew it was her.
The Red Room didn't care.
Your fingers clamped around the frame, your wrist subtly shifting until the edge of the wood rested comfortably in your palm—the way you'd been taught to hold anything that could double as a weapon.
Forcing yourself to release the tension from your body, you placed the frame back down to its original placement. “She’d hate it framed.” She’d hate that it was the only physical proof of her vulnerability.
Natasha smirked, though it was more sentimental than anything. “Yeah. She would.”
The silence that settled was embraced by both of you. Neither of you rushed to fill it.
The Red Room taught you how to disassemble and reassemble a gun in less than ten seconds. It had taught you how to move through the shadows. It had not taught you how to say goodbye.
But this wasn’t that. You knew it wasn’t. It didn’t make the next moment any easier.
For years, every separation had come with instructions—where to go, when to return, who you'd become in the meantime. There was always another assignment waiting to pull you back together.
This time, there were no orders. No guarantee your life paths would cross again.
Two sisters standing in a bedroom, trying to pretend this wasn't the first time they'd ever had to choose when they'd see each other again.
Natasha was the one to break the silence. “You know where I’ll be if you need me.”
“I’ll check-in.” You snorted.
“You mean you’ll break in.”
Her eyes filled with mischief as she shrugged slightly. “Semantics.”
You looked at her, tracing every feature as if trying to store it away before you could forget. “Go be a hero.”
“Go to the lawyers.” You groaned, cursing at her in Russian.
“Just had to ruin the moment.”
“One of us had to.” You understood what she was really saying.
Natasha looked you once over before nodding and heading back towards the front door. You watched as her hand touched the doorknob, lingering for only a fraction of a second before turning the knob.
Then she was gone.
The apartment suddenly felt much bigger. The quiet, much louder.
You stood there for a moment before finding yourself drifting back into the bedroom. The duffel bag you had thrown haphazardly rested at the corner of your bed. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s attempt at a wardrobe. You crouched down and pulled the zipper back, opening the duffel.
Sifting through, the clothes were simple. Jeans. Tanks. Shirts. Sweaters. A winter coat. A pair of sneakers.
Clothes that were meant to allow her to assimilate easily to the bustling crowd of New York.
You picked up a wool sweater, the material soft and foreign in your hands. It felt...wrong. You’d spent years adorning clothes that had been selected for you. Or who you were meant to play.
Someone fun.
Someone wealthy.
Someone seductive.
None of it had ever belonged to you. Ever been you.
The clothes in the duffel were the same.
Still, you folded each article of clothing neatly, placing them in the dresser. Within minutes, every item had been put away. Your gaze slowly drifted through the crack of the bedroom door to the manila folder still on the kitchen island.
The lawyers.
You could ignore it.
Natasha would know.
Begrudgingly, you made your way towards it, picking up the paper once more, staring intently at the phone number right below the name of the firm.
A long moment passed before you pulled your phone from your pocket. If you dialed slowly enough, maybe you’d call at a moment where someone was already on the line.
"Nelson & Murdock," the woman answered cheerfully. "How can I help you today?"
You stared at the kitchen island for a beat longer than necessary. "…I'm supposed to make an appointment."
A brief silence came from the other end of the call before the receptionist responded. “May I ask what the appointment is regarding?”
You paused as your mind raced to fabricate a quick story. You could hear a keyboard clacking away as she wrote down notes.
“Okay, and lastly, could I please get your name so I can write you down on the schedule?”
It should’ve been simple enough. Names were common transactions. An exchange of information most people never thought twice about.
But having names meant having power in the Red Room. And you had never given it before, always taking on aliases.
So with the up most reluctance, you said your full name. Your body tensed instinctually, as if preparing for dreykov himself to break your front door down.
But none of that came.
Instead, the kind woman merely thanked you and said see you soon before ending the call with a ‘have a great day’.
Though the phone was now silent, you still held it up to your ear, processing.
—
Nelson & Murdock
The frosted glass lettering read. Your hand hovered over the brass handle, hesitating briefly before opening the door.
The office was smaller than you expected. Upon opening the door, the receptionist desk greeted you.
You couldn’t help but immediately search for every exit and potential threat.
One entrance.
Two windows.
A familiar voice broke you from your search. “Hi! You must be Ms. Volkova.” So this was the woman you spoke to on the phone.
She was around your age if not a bit older, golden blonde hair framed her kind face.
She looked... ordinary.
No scars that hid a story.
Her posture was relaxed, her shoulders lacking the subtle tension of someone trained to anticipate a fight.
If anything, she looked like the sort of person people underestimated.
You curtly nodded in confirmation before she continued speaking. “I’m Karen, the receptionist for Nelson & Murdock. Mr. Nelson isn’t in the office today, so Mr. Murdock will be starting your case.”
Again, you nodded.
Karen cleared her throat slightly. “Well, follow me this way. We’ll get you started.”
You followed her silently down the only hallway.
Karen stopped before the only door in the hallway, knocking firmly twice. “Mr. Murdock? Ms. Volkova is here.”
“Come in.”
Karen stepped in first, holding the door open for you.
The office was sparse. A desk, two chairs across from each other, shelves filled with books and cabinets half opened. Behind the desk stood a man in a tailored charcoal grey suit, his hand extended in greeting.
“Ms. Volkova.” You returned the handshake.
You took note of the firmness of his grip. How steady it was.
“Matthew Murdock. But please, call me Matt.” He gestured towards the only available chair that was across from him.
You watched as he sat back down on his chair confidently. Not once did his hands search for the edge of the table or armrest of his seat.
He caught your mid-observation. “Something wrong?”
You blinked. “No.”
“Please, have a seat.” You couldn’t shake the feeling that he was more aware of his surroundings than he let on. But you shook off the feeling, after all, how could a blind man see?
Matt opened up the folder in front of him. “Nick Fury gave us a brief overview of your case.” A pause.
Not everything. Just enough.
He continued, “From the information, I understand that you’ve recently undergone a citizenship change due to safety reasons.”
You nodded once, saying yes when you realized he was blind. “These documents are to establish your new legal citizenship status. Here are copies of your passport, birth certificate, and social security. Lastly…” he broke off, finger moving against the paper.
“Is this your current address?” You confirmed again.
Matt looked up from the papers and smiled, resting a hand on the stack. “Standard procedure.”
You couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “Doesn’t seem standards.”
That got a huff of a laugh out of him. “No, it isn’t.”
Time passed as you two continued to go through the paperwork. Every moment, your curiosity of the blind man sitting in front of you grew.
“For the record,” he began, “can you state your full legal name?”
The question landed heavily like it did with Karen.
“— Volkova.” It still felt strange to say it aloud.
Unbeknownst to you, Matt immediately noticed the hesitation. The flutter in your heartbeat.
He continues on with his questions anyway.
With each answer you gave, a scribble of notes was left on the paper. Finally, he slid the paper towards you.
“Initial on the line please.” You signed.
If he noticed your hesitation again, he didn’t mention it.
“How’re you settling into Hell’s Kitchen?”
You couldn’t stop the frown from forming on your face. “Is that relevant?”
The tiny smile on Matt’s face contrasted the expression on yours. “Not legally.”
Bluntly replying, you said, “It’s loud. And dirty.”
Your mouth opened and closed. “Could I ask a question in return?”
“I’m an open book.”
“How long have you been blind?”
You watched as his smile grew almost imperceptibly. “A long time.”
“You move like you can see.” Not an accusation. A statement. An observation.
His hands fold on top of the desk. “People say I compensate well.”
You both turned to the sound of knocks against the door. Karen’s head pokes in. “Sorry to interrupt, your next appointment is here.”
Matt nods. “Thank you, Karen.”
The soor remained slightly ajar as Karen retreated back to the main area of the office.
You stood simultaneously, your eyes focusing in on how Matt stands perfectly. No hesitation.
“Everything should be finalized by the end of next week at the latest.” He extends a hand again. “Welcome to Hell’s Kitchen, Ms. Volkova.”
You glanced back once at him as you began to exit the room. You couldn’t quite explain it, but it was almost as if he was watching you as intently as you were him.
Bidding Karen a quiet goodbye, you began to exit the building, heading back towards your apartment.
Your body was on autopilot, trying to make sense of the strange feeling you felt about your lawyer.
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Hi!! I got a request to make a tag list for “the ghosts we keep” soo I thought it’d be better if everyone who wanted to be tagged comments on this post !!
Summary: When Clint Barton offers Natasha Romanoff a chance to escape the Red Room, you make a choice that changes the course of all three of your lives. NOT PROOFREAD
Warnings: Nothing other than gun usage
WC: 1.7k
The archer's body went deathly still at the sharp click of your gun's safety being disengaged.
"Move, and I'll put a bullet through your head before you can release that arrow." Your voice never rose, but the quiet certainty behind it told him you weren't bluffing.
Not moving your gun from its position on the man’s head, you spoke to Natasha through your earpiece. “Наташа, я вступил в контакт со шпионом.” Natasha, I’ve engaged with the spy.
She looked up from her stationed position, spotting the two of you on a rooftop not far away. A quick nod was her only reply before she took off, disappearing into the maze of buildings.
The man hadn’t said anything. Neither have you. Your eyes locked on his body, looking for any slight shift in movement.
“You’ve got about ten seconds,” you said evenly. “After that, I’ll assume you weren’t here just to watch us.
A quiet humorless huff escaped him. “I was hoping we’d do introductions first.”
You didn’t answer.
His gaze remained forward, fixated on the city skyline ahead.
Soft, trained footsteps landed softly behind you. Natasha stopped at your left, her favored pistols both directed at the man kneeling in front of you.
“So,” she said cooly, “You’ve been following us for five days.”
He was silent.
She continued, “We tracked five different vantage points. One for each day. You changed routes every time we noticed you.”
“That’s either impressive…” Her lips curled into a dangerous smile. “Or you’re incredibly stupid.”
“Glad to know I got your attention.”
Neither you nor Natasha took the bait. So, ignoring his words, she continued to interrogate.
“Who are you?”. Silence.
“You know,” she sighed, a false pretense of frustration, “this usually goes one of two ways. Either you answer the questions..”
"Or she loses her patience." Natasha knew better than anyone that your fuse burned considerably shorter than hers.
“You sure she hasn’t already lost it?” the man egged further. The corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself.
“Name,” you finally spoke.
The man sighed, “Clint.”
“Last name.” Natasha questioned.
“...Barton.”
You pressed your barrel harder into the back of his head before you asked the question both you and Natasha wanted to know the most. “Who sent you?”
The man hesitated. “S.H.I.E.L.D.”
The name meant nothing to either of you.
"...You've never heard of S.H.I.E.L.D.?". You couldn’t see his face but judging by the surprise tone he used, he was caught off-guard.
"No," you answered flatly. “Turn your body around so we can see you. Slow. No sudden movements or my bullet will find its new home.”
You could see Natasha’s body tense, preparing for any outcome but as Clint slowly did as told, both of you eased back into a state of control.
"Now explain why they sent you after us.”
He explained that S.H.I.E.L.D. was a covert U.S. intelligence agency tasked with handling threats before they ever reached the public eye. His orders had been simple: find Natasha Romanoff and eliminate her.
"But then I found you," he said, his eyes flicking toward you. "No one mentioned you."
The words hung in the air.
He admitted that the more he'd watched Natasha, the less convinced he'd become that carrying out the mission was the right call. Instead, he was offering her something neither of you had ever imagined possible.
Defection.
Sanctuary.
Freedom.
His gaze settled primarily on Natash, the offer unmistakably meant for her. “If you come with me, S.H.I.E.L.D. will protect you.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Natasha didn’t answer. She stood unnaturally still, her expression carefully schooled into indifference. Anyone else would've mistaken it for skepticism.
You knew better.
You'd known Natasha since the moment she walked through the Red Room's doors.
By then, you’d already been there a year–long enough that the instructors had cracked down on any flicker of hope. Any whisper of disobedience was snuffed out.
She arrived with fire in her eyes.
You'd lost yours long before.
You kept your head down. Followed orders. Earned every title they gave you until you became the Widow they measured everyone else against.
Natasha refused to become what they wanted.
Somehow, despite your best efforts, she became your closest friend anyway.
Yelena completed the trio.
Thinking about her still hurt too much.
As your eyes met Natasha's, you saw the hope she'd been trying so hard to hide. It reminded you of the girl who'd first walked into the Red Room with fire in her veins—a fire that, somehow, had survived. She still carried the weight of every life she'd taken.
You didn't.
And that was why, if anyone deserved a second chance, it was Natasha.
“What will we have to do so that she’s able to join?”. The way you phrased your question wasn’t lost on either of them.
Clint’s gaze lingered on you for a moment before moving to Natasha.
"Dreykov," he said simply. "As long as he's alive, he'll never stop coming after her. S.H.I.E.L.D. can get you both out, but first the Red Room has to lose its head."
Natasha’s expression tightened. “You want us to kill him.”
Clint gave a single nod of confirmation.
"His office. Budapest. We'll handle the extraction. You handle the rest."
Silence settled over the rooftop.
You didn't need to think about it.
"We'll do it."
Natasha turned toward you, mouth opening to argue.
"We'll do it," you repeated, your voice leaving no room for argument.
—
The explosion that tore through Dreykov's office echoed across Budapest.
Official reports called it a gas leak.
Every news anchor called it a tragedy
You called it necessary.
—
You hadn’t expected the shoot out. And you didn’t plan for the amount of time spent in hiding.
Ten days.
That’s how long S.H.I.E.L.D. ordered you three to stay offline while they monitored the fallout.
Ten days hiding out in the vents of a subway station.
The constant rumble of trains beneath you masked every whispered conversation, every shifting footstep. Thousands of people passed below each day, completely unaware that three of the most dangerous operatives in the world were hiding only a few feet above their heads.
Ten days to wonder if you had made the right decision.
Tomorrow, you could finally stop hiding.
“We leave at first light,” Clint confirmed, beginning to pack up his gear.
You nodded. When morning broke the night sky, you’d part with the only stable thing in your life. The only person you’d fully trusted.
“I’m not going.” The words cut through the silence. You looked over. Natasha sat with her back against the vent wall, knees brought to her chest. She fixed her gaze onto Clint as she repeated her words.
“I’m not going.”
Clint stopped packing and sighed before turning his body fully towards the red head. “Romanoff—”
“No.” Her voice was calm. Even. No hesitation. “I’m not leaving without her.”
Your chest tightened. “Natasha…”
She finally looked at you. “We either both go to New York, or neither of us goes.”
The ultimatum squeezed painfully at your chest. You couldn’t bring yourself to look into her eyes, knowing the exact expression that she wore. If you did, you knew you’d cave. She was your sister, in every way that mattered. That’s why you had even agreed to do the operation in the first place.
You let out a slow breath.
"...Don't do this."
"I am." God, she could be so stubborn when she wanted to. Just like Yelena.
"Natasha."
"I'm not leaving you."
"You have to."
"No."
"You've wanted this for years."
"So have you."
A humorless laugh escaped you. "No."
"Stop saying that."
"It's the truth."
"No," she shot back. "It's the lie you've convinced yourself is true."
The words struck harder than any blow ever had. You finally looked up.
Her eyes weren't pleading.
They were determined.
"You think I don't remember?" she asked quietly. "Every mission you took so I wouldn't have to. Every punishment you accepted because I opened my mouth when I shouldn't have."
Your jaw clenched.
"I remember all of it."
Shaking your head, you replied, "You don't owe me anything."
"I was never trying to."
"You were."
"I was trying to keep my sister alive."
Silence settled between you.
The familiar rumble of another train rolled beneath the station, shaking dust from the concrete above.
Clint, who had wisely kept out of the argument, finally pushed himself off the wall.
"For what it's worth..." he said, looking between the two of you, "Fury trusts my judgment."
Neither of you responded.
"If I tell him you're worth bringing in, he'll hear me out."
You shook your head. "You haven't seen what I've done."
"No," Clint admitted. "I haven't." He paused.
"But I've seen what you did when you had every reason not to."
Your brows furrowed.
"You had me dead to rights on that rooftop."
"So?"
"So you chose not to pull the trigger."
"It would've complicated things."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Maybe."
He didn't call your bluff.
"But people who enjoy killing don't spend ten days trying to convince the person they care about to save herself."
The vent fell quiet.
You looked away. "...You don't know me."
"No," Clint said. "I don't."
His voice remained calm. "But I know enough to say this."
He glanced at Natasha before returning his attention to you. "If she trusts you with her life..."
He let the sentence hang.
"...that's enough for me."
Natasha didn't hesitate. "It's enough for me too."
You closed your eyes.
You'd survived the Red Room.
You'd survived Dreykov.
You'd survived Budapest.
Why was this the fight that felt impossible to win?
After a long moment, your shoulders sagged. "...Fine."
Natasha's expression softened, relief washing over her features.
You turned your attention to Clint, pinning him with a look that left no room for misunderstanding.
"But let me make one thing clear, Barton." Your voice was steady, resolute. "I have no intention of joining your organization. I'll go to New York—for Natasha. Nothing more."
Your jaw tightened. "I'm not trading one prison for another."
Clint studied you for a beat before giving a small nod. He didn't argue. He'd learned by now that trying to change your mind head-on was a losing battle.
UPDATE: it’s being planned out right now!! I’ve decided I’ll be making it a series. Not sure how many parts yet but I do have a storyline in mind. If anyone has any ideas to add please please please send them my way
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Summary: You find it hard to differentiate between love and anger as you stand face to face with the man you’ve been mourning for months
a/n: this is my first time ever writing one shots so apologies if it’s not the best!! Def not following the plot whatsoever (Maybe a part 2?) NOT PROOFREAD
Warnings: angst/no comfort?, prob ooc bc this is my first time ever writing for Frank. Frank just doesn’t believe he deserves to be loved
WC: 1.2k
part 1 | part 2
“HOMEGROWN TERRORISTS” you read the words over and over again. Though they weren’t what you were fixated on. Instead, your eyes were glued on the image of Fra—him. A couple of cuts littered his face in the picture showcased on the news but he was undoubtedly alive.
Every emotion on the spectrum slammed into you at once. Grief. Anger. Happiness. Hurt and confusion being the most prominent. He’d been alive this entire time. All the months and nights you’d cried yourself to sleep. Sobbing on Karen’s shoulder. There was no body. There was no funeral or headstone for you to talk to when the grief was a load you couldn’t carry alone.
You don’t remember picking up your phone and calling Karen. But her voice on the other end as she answered broke you out of your trance. “Hello?”
Your grip on your phone tightened, “Karen. He’s-he’s alive.” You couldn’t stop your voice from breaking.
The silence on the other end was defeating. “Karen?”
More silence. Suddenly it clicked. Why wasn’t she saying anything? A gasp? A voice of disbelief?
“Did you know?” The question accusatory. You braced for an answer you weren’t sure you were ready to hear.
“Yes.” Her voice firm for a second before it was covered in guilt. “Yes. I knew I’m sorry—“
Whatever words of reasoning she spoke were unbeknownst to you as a ringing sound began echoing in your ear. She knew. This entire time. She had the privilege of knowing. Not you. Karen. He had picked Karen.
Cutting her off with a tone so vicious, so broken, you said, “You tell Frank to meet me at our spot. You and him owe me that at the very least.”
Not waiting to hear her reply, you ended the call and headed out the door. Forgetting that it was a cold day in New York City as the anger made you boil from the inside.
The anger lost its battle to the chilly winds but you refused to go back home. You wouldn’t go back until you had your answers.
Thoughts began to intrude your mind, you being helpless to stop them.
Did he even want to see you?
Why didn’t he call?
Or knock and disappear before you opened the door?
Why did he rip himself from your life before you could tell him just how much you felt for him? How much you loved him.
Why did he tell her?
Your mind went quiet as you heard gravel crack under pressure. You froze. It was as if your body knew who was behind you before your mind could process it.
Your fingernails dug into the palms of your hand like you were bracing for impact. And maybe you were. Reality being a punch to the gut.
He was really here.
And so you finally turned, your eyes glued onto his large frame.
Frank was dressed in his usual all black attire. Beanie covering his hair while the hood of his jacket covered the rest of his face. He was here.
Neither of you spoke. In the time between your phone call with Karen and now, you had rehearsed over and over what you would say to him. Maybe even make him feel a fraction of what you felt when you thought he was dead.
“S’cold. You got no jacket on.”
“Are you serious?” You didn’t bother hiding your disbelief as you scoffed. “All this time and all you have to say is that I didn’t wear a jacket?”
Silence consumed you both. Everything you had practiced in your head was thrown out the window as you could no longer compose yourself.
“You died.”
You shoved him. He didn’t move an inch which made you angrier. “You died.”
Another shove.
“I thought lost you.” Your voice splintered. “Ive been stuck with words I thought I would never be able to say to you because you were gone.”
This time you pounded on his chest. He let you. His brown eyes filled with emotions you couldn’t decipher as he watched the tears pour out of your eyes. “You let me mourn you.”
“You let me think your body was just gone. Somewhere that I couldn’t go. There wasn’t even a damn grave I could visit and talk to you.”
Frank took every shove, every word you used as weapons. “I know.”
“No.” You countered. “No, you don’t know.”
You fisted the collar of his hoodie, gripping onto him like he was your vice. As if your hold was any looser, he would disappear in the wind.
“You don’t know how it was getting that phone call from Matt. You don’t know how it was waking up every day thinking for the briefest moment you were asleep right next to me. And the cold harsh reality slapping me when your side of the bed was empty.”
He said nothing.
You laughed humorlessly. “Karen knew.”
His jaw clenched so tightly you swore you could hear his teeth grind together.
“She knew and I didn’t.” Your voice barely a whisper now. “Why?”
You finally allowed your eyes to look up at his. But they didn’t meet yours. Instead, they were looking out to the view behind you.
The lack of an answer hurt more than any excuse he could give.
“I couldn’t.”
Frustrations as evident in your voice. “Couldn’t what? Call me? Come by my apartment to let me know you’re okay?”
“I couldn’t drag you back into it.”
As if being near him was suddenly unbearable, you flinched back. “That’s not your decision to make! You don’t get to decide that for me.”
His voice was rough with emotions. “I got you a way out. Away from me. Away from the possibility of getting killed because you know me.”
“I didn’t want a way out. I wanted you.” Why couldn’t he understand that? “You were alive and breathing. In the same city that I was walking around heartbroken, trying to figure out how to live without you. I never planned for that.”
Frank flinched. He had survived murder attempts. Stab wounds. Bombs. But the devastation and honesty in your voice nearly brought him to his knees.
You watched his Adam’s Apple bob up and down as he swallowed hard, eyes darting as if searching the perimeter but also for the right response.
“I watched Maria die.”
You were quiet. You had known this. He had shared with you every grueling detail about the day his whole life ended.
“My kids. My babygirl.”
Nothing could’ve braved you for his next words, “I wouldn’t survive if I lost you too.”
You were inches away from him. Yet, it was as though the two of you were worlds apart. “Why wasn’t I worth trusting?”
His mouth opened. And closed. There was no answer that could lessen the cruelty of his actions to you. “I do trust you.”
You shook your head rigorously. “No, you trusted Karen. You trust her now.”
Guilt was written all over his face. You dug the heels of your palm into your eyes, trying to force the tears to cease.
His hand twitched at his side, as if he was fighting the instinct to comfort you.
“You didn’t die. You didn’t disappear. You decided that you didn’t want me as a constant in your life anymore.”
Summary: It was supposed to be a simple operation. In and out. That was the only reason Frank agreed to having you join. But things never go as planned…NOT PROOFREAD
Warnings: typical Punisher violence, angst, angst, more angst, two idiots in love
a/n: not sure if this is going to have a pt. 2…it’s drafted (in my head) but decisions decisions decisions
WC: 1.4k
You were going to kill Dinah if the men shooting at you didn’t take you out first.
You thought as you shot more rounds, each bullet piercing its intended target.
When your gun finally clicked empty, you silently cursed and you crouched even lower behind the cargo you were using as a shield.
“Frank,” you yelled over the sound of bullets hitting the crates, wood splintering everywhere. You hoped he could hear the sound of your voice in his earpiece. “I’m empty.”
You saw him to the right of you, inching closer to you, but with your gun empty, he was taking on the entire crew of illegal gun runners.
His voice was rough and breathless when he said your name. “We gotta get to upper deck. ‘S the only shot we got at gettin’ out of here alive.”
You knew he was right but the realization that you were on the lowest deck of the cargo ship had your hopes plummeting by the second.
Madani's intel had been incomplete. While there had been a large shipment of illegal guns about to dock at the New York harbor, her insider had failed to inform her that there were dozens of men playing security.
This missing piece of information could mean the difference between walking out alive and being carried out.
“Head t’ the door on our left. It’s a stairwell,” Frank instructed. “I’ll cover. Go.”
You couldn't resist the urge to look at him one last time. His eyes were already on you. They were pleading. They were firm. They were safe.
He would never let anything happen to you.
So you listen. Forcing your eyes to look towards the door, you wait for Frank's confirmation before you book it.
Bullets fly past you hitting the metal walls of the ship and other wooden crates. But you couldn't hesitate or flinch an inch.
Once you reach the stairs, you allow yourself to look back, Frank already at the doorway.
"Go. Go. Go," he ushered, pulling a handgun from his waistband before offering it to you. You cleared the path up and he checked to make sure no one was behind.
The stairwell was thankfully empty but you couldn't afford to let your guard down at any moment. Both you and Frank stood at the door that led directly to the helicopter pad.
You suddenly realized just how small the space you were in was. Frank's chest rose and fell against yours, both of you struggling to catch your breath in the brief lull between the chaos.
His gaze was fierce as he looked down at you. Eyes holding every feel and word he wouldn't say. You were sure your eyes held the same weight.
Frank raised his eyebrows, dipping his chin in a silent question. Ready?
You followed close behind, angling yourself so your back met Frank's. A shadow darted into your three o'clock. You reacted first, squeezing the trigger. A body hit the floor with a thud quickly after.
Another gunshot cracked through the ocean night air.
Frank didn't so much as flinch, his attention locked ahead as he returned fire at the men in front of him.
Then you saw it.
High above the stacks of steel containers, a man crouched atop the highest one. His rifle rested against his shoulder, the barrel pointed directly on Frank.
A perfect shot.
Your finger tightened around your own gun's trigger, but he already had you beat.
There wasn't enough time.
You lunged.
You heard the sound of the shot crack through the air before the searing pain bloomed across your abdomen.
A strangled grunt tore from your throat as the force of the impact drove you forward, your body crashing into Frank's. The impact shoved him sideways, carrying him safely out of the shooter's line of fire.
"Fuck!" Frank whipped around, one hand catching you before you hit the deck. His eyes swept over you, confused for only a fraction of a second before they landed on your bloodied hand trying to stop the actively bleeding wound.
His expression hardened. It turned murderous.
His head snapped toward the container stack. Frank didn't hesitate. He brought his rifle up and fired.
Once.
The shooter's body jerked with the impact before pitching off the top of the container stack. A sickening crash followed.
Frank returned his attention to you. "I'm fine. Let's keep moving," was all you managed to grit out before forcing yourself up, a hand braced on his forearm for support.
Frank looked like he wanted to argue and in a different scenario or time, maybe you wanted indulge in a bit of petty banter.
Though the two of you combined have killed over a dozen of their men, you knew there were still more. More than what you two could handle in this moment.
You knew if Frank had taken this mission on solo, he could take the entire crew out easily. But now he had extra baggage to worry about — you. The pit of guilt was hard to carrry.
Every step sent another bolt of agony through abdomen. You pressed your hand harder on the wound, warm blood spilling between your fingers faster than you could hold it back.
"Keep moving," Frank barked, his arm hooked around your waist. "Don't you quit on me."
The edge of the deck came into view. You looked over it.
The water below was a dark abyss.
You swallowed, "Frank..."
His grip tightened as you noticed his jaw clenching. "I know."
Behind you, the thundering of boots grew louder. There was no time.
You could tell Frank was reading all the fear written on your face. His jaw flexed harder. "On three."
You nodded weakly. "One..."
Shouts could be heard. "Two..."
"Three." You jumped.
—
The ocean swallowed you whole,
The cold stole the breath from your lungs as you fought to reach the surface. Every kick sending a wave of agony through you.
Your limbs grew heavier. Slower.
You realized two things in this moment.
You were dying.
The last thing you saw was Frank.
—
Darkness.
Then a voice. It sounded murky. Far away. Desperate.
"C'mon, baby..." That voice. You know that voice. You would recognize it anywhere.
You felt something firmed pressed against your chest.
"Please."
The same pressure again.
"Don't do this. Please. Don't make me do this alone."
Air suddenly tore into your lungs in a violent gasp, followed by a fit of coughing that sent seawater spilling from your mouth.
"Attagirl," Frank breathed, dropping his forehead against yours for the briefest second.
Your voice was harsh. "...Frank?"
"Stay with me." His voice was steady. His hands weren't as they continued to apply pressure on your wound.
You fought hard to stay conscious but exhaustion and the blood loss threatened to drag you under once more. You said his name again.
Maybe it was how soft you said it. Or how weak your voice sounded. Or maybe it was how pale and ghostly you looked that had Frank shaking his head, eyes becoming glassy.
"No. You keep your eyes on me, yeah? Madani's almost here."
It took everything you had to lift your hand to his face, your trembling fingertips brushing his cheeks, leaving behind a streak of blood. Your blood.
He leaned into it
Your voice barely audible as you whispered, "I need to tell you..."
"Save it" Frank cut in immediately, shaking his head. "You tell me later. when this is over."
Time.
Time was something you thought you had more of.
More time to tell your partner in crime that somewhere between all the stakeouts, bruises, and near-death encounters, you'd started craving his company outside of the job. Outside of the fight.
In life.
But as you begin to lose feeling in your limbs and shivers took over your body, you realized that you may have run out of time quicker than you expected.
"Frank." Tears finally overflowing from his eyes, streaking down his cheek.
"Sweetheart. Please."
His face was consumed by desperation. Fear. Love.
You needed him to know. You needed him to hear it from you before it was too late.
He held you like you were something precious, one hand never leaving the wound as he desperately tried to keep the blood where it belonged.
You managed to muster of the faintest smile. Your thumb rubbing against his stubbled cheek gently. "I kept waiting for the time to tell you."
Your breath hitched. Your eyelids suddenly felt like the heaviest thing in the world.
He shook you ever so slightly, pleading. Begging you to keep your eyes open.
"I love you." The three words left your lips along with your last breath.
Summary: It was supposed to be a simple operation. In and out. That was the only reason Frank agreed to having you join. But things never go as planned…NOT PROOFREAD
Warnings: typical Punisher violence, angst, angst, more angst, two idiots in love
a/n: not sure if this is going to have a pt. 2…it’s drafted (in my head) but decisions decisions decisions
WC: 1.4k
You were going to kill Dinah if the men shooting at you didn’t take you out first.
You thought as you shot more rounds, each bullet piercing its intended target.
When your gun finally clicked empty, you silently cursed and you crouched even lower behind the cargo you were using as a shield.
“Frank,” you yelled over the sound of bullets hitting the crates, wood splintering everywhere. You hoped he could hear the sound of your voice in his earpiece. “I’m empty.”
You saw him to the right of you, inching closer to you, but with your gun empty, he was taking on the entire crew of illegal gun runners.
His voice was rough and breathless when he said your name. “We gotta get to upper deck. ‘S the only shot we got at gettin’ out of here alive.”
You knew he was right but the realization that you were on the lowest deck of the cargo ship had your hopes plummeting by the second.
Madani's intel had been incomplete. While there had been a large shipment of illegal guns about to dock at the New York harbor, her insider had failed to inform her that there were dozens of men playing security.
This missing piece of information could mean the difference between walking out alive and being carried out.
“Head t’ the door on our left. It’s a stairwell,” Frank instructed. “I’ll cover. Go.”
You couldn't resist the urge to look at him one last time. His eyes were already on you. They were pleading. They were firm. They were safe.
He would never let anything happen to you.
So you listen. Forcing your eyes to look towards the door, you wait for Frank's confirmation before you book it.
Bullets fly past you hitting the metal walls of the ship and other wooden crates. But you couldn't hesitate or flinch an inch.
Once you reach the stairs, you allow yourself to look back, Frank already at the doorway.
"Go. Go. Go," he ushered, pulling a handgun from his waistband before offering it to you. You cleared the path up and he checked to make sure no one was behind.
The stairwell was thankfully empty but you couldn't afford to let your guard down at any moment. Both you and Frank stood at the door that led directly to the helicopter pad.
You suddenly realized just how small the space you were in was. Frank's chest rose and fell against yours, both of you struggling to catch your breath in the brief lull between the chaos.
His gaze was fierce as he looked down at you. Eyes holding every feel and word he wouldn't say. You were sure your eyes held the same weight.
Frank raised his eyebrows, dipping his chin in a silent question. Ready?
You followed close behind, angling yourself so your back met Frank's. A shadow darted into your three o'clock. You reacted first, squeezing the trigger. A body hit the floor with a thud quickly after.
Another gunshot cracked through the ocean night air.
Frank didn't so much as flinch, his attention locked ahead as he returned fire at the men in front of him.
Then you saw it.
High above the stacks of steel containers, a man crouched atop the highest one. His rifle rested against his shoulder, the barrel pointed directly on Frank.
A perfect shot.
Your finger tightened around your own gun's trigger, but he already had you beat.
There wasn't enough time.
You lunged.
You heard the sound of the shot crack through the air before the searing pain bloomed across your abdomen.
A strangled grunt tore from your throat as the force of the impact drove you forward, your body crashing into Frank's. The impact shoved him sideways, carrying him safely out of the shooter's line of fire.
"Fuck!" Frank whipped around, one hand catching you before you hit the deck. His eyes swept over you, confused for only a fraction of a second before they landed on your bloodied hand trying to stop the actively bleeding wound.
His expression hardened. It turned murderous.
His head snapped toward the container stack. Frank didn't hesitate. He brought his rifle up and fired.
Once.
The shooter's body jerked with the impact before pitching off the top of the container stack. A sickening crash followed.
Frank returned his attention to you. "I'm fine. Let's keep moving," was all you managed to grit out before forcing yourself up, a hand braced on his forearm for support.
Frank looked like he wanted to argue and in a different scenario or time, maybe you wanted indulge in a bit of petty banter.
Though the two of you combined have killed over a dozen of their men, you knew there were still more. More than what you two could handle in this moment.
You knew if Frank had taken this mission on solo, he could take the entire crew out easily. But now he had extra baggage to worry about — you. The pit of guilt was hard to carrry.
Every step sent another bolt of agony through abdomen. You pressed your hand harder on the wound, warm blood spilling between your fingers faster than you could hold it back.
"Keep moving," Frank barked, his arm hooked around your waist. "Don't you quit on me."
The edge of the deck came into view. You looked over it.
The water below was a dark abyss.
You swallowed, "Frank..."
His grip tightened as you noticed his jaw clenching. "I know."
Behind you, the thundering of boots grew louder. There was no time.
You could tell Frank was reading all the fear written on your face. His jaw flexed harder. "On three."
You nodded weakly. "One..."
Shouts could be heard. "Two..."
"Three." You jumped.
—
The ocean swallowed you whole,
The cold stole the breath from your lungs as you fought to reach the surface. Every kick sending a wave of agony through you.
Your limbs grew heavier. Slower.
You realized two things in this moment.
You were dying.
The last thing you saw was Frank.
—
Darkness.
Then a voice. It sounded murky. Far away. Desperate.
"C'mon, baby..." That voice. You know that voice. You would recognize it anywhere.
You felt something firmed pressed against your chest.
"Please."
The same pressure again.
"Don't do this. Please. Don't make me do this alone."
Air suddenly tore into your lungs in a violent gasp, followed by a fit of coughing that sent seawater spilling from your mouth.
"Attagirl," Frank breathed, dropping his forehead against yours for the briefest second.
Your voice was harsh. "...Frank?"
"Stay with me." His voice was steady. His hands weren't as they continued to apply pressure on your wound.
You fought hard to stay conscious but exhaustion and the blood loss threatened to drag you under once more. You said his name again.
Maybe it was how soft you said it. Or how weak your voice sounded. Or maybe it was how pale and ghostly you looked that had Frank shaking his head, eyes becoming glassy.
"No. You keep your eyes on me, yeah? Madani's almost here."
It took everything you had to lift your hand to his face, your trembling fingertips brushing his cheeks, leaving behind a streak of blood. Your blood.
He leaned into it
Your voice barely audible as you whispered, "I need to tell you..."
"Save it" Frank cut in immediately, shaking his head. "You tell me later. when this is over."
Time.
Time was something you thought you had more of.
More time to tell your partner in crime that somewhere between all the stakeouts, bruises, and near-death encounters, you'd started craving his company outside of the job. Outside of the fight.
In life.
But as you begin to lose feeling in your limbs and shivers took over your body, you realized that you may have run out of time quicker than you expected.
"Frank." Tears finally overflowing from his eyes, streaking down his cheek.
"Sweetheart. Please."
His face was consumed by desperation. Fear. Love.
You needed him to know. You needed him to hear it from you before it was too late.
He held you like you were something precious, one hand never leaving the wound as he desperately tried to keep the blood where it belonged.
You managed to muster of the faintest smile. Your thumb rubbing against his stubbled cheek gently. "I kept waiting for the time to tell you."
Your breath hitched. Your eyelids suddenly felt like the heaviest thing in the world.
He shook you ever so slightly, pleading. Begging you to keep your eyes open.
"I love you." The three words left your lips along with your last breath.
yk a lot of people write jack abbot as being very distant going into relationships. bordering on commitment issues depending on the fics. and i think a lot of that comes from people trying to play into him being a widow or even just age gap dynamics. which honestly is an entirely valid take.
but why are we not leaning into the fact that we KNOW jack does not like to be alone. we know he needs to keep moving and stay busy to function. that he comes in early and stays late to keep from being alone. that he has an entire second job to fill the gaps between shifts. that he fills the silence in his house with the noise of a police scanner in case he’s needed.
what about jack who’s the one to be all in first? and comes on too strong. and has a tendency to be too much. what about jack who has to teach himself to slow down to remind himself that his relationship isn’t an escape from himself?
summary : for you, it's been five years. for him, only a few seconds.
warnings : ANGST. ANGST. ANGST. hurt/comfort, with about 30 % comfort and only like at the very end (oops), this is an alt AU where both frank and reader were part of the avengers (bare with me i swear it makes sense), mentions of depression, mentions of unaliving one's self, oh and did i mention angst
word count : 6.1 k
a/n : not proofread ! blame them. they made me do this. i'm sorry.
The air is so unbelievably thin.
Your chest feels like it's constricting every time you move, your limbs aching and groaning with every sudden movement.
Everything hurts.
The battlefield stretches for miles, painted in smoke and fire and broken metal. The sky itself seems wounded, split apart by ships burning as they fall back toward the earth.
Around you—
Screams.
Orders.
The crackle of energy weapons.
Someone is crying. Someone else is begging.
You can't tell who anymore.
Your sword hangs limp at your side, suddenly far too heavy to lift.
Across the ruined plain, you see Steve drop to one knee. Thor is staring at his empty hands. Natasha's face has gone completely white.
"…What…" The word barely leaves your lips. Thanos stands in the distance. Motionless. The Infinity Gauntlet hangs scorched and smoking from his arm. The stones are dim. His fingers are still spread from the snap.
"No…" The wind changes. You don't understand it at first. A strange current sweeps across the battlefield, carrying gray ash into the air. Then someone screams. You turn. Bucky Barnes looks down at his own hand. It flakes away beneath his fingertips. Like burnt paper. Steve lunges toward him.
"Bucky—" But he can't hold onto smoke. Within seconds… He's gone. Nothing remains but drifting ash.
"No…" Another scream. Sam. Gone.
Someone shouts Wanda's name.
Someone else yells for T'Challa.
The battlefield erupts into chaos.
"No, no, no…" You stumble forward. This isn't happening. This can't—
Movement catches your eye.
Peter. He's running toward you. Your heart leaps.
"Peter!" His mask is already off.His eyes are huge. Terrified. He runs and runs and runs- trying to reach you - until he can't anymore.
Until his legs fade to dust beneath him and he falls, face first onto the ground.
"No !" You screech, your heart jumping into your throat. you reach him just as his face starts to come apart like ash.
"No, no, no, Peter, please." You choke on a sob, looking up. "Tony ! Tony, help !" Your own tears start immediately.
"I don't wanna go." He starts crying. "I don't know what's happening." You pull him tighter.
"I've got you." His body trembles against yours. He looks at his hands. Ash drifts from his fingertips.
You grip him harder.
His fingers clutch desperately at your shoulders.
"I don't wanna go."
"I know."
"I don't wanna go."
"I know."
"I'm sorry." His body begins to come apart in your arms. Not all at once. Slowly. Cruelly. His shoulder dissolves first. Then his arm. You desperately try to hold together someone turning into dust. It doesn't work.
"No!" He looks at you one last time. Eyes wet. Terrified.
"…I'm scared."
Then— He is gone. Your arms close around nothing. Ash slips through your fingers. Silence. You stare at your empty hands.
"No…" Your voice cracks. "No." The tears come all at once. Violent. Uncontrollable. You sink onto your knees in the dirt, clutching the handful of gray ash that slips through your trembling fingers.
"No…" It blows away on the wind. "Peter…" Your entire body folds forward. You sob so hard you can't breathe. Around you, more people disappear. More screams. More ash. The battlefield is ending. The world is ending.
And there is nothing— Nothing— You can do.
A voice comes from behind you.
Soft.
Almost lost beneath the chaos.
"…Baby?" You know that voice. Your heart stops.
Slowly— Too slowly— You turn.
Your husband stands twenty feet away.
His rifle hangs forgotten at his side. He's staring at his own hand. Confused.
"…Frank?" He looks up. Your stomach drops.
Gray ash drifts from the tips of his fingers.
"No." He frowns.
"…Huh." Another piece of him crumbles away. He watches it almost curiously. "…Guess…" His voice catches. "…Guess that ain't good."
"No." You scramble toward him, tripping over broken concrete. "No, no, no, no—" He reaches for you. His hand is already disappearing.
"…Hey."
"No!"
"It's alright."
"It is not alright!" You throw yourself into him. Your arms wrap around his waist. He hugs you back. As tightly as he can. But already… You can feel him becoming lighter. Less solid.
"No." His chin rests on top of your head.
"I'm here."
"You are not allowed to leave me." A sad little smile touches his lips.
"Wasn't plannin' on it." His shoulder begins to dissolve beneath your cheek. You clutch harder. As though you can hold him together by sheer force.
"You promised."
"I know."
"You promised you'd always come home."
"I know." Your tears soak into his shirt.
"I can't do this without you." His remaining hand cups your cheek.
Warm. Familiar. The touch you've known a thousand times.
His eyes glisten.
"I wish…" He swallows. "…God… I wish I had more time."
"Frank, stop it."
"I wanted…" Another piece of him drifts away. "…one more mornin'."
"Stop."
"One more coffee."
"No."
"One more kiss." You kiss him before he can finish. Desperate. Shaking. He kisses you back with everything he has left. When you pull away, half his face is already becoming ash.
"I love you."
"No, no- Frankie."
"I love you."
"Frank—"
"You hear me?"
"Stop!"
"I love you." His voice is fading. "So damn much." His arms weaken around you. You try to hold him up. Instead… He slips through your embrace. Like smoke. Like dust. His fingertips brush yours one last time.
Then— Nothing.
The wind catches him. Carries him away. You collapse forward into empty air. Your hands slam into the dirt where he'd been standing only seconds before.
"No…" The battlefield doesn't stop. The explosions continue. People keep shouting. But for you… Everything has gone silent. You curl around the place where he'd vanished, clutching a handful of ash to your chest as it slips, grain by grain, through your fingers. And for the first time since this war began… You scream.
You don't remember making it back to earth. Back to New York.
Back to the apartment that smells like him, the bed that's still ruffled from when he slept in it last.
You vaguely remember Tony being there.
He's talking to Matt.
At least you think he is.
Their voices reach you like they're underwater.
"…can't leave her alone."
"…she hasn't slept."
"…she hasn't eaten."
"…Tony."
"…I know."
You don't look at either of them. You just stand in the middle of your apartment. Frank's boots are still by the door. One of them tipped over. You stare at it for almost five minutes.
Finally— You kneel. You set it upright.
Then you burst into tears. The funeral never comes. There are no bodies to bury. No caskets. No gravestones. Just photographs. Just names. Just empty chairs. Someone gives you a folded flag anyway. You don't remember who. It sits untouched on the kitchen table for almost a year. The first night, you sleep on Frank's side of the bed.
The second night too. By the third… You stop sleeping altogether. You lie awake listening for the sound of his keys in the lock. For boots in the hallway. For the familiar grunt he'd always make as he shrugged out of his jacket.
Sometimes— For half a second— You swear you hear him.
Your heart leaps. You run to the front door. It's never him. Three weeks after the Snap, Karen brings groceries. You don't answer. She lets herself in with the spare key Frank insisted someone keep. She finds you sitting on the kitchen floor. Still wearing the same sweatshirt you'd worn the day the world ended.
The coffee mug in your hands is empty. Cold.
"…Honey?" You look up.
"…I forgot how to make coffee." Karen kneels beside you. The coffee maker is already full. Ready. You'd just… Forgotten to press the button. She cries harder than you do.
Matt visits every Thursday. He never announces himself. He simply knocks twice. Lets himself in. Makes dinner. Leaves. Some Thursdays, you don't speak. He doesn't mind. He just sits across from you while the apartment echoes with a silence that used to belong to Frank.
Month three.
Steve asks if you'll come back.
"We need everybody." You shake your head.
"No."
"They need you."
"They're dead." His face falls.
"So are we." You close the door. You stop answering your phone. Natasha leaves voicemails anyway. Tony sends texts. Bruce stops by. Rhodey too. Eventually… They stop asking. Not because they've given up. Because they know. Some wounds don't close because someone tells you to keep living. The apartment becomes a museum. Frank's jacket remains hanging by the door. His shaving razor stays beside the sink. His coffee mug never gets washed. The indentation on his side of the mattress slowly fades.
That one hurts the most. You start sleeping there. Not because you want to. Because you can't bear watching it disappear.
Six months.
The nightmares begin. Sometimes Peter is reaching for you. Sometimes Frank. Sometimes both. Every dream ends the same way. Ash slipping through your fingers. You wake up grabbing empty sheets.
One year.
The city has learned to be quiet. There are fewer cars. Fewer lights. Too many empty apartments. The grocery store closes two aisles permanently because there aren't enough customers anymore. Children stop asking where their parents went. They already know. That hurts worse.
You stop being an Avenger. Not officially. You simply… Never come back. Your armor gathers dust. Your communicator dies in a drawer somewhere. The world keeps spinning.
Without you.
Some days… You don't get dressed.
Some days… You forget what day it is.
Some days… You stand in front of the bathroom mirror and think—
It would've been easier if I'd gone too.
The thought frightens you. Not because you want to die. Because you don't care very much whether you wake up tomorrow. There's a difference. It doesn't feel like one.
Year two.
Karen convinces you to walk outside. Just once. The coffee shop on the corner still remembers Frank's order.
"Large."
"Black." The barista starts making it automatically. Then freezes.
"…I'm sorry." You smile. The first genuine smile in nearly two years.
"It's okay." You buy it anyway. You carry it all the way home. You set it on his side of the kitchen table. It goes cold.
Year three.
Steve comes again. This time… He looks hopeful.
"We found something." You don't answer. "There might be a way." Silence. "Time travel." You laugh. Not because it's funny. Because it's cruel.
"You think you can outrun this?"
"We have to try." You shake your head.
"I already watched him die once."
"This would undo that."
"Or I'll watch him die twice." Steve has no answer. When he leaves… The apartment feels even emptier than before.
Year four.
The panic attacks become quieter. More dangerous. They don't make you cry anymore.
Instead… You simply stop. Standing in grocery aisles. At crosswalks. In the shower. You stare into nothing until someone says your name. You forget entire afternoons. Matt notices. He starts staying longer. Neither of you mentions it.
Year five.
The calendar still has Frank's handwriting on it. Dentist - Tuesday. Pick up dry cleaning. Movie night. You never change it. Then… One rainy afternoon…
Tony Stark knocks on your door himself. Not in armor. Just Tony. Older.
More tired. He looks at you for a long moment.
"You look awful."
"So do you."
"Fair." Silence. He doesn't smile.
"I think…" He rubs a hand across his beard. "I think we figured it out." You stare at him blankly.
"What?"
"A way."
"No."
"A real one."
"No."
"We can bring them back."
"No." Tony's brow furrows.
"You don't even know what I'm going to say."
"I know enough."
"You don't believe me."
"I don't believe in miracles anymore." He flinches.
"I don't need you to."
"I watched him turn to dust in my arms." His eyes soften.
"I know."
"I held Peter while he begged me not to let him die."
"I know."
"I buried people who didn't even leave bodies."
"I know."
"My husband disappeared."
"I know."
"My kid disappeared."
"I know."
"My world ended."
"I know." You look away. Voice barely above a whisper.
"I'm tired of hoping." Because hope… Hope is what made you listen for Frank's footsteps every night for months.
Hope is what made you leave his side of the closet untouched.
Hope is what convinced you, for just one impossible second, that every knock at the door might be him.
Hope had become another way to lose him.
Tony doesn't argue. He simply walks farther into the apartment. His eyes land on Frank's boots. Still by the door. Five years later. Exactly where he'd left them. Tony closes his eyes. Then quietly says,
"…I'll bring him home to you, kid." You don't answer. Not because you don't hear him. Because somewhere deep inside yourself- In a place grief buried years ago— A tiny, terrified part of you is suddenly more frightened of hope than it ever was of despair.
Tony leaves.
The apartment falls silent again. You don't call him back. You don't even watch him walk away. The front door clicks shut. And you stand there…
Staring at Frank's boots. Exactly where he'd left them.
You don't join the mission. You don't help build the machine. You don't suit up. You don't answer another phone call. If they truly can change time… You decide you'll find out afterward. You can't survive another promise.
The nightmares get worse. Not louder. Quieter. Some nights Frank doesn't disappear. Instead… He comes home. He drops his keys in the bowl. Calls your name. Wraps his arms around your waist while you're making coffee. You laugh.You kiss him. He asks how your day was. You tell him about Peter. About Karen. About Matt. About absolutely nothing.
It feels…Perfect.
Then— Ash begins falling from his hair. You scream before he even notices.
"Frank—" He looks confused.
"What?" His hand disappears.
"No." His smile falters.
"Baby?"
"No, please—" His face crumbles apart. This time… He isn't even afraid. He simply watches you.
"I'm sorry." Then he's gone.
Every.
Single.
Night.
You stop sleeping in the bed. The dreams are waiting there. Instead you sleep on the living-room floor. Sometimes in the bathtub. Sometimes sitting upright against the wall with a pistol in your lap. If you never really sleep… The dreams can't catch you.
One night… You hear a woman scream.
Real. Not imagined. Outside. Three blocks away. You don't think. You move.
The mugger never sees you coming. One punch. His jaw breaks. He reaches for a knife. You take it away. Break three fingers. Leave him crying in an alley until the police arrive.
When you get home… Your hands are shaking. Not from fear.
For the first time in years… Your mind is quiet. You sleep six straight hours. The next week… It's another scream. Another alley. Another gang. Another fight. Another night without dreams. You begin to understand. Violence doesn't make you happy.
It makes you… Empty.
And empty is infinitely better than drowning. It becomes routine. The city sleeps. You don't. You patrol rooftops. Subway stations. Construction sites. The neighborhoods Frank always insisted on checking twice. You wear no colors. No Avengers insignia. No shield. No emblem.
Just black. Just blades. Just bruises.
The newspapers invent names.
"The Ghost."
"The Widow."
"The Wraith of Hell's Kitchen."
You never read them. Criminals begin whispering. Not because you're theatrical. Because you're efficient. You don't make speeches. You don't threaten. You simply appear. And when it's over… You disappear again.
Matt finds out first. Of course he does. He hears your heartbeat from two rooftops away. Hears the broken ribs. The knife entering someone else's shoulder. The way you stop breathing entirely before you strike.
One night- He lands beside you.
"You need to stop." You keep cleaning blood from your knuckles.
"So stop me." He says nothing. Because he knows. He probably can't. Karen sees you six weeks later. You answer the door with a split lip. Bruised cheek. Fresh stitches across your ribs. She doesn't ask. She already knows.
"You look like him." You freeze.
"What?" She swallows.
"From years ago." Silence. "You look exactly like Frank did." You close the door. You don't speak to her again for three months. The bruises become familiar. The cuts. The broken fingers. The cracked ribs. You patch yourself up the same way Frank used to. Needle. Thread. Whiskey.
Silence.
Sometimes… While sewing your own shoulder closed… You laugh. A small, humorless sound.
"So this is what it felt like." You stop fearing death. Not because you want it. Because it stops feeling important. If someone finally gets lucky… Fine. Maybe you'll see him again.
If they don't… Tomorrow is another rooftop. Another gang. Another night your head stays blessedly quiet. Steve comes looking for you once.
He finds three unconscious traffickers zip-tied to a lamppost. A fourth is coughing blood. You're wiping your knife clean.
"You've changed."
"So has the world."
"This isn't you." You finally look at him. Eyes hollow.
"You don't know who I am anymore."
"I know who Frank would've wanted you to be." That one lands. Hard. You don't answer. You simply walk away. Tony sends Happy. Bruce sends Natasha. Natasha sends Clint. Nobody reaches you.
Not really. You're always somewhere else. Always chasing the next emergency. Because if you're fighting… You're not remembering. If your fists hurt… Your chest doesn't. If your lungs are burning… You're not hearing Peter say,
"I'm scared." You're not feeling Frank dissolve in your arms. Pain has become medicine.
Violence… Anesthesia.
By the time Tony finally calls to say,
"We're ready." Your apartment is almost empty. Frank's boots are still by the door. Everything else… Has been packed away. Not because you've moved on. Because looking at it all finally became impossible. You stand in the doorway for a long time before leaving. Your hand brushes the leather of one boot.
Still dusty. Still waiting. Just like you. You whisper into the silence—
"I hope you're wrong, Tony." Not because you want him to fail. Because you've spent five years teaching yourself how to survive a world without Frank. And somewhere deep down… The idea that he might actually come home feels more terrifying than believing he never could.
-----
The night is quiet. Too quiet.
Hell's Kitchen always sounds different after midnight. Distant sirens. Traffic. Arguments drifting up from the sidewalks. Tonight… Nothing. You stand on the edge of an abandoned warehouse roof, the city spread beneath you in a sea of yellow lights.
Five years. Five years of fighting. Five years of bleeding. Five years of waking up disappointed that you hadn't died in your sleep.
Your suit is torn.
Your knuckles are split open. There's dried blood under every fingernail. Some of it's yours. Most of it isn't. You look down. It's a long way to the pavement. High enough. Probably.
Maybe not.
You don't particularly care. Your fingers loosen around the edge of the rooftop.
"…Frank." The name disappears into the wind. "I'm tired." No answer. Of course not. You laugh. Small. Empty. "You won." Not Thanos. Grief. It won. You close your eyes. One step. That's all it takes. Just—
"Don't." The voice hits you like a gunshot. You spin. Impossible. A man stands in the doorway leading to the roof. Long hair. Metal arm. Blue eyes.
"…Bucky?" He stares at you. Not with confusion. Recognition. Pain. Relief.
"You remember me." You blink.
"…No." He takes one careful step forward. "You…" Your voice catches. "No." His expression crumples.
"I know."
"No." You shake your head harder. "I watched you."
"I know."
"You disappeared."
"I know."
"I watched you turn into dust."
"I know."
"So you're not…" You take another stumbling step backward. "You're not real." His jaw tightens.
"I am."
"No."
"You are."
"No!" Your heel reaches the edge of the building. You don't notice. Bucky does. His entire body goes rigid.
"Don't move."
"I already buried you." His eyes fill.
"You didn't bury anybody."
"I watched you die."
"I know."
"You can't be here." Another careful step.
"I am."
"No!" Another.
"You gotta breathe."
"I'm dreaming."
"No."
"I'm dead."
"No."
"I'm finally dead."
"No." He moves. Fast. Faster than your exhausted body can react. The metal arm hooks around your waist just as your foot slips backward into empty air. You gasp. Suddenly you're no longer falling. You're pinned against a solid chest. Held. Hard. The way someone holds another person when they're terrified of letting go.
"Let me go!" you scream, struggling weakly against him.
"No."
"Let me go!"
"No."
"I have to—I have to be with him- I have to join him-"
"No!" The shout echoes across the rooftops. For a second… Everything stops. His breathing is uneven against your temple. His arms are shaking. Not from effort. From fear. "You don't get to do this."
"I have nothing left! Let me go ! I want to be with my husband!"
"You've got me."
"You were dead!"
"I was."
"You disappeared!"
"I did."
"You—"
"I came back." Silence. You stop fighting. Very slowly… You look up at him. Really look. There's new stubble. A fresh scar near his eyebrow. His heartbeat. You can hear it. Strong. Steady. Real.
"…How?" His throat works.
"Tony." You frown.
"What?"
"He figured it out." Your brows knit together.
"…No."
"He did."
"No."
"We went back."
"No."
"We got the Stones."
"No."
"He snapped." Your stomach drops.
"…Tony?" Bucky closes his eyes.
"He saved everybody." Silence. "But…" His voice breaks. "It killed him." The words don't register. You simply stare.
"He…" You swallow. "…Tony's…" Bucky nods once.
"He saved us.We don't... remember anything. It feels like five minutes ago Thanos did his snap but... it's been five years." The rooftop tilts beneath your feet. You grip the front of his jacket.
"…Peter?"
"Alive." Your breathing catches.
"…Sam?"
"Alive."
"…Wanda?"
"Alive."
"…T'Challa?"
"Alive." Each answer lands like another impossible heartbeat.
"…Frank?" Bucky doesn't answer immediately. Instead… He reaches up with his flesh hand. Very gently… He brushes a tear off your cheek.
"Yeah." One word. That's all it takes. The dam breaks. You fold. Not gracefully. Not dramatically. Your knees simply give out beneath you. A sound tears out of your chest that you've been holding in for five years. You sob. Violently. Your whole body convulses.
"I couldn't—" The words dissolve. "I tried—" Another sob. "I couldn't save them." Bucky lowers himself to the rooftop with you still in his arms. He doesn't try to stop the crying. He just holds on. The way Steve held him after HYDRA. The way someone holds another human being who's forgotten how.
"I know."
"I wasn't there."
"I know."
"I didn't believe Tony."
"I know."
"I wanted…" You choke on the confession. "…I wanted to die." Bucky's grip tightens.
"I know."
"I almost—"
"I know."
"I couldn't do it anymore."
"I know." His own voice starts shaking.
"None of us blamed you."
"I blamed me."
"I know." You cry until there are no tears left. Until you're just shaking. Breathing in broken little gasps against his shoulder. Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Eventually… Bucky speaks again. Very quietly.
"He's been looking for you." You don't respond. "The first thing he asked was where his wife was." Your breath catches. "He thought…" Bucky smiles sadly. "He thought maybe Thanos had gotten to you. He has no idea how long it's been."
It hurts.
God… It hurts.
You stare out across the city. The sunrise is beginning to stain the horizon gold.
"I don't…" Your voice is tiny. "I don't know how to see him." Bucky looks at you.
"What?"
"I spent five years learning how to survive without him. He thinks it's only been a few seconds." Another tear slips free. "What if…" You can't finish. "What if he looks at me and doesn't recognize me anymore?" Bucky's expression breaks.
"He'll recognize you."
"I've changed."
"So has he."
"I became…" You look down at your blood-covered hands."…something awful." Bucky reaches over. Without hesitation… He takes one of those stained hands in both of his.
"I know exactly what it's like…" He squeezes gently. "…to think the person you love will only see the monster." Your eyes lift to his.
"And?" A small smile.
"The people who love us…" His gaze drifts toward the rising sun. "…they usually see the parts we forgot were still there." He stands first. Then offers you his hand. Not pulling. Just waiting.
"You wanna go see your husband?" Your lips part. For the first time in five years… Hope doesn't feel like a knife. It feels terrifying. Fragile. Beautiful. With trembling fingers… You place your hand in his.
"…Yeah." Your voice cracks around the word. "So bad." Bucky helps you to your feet. The way to the compound feels surreal. Almost like a sick version of deja vu.
Five years since you stepped foot in this building.
Five years since everything fell apart.
You half expect Tony to greet you, arms wide open. But he doesn't.
The halls are brighter than you remember.
Cleaner.
Someone rebuilt this place while you were busy trying to survive. You don't recognize half the faces that pass you. Some of them smile. Some of them stop dead when they see you. They've heard stories.
The Ghost. The woman who refused to stop fighting after half the world disappeared. None of them say a word. Bucky stays beside you. Never touching. Just close enough that if your knees give out again…
He'll catch you.
"You alright?" he asks quietly. You almost laugh.
"No." He nods.
"I figured." The elevator doors slide open. The medical wing.
Clint is already waiting.
He looks older. More gray at his temples. More tired around the eyes. But he smiles the second he sees Bucky. Then he sees you. The smile disappears.
"…Oh." His eyes travel over the old scars. The fresh ones. The bruises blooming across your knuckles. The exhaustion carved permanently into your face. He doesn't ask. He doesn't have to.
"You found her." Bucky nods. "Almost too late."
Clint closes his eyes for one long second. Then—
"He's in here. Peter and the others already went home." Your heart stops. Clint reaches for the door handle.
"You don't have to—"
"I'm ready." You're lying. He knows it. Still… He opens the door. Frank is sitting on an examination table. Bruce has electrodes stuck to his chest. A blood pressure cuff squeezes one arm. Someone has clipped a pulse oximeter to his finger. He's arguing.
"I told ya, I'm fine."
"You were dead for five years."
"I was dead for five seconds."
"You don't actually know that."
"I feel fine." Bruce sighs.
"Frank—" Then… Frank looks toward the door. His entire world stops.
"…Baby?" You freeze. He's… Exactly the same..
Same hair.
Same eyes.
The same tiny scar above his eyebrow from years ago. He looks like he walked out of your apartment yesterday. He looks… Home.
Frank doesn't even think. He rips the pulse oximeter off his finger. The heart monitor leads come away with it. Bruce opens his mouth.
"Fra—" Too late. Frank is already moving. He crosses the room in three long strides. Then he's there. His hands cup your face.
Warm. Solid. Real.
"Oh, thank God." He laughs. Actually laughs.
"I thought—" His voice breaks. "I thought maybe he got you." His forehead presses against yours. "I've been askin' everybody where my wife is." He smiles through wet eyes. "There you are." He pulls you into him. Hard. Like he always does. Like he's terrified you'll disappear too. His arms wrap around your back. He buries his face against your neck. "I gotcha."
Silence.
He waits for you to hug him back. You don't. Not because you don't want to. Because… You can't. Your arms hang uselessly at your sides. Your body refuses to believe he's real. Frank notices almost immediately. He leans back just enough to see your face. The smile slips.
"…Baby?" You stare at him. Studying every line. Every freckle. The way his beard hasn't grown in. The warmth coming off his skin. Your fingers rise slowly. Almost fearfully. You touch his cheek. Your hand trembles violently.
"…You're warm." He gives a confused little laugh.
"Yeah…"
"You…" Your thumb traces the scar over his eyebrow. "…You're really here."
"I'm here." Your breathing begins to shake.
"No…" His smile falters.
"What?"
"You can't…" You shake your head. "This isn't…" Your chest caves inward. "I buried you." Frank's brow furrows.
"What?"
"I buried you." His confusion deepens.
"What're you talkin' about?"
"You were gone." His eyes flick toward Bucky. Then Bruce. Neither of them says anything. Understanding begins to dawn. Slowly. Painfully. He looks back at you.
"…How long?" You can't answer. Bucky does.
"Five years." Frank goes completely still.
"…What?"
"To them…" Bucky says quietly. "It was five years." Frank looks back at you. Really looks. Notices the scars. The weight you've lost. The dark circles beneath your eyes. The way your hands won't stop shaking.
"…Baby." His voice is barely there. "What happened?" That question— That stupid, innocent question— Breaks the last thing holding you together. You throw yourself against him. This time your arms wrap around him so tightly he actually stumbles backward a step. A sob tears out of you.
Violent. Animal.
"I tried." Your fists bunch in the back of his shirt. "I tried so hard." Frank's arms lock around you immediately.
"Hey." He stares at you. Not speaking. Just … Looking. Looking at the woman who used to steal fries off his plate. Who laughed too loudly. Who danced barefoot in the kitchen while making coffee. Who kissed him every morning before work.
She's still here.
But she's buried under five years of grief.
Five years… That, to him… Never happened.
"Hey, mama, c'mere." he whispers, pulling you in, lips pressed to your temple as you sob. You hear the door close softly behind you, telling you Bruce and Bucky have left the room- and your whole body just gives up.
You go crashing to the floor, sobbing hard as Frank follows, tucking you against his chest.
"I'm sorry." You cry. "I'm so sorry." Frank shushes you, rocking you back and forth.
"Shh..Shh.. what are you sorry for , pretty girl ?"
"I-I was gonna-" You hiccup."I was gonna try to join you."
Frank stills. Not physically. Physically, he keeps rocking you, one broad hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. But inside…
Everything stops.
"…What?" Your face disappears deeper into his chest.
"I couldn't…" You can't catch your breath. Every word is ripped apart by sobs. "I couldn't do it anymore." His arms tighten instinctively.
"Hey…"
"I tried so hard. I fought." Your fingers clutch at the front of his shirt like you're afraid he'll disappear again. "God, Frankie, I fought so hard." His chin rests on top of your head.
"I have no doubt you did."
"No…" You shake your head violently. "You don't." Because he can't. How could he? To him, he'd kissed you goodbye. Then Thanos snapped. Now you're here. Three heartbeats later. He never lived the years in between.
"I waited," you whisper. His brow furrows.
"What?"
"I waited for months." Your voice has gone distant now. Like you're watching someone else's memories. "I kept your coffee mug by the sink." Frank's throat tightens. "I washed your clothes because…" A broken laugh escapes you. "…because they smelled like you." His eyes close. "I couldn't let the smell go." Your shoulders shake harder. "I slept on your side of the bed."
"You…"
"I thought…" Another hiccupping breath. "Maybe if I slept where you slept…" You squeeze your eyes shut. "…I'd dream about you." Frank's vision blurs.
"…Baby."
"I talked to you." Every word lands like another knife. "Every morning." His hand cups the back of your head. "I'd make coffee." Another sob. "And I'd tell you about my day." He can't speak. "I'd leave your boots by the door." Your voice cracks completely. "…In case you came home." Frank lets out the smallest, most broken sound. "I never stopped waiting." Silence. Then— "It got harder." You stare somewhere past him. Past the room. Past today. " God, Frank, it got so hard. I stopped hearing your voice." His heart splinters. "I couldn't remember your laugh exactly."
"Baby…"
"So I started listening to old recordings." Your breathing catches. "Over." A swallow. "And over." Another. "And over. I was scared…" Your lips tremble. "…that I'd forget you." Frank buries his face in your hair.
"You never would've."
"I almost did."
"No."
"I remembered pieces." You smile through tears. "The way you'd steal my fries." A watery laugh. "The way you snored."
"I do not snore."
"You absolutely snore."
"I breathe aggressively." Despite everything… You laugh. It's tiny. Broken. But it's there. Frank almost cries harder hearing it. Then your smile disappears.
"And then…" Your voice empties. "People stopped saying your name." His chest aches. "They stopped asking how I was. They thought…They thought I was better." He shakes his head. "They were wrong."
"Sweetheart-"
"I smiled." You shrug helplessly. "I went grocery shopping. I paid bills. I washed dishes. I even laughed sometimes." Your eyes meet his. "But every single day…" A tear slips free. "…I wanted to come home to you." Frank's face crumples. Your hand reaches up, cupping his cheek. "So I started fighting." He notices your knuckles again. The scars. The old fractures that healed crooked.
"You see these?" He nods slowly. "I stopped caring if I got hurt." His stomach twists. "I hoped somebody would eventually be faster."
"No…"
"I hoped I'd lose."
"No."
"I wanted somebody to kill me." His entire body jerks.
"No."
"So I wouldn't have to do it myself." The room goes deathly quiet. Frank just… Looks at you. At the woman he loves more than breathing. Who'd spent five years slowly disappearing. Because he'd disappeared first. His eyes overflow.
"Oh, my love…" His voice is shattered.
"Tonight.. I found the tallest building. I was going to-"
"I'm so sorry." You blink.
"What?"
"I'm sorry."
"You didn't—"
"I left you."
"You couldn't help it."
"I know." His thumb wipes away another tear. "But I still left you."
"You didn't choose—"
"I know." His forehead presses against yours. "I know." He takes a shaky breath.
"But while I was gone…" His voice breaks completely. "…you carried all of me by yourself."
You start crying again.
"I was so tired. I didn't want to be brave anymore."
"I know."
"I didn't want to wake up anymore. I missed you."
"I know." The words come out almost like prayers now. Small. Fragile. You curl closer, until you're practically folded into him.
"I kept thinking…" You sniff hard. "…if I could just hold you one more time…" Frank wraps both arms around you so tightly that you can barely breathe.
"I'm here."
"I know."
"I'm not going anywhere." Another nod.
"I know."
"I mean it." His hand slides into your hair. "You hear me?" You close your eyes.
"I hear you."
"I ain't leavin' again." His voice shakes. "I don't care if I gotta haunt God himself." A tiny, watery laugh escapes you. "I'll find my way back." Another laugh. Smaller. Realer.
"I believe you." He kisses your forehead. Then your temple. Then the corner of your eye where tears keep collecting.
"So listen to me now." He waits until you look at him. Really look. "If you ever get that tired again…" His thumb strokes your cheek. "If you ever think about doing that again…" His own tears spill freely now. "You tell me." You swallow.
"I couldn't."
"You do."
"I don't wanna burden you." His expression twists.
"You are never a burden."
"I—"
"Never." He says it with such certainty that it steals the next apology from your mouth. "I carried guns." He brushes your hair behind your ear. "You carried grief. I think yours was heavier." You shake your head.
"No." He smiles sadly.
"We're done carrying things alone." Your lips tremble.
"…Promise?" He doesn't hesitate.
"Promise." He hooks his little finger around yours, the way he'd done years ago over stupid things like remembering milk from the grocery store. It almost makes you laugh.
"You still do that?"
"Always worked before." You curl your pinky around his. The gesture feels impossibly small. Impossibly normal. After five years of surviving. It feels like the first piece of home you've touched. Frank presses one last kiss to your knuckles. Then gathers you back into his arms. This time, neither of you says anything. You simply sit together on the medical room floor, holding each other while the impossible truth slowly settles between you.
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