Lil Suzi Vert

On one hand, you take comfort in knowing that you’re more likely to wake up quickly at the sound of potential threats. On the other hand, it can be exhausting to wake up at every little thing that goes bump in the night.

Hell's Kitchen isn’t exactly a quiet place. The average night is filled with sounds of police sirens and noisy neighbors. Shouting, stomping, fucking, fighting – you name it. Over the course of the year that you have lived here, you have grown accustomed to it – and with the help of melatonin and a white noise machine, you're able to drown most of it out. Usually.

Usually does not typically include the sound of gun shots in the alleyway below your apartment in the middle of a random Thursday night, however.

The initial shot causes you to jolt upright in your bed. Before you can process what you heard, another shot fires from somewhere outside your window, this time unmistakable.

Instinctively, you roll off of your mattress and onto the floor, using the bed as a barricade in case any bullets come flying through your window. Your heart feels as if it’s going to beat right out of your chest, and you try your hardest to regain control of your breathing while not moving a muscle.

Thirty seconds pass, then a minute, and then two while you wait for the sound of another gunshot that never comes. You’re unsure of how long you lie on your floor before finally sitting up and reaching into the drawer of the bedside table directly above your head. You pull out the Glock 42 that you purchased prior to moving to this part of town, though you haven’t truly worried about needing to use it until right now.

As quietly as you can, you crawl with the gun in hand to the opposite side of your bed, closer to the window. Your curtains are closed, and you intend on keeping them that way, but there’s a big enough gap between the fabric and the window for you to peek outside.

At first, you see nothing out of the ordinary. There’s enough light from a streetlamp at the mouth of the alleyway that you’re able to make out the trash bins and a dumpster that belongs to the bakery next door to your apartment building. You watch with bated breath, waiting for any kind of movement.

Just when you’re convinced that the shooter (or shooters) have fled the scene, a flash of movement catches your eye from the far end of the dumpster. You can tell that it’s a man – he had been hiding behind it, just out of your field of view. His head peeks around the corner, as if checking to make sure the coast is clear.

He steps out from behind the dumpster, taking several wobbly steps before leaning against the metal siding for support. Thanks to the streetlamp and tonight's full moon, you’re able to see that the side of his head is caked in what is presumably blood – whether it’s his or someone else’s, you have no idea. You watch as the man pulls back his coat, revealing a white t-shirt soaked in dark red near his shoulder.

You can’t stop the small gasp that escapes from your lips. You immediately cover your mouth with your hand, backing away from the window to search for your cell phone. He has clearly been shot, you need to call for help—

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” you whisper as renewed panic begins to surge through you.

Your fucking phone is dead. You press the power button repeatedly, hoping for it to miraculously turn on. You worked a sixteen hour shift at the hospital yesterday and crashed as soon as you got home. Didn’t eat anything for dinner, didn’t shower, didn’t even change out of your scrubs…and didn’t plug your phone in to charge.

You peer out of the window again. The man is still slumped against the dumpster, seemingly clutching at his wounded shoulder in an attempt to slow the bleeding.

You rack your brain, knowing that you need to do something. You’re a trauma nurse for Christ’s sake. You see this kind of thing and worse every day. You can’t just leave him to bleed out in the street while you watch from the comfort of your apartment.

You fear that if you turn your bedroom light on, he’ll see the light from the cracks in your curtains and attempt to run away. So you fumble around in the dark until you find a pair of slippers and a coat, cramming your pistol into an interior pocket.

You want to help – but you have no way of knowing why he was being shot at. The assailant could have a reasonable excuse as to why they put a bullet in this man’s shoulder. He’s injured, yes, but what if he deserves to be?

Your brain and your heart go back and forth with each other the entire trek down the apartment building’s stairwell. Ultimately, your heart wins, and you ease open an emergency exit door that leads directly into the alley where the man still sits with his back against the dumpster.

The second that he notices you step out of the building, he forces himself to his feet. He turns away from you, but not before you note just how much blood is all over him. He tugs the hood of his jacket over his head and begins to walk in the opposite direction, still obviously unsteady on his feet.

“Hey!” You call after him against your better judgment. “Judging by the way you’re walking and the amount of blood on you, I’d bet that you’ve lost a fair amount.”

You notice that he has a bit of a limp that causes him to walk slowly, but he doesn’t stop or so much as look back at you.

“’M fine, lady,” he grunts over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about me, just go back inside.”

You know that you should listen to him. Every rational and logical part of your brain is screaming at you to do as he says – turn around, go back to your apartment, and lock the fucking door.

But the pain etched in his voice roots you right where you stand. If he had any desire to harm you, why wouldn’t he do so right now? There’s no one else around. But he isn’t jumping at the opportunity to attack you – he’s actively trying to distance himself from you.

“I can help you,” You implore, your voice a bit louder this time. “I’m a trauma nurse. Let me help you.”

He stops, bracing a hand against the brick wall beside him for support. He glances back at you over his shoulder – just enough to give you a view of his side profile. Even from here, you can tell that his nose looks broken.

“See,” you continue, opening your coat enough to let him see the mauve colored scrubs that you had fallen asleep in. “No cops,” you add, reading the hesitation on his face. “I just wanna patch you up so I can go back to sleep with a clear conscience.”

Still, he says nothing. He turns, eyeing you up and down like he’s weighing the pros and cons of putting his trust in a stranger.

Truthfully, you should be doing the same right about now.

You shiver, closing your coat once more at a sudden gust of wind. “Or bleed out,” you shrug. You take a step backwards, towards the emergency exit you had come out of. “At least I know that I tried.”

You turn around, grabbing the door handle but freezing before pulling it open when you hear him finally speak.

“Wait,” he starts, his voice gruff and strained. You look back at him expectantly. “No cops?” he reiterates.

“No cops,” you promise. “Just a nurse trying to do what she went to school for.” You pause. “And maybe get some good karma out of it.”

You hold the door open for him, motioning with your head as if to say after you. He hesitates for a second longer, and then begins to limp towards you. The thought crosses your mind to help him up the stairs to your apartment on the second story, but you quickly remind yourself that you do not know this man. You’re already being risky by simply offering him help – you should at least attempt to keep some amount of space in between the two of you.

He hobbles up the stairwell, one hand clutching the railing and the other holding pressure to his shoulder wound with his t-shirt that is already soaked through with blood. You can tell he’s in a decent amount of pain, despite how he tries to conceal it.

You open your door for him before you can talk yourself out of it, mentally saying a prayer to whatever higher power may be listening that you don’t end up regretting this.

“You can take a seat on the couch,” you say as you close the door behind you. “And remove your coat and shirt, if you can. I’ll gather my supplies.”

You instinctively begin to shrug out of your own coat, but then remember the pistol that rests in the pocket and decide it’s safer to resume wearing it. He is a complete stranger, and a bloody, bruised one at that.

With his back still turned to you, he slowly slips off his coat and then carefully pulls the blood-soaked t-shirt over his head. He hisses in pain, which isn’t shocking considering the intense bruising that decorates the thick muscles of his back.

Your gaze lingers for a moment longer than it should before you start gathering the necessary supplies from around your small apartment. Towels, sterile saline, medical shears, gauze, bandages…

When you reenter the room a moment later with everything you managed to scrounge together on such short notice, he’s already sitting on the couch, fiddling absentmindedly with the wilted petals of the dead flowers in a vase on the table in front of him.

Your eyes are instantly drawn to the entry wound just under his clavicle, near his left shoulder, and you breathe a small sigh of relief. Though it still leaks dark red, it isn’t gushing as you had feared it would be.

“I’m going to do a basic assessment first,” you tell him as you take a seat on the edge of the coffee table in front of the couch, your voice doing little to conceal how nervous the newfound close proximity makes you. You reach for his left hand, which you take in your own. “Any numbness or tingling?”

He shakes his head after a split-second. “No.”

“Can you wiggle your fingers for me?”

He does so without hesitation, the calloused, blood-streaked fingers flexing against your palm.

“Good,” you murmur, bringing two of your fingers to check his radial pulse.

He makes a low sound, something halfway between a laugh and a grunt. “Am I dead?” He hums, voice gravelly but light with amusement.

You roll your eyes. “Not yet.” You pause, feeling the steady beat of his pulse beneath his skin. “I’m just making sure you’ve got good blood flow to this arm and hand.”

“And?”

“And you got lucky,” you tell him, dropping his hand to reach for a towel and the bottle of sterile saline. “Another inch to the left and the bullet would’ve nicked your subclavian artery. You would have already bled out behind that dumpster.”

“Lucky,” he scoffs, the word dripping with sarcasm. “If I’m lucky, it’s only because I chose the right alley to get shot in tonight.”

You snort a laugh without meeting his gaze as you begin to wipe away the excess blood from his skin, the words and the rough timbre of his voice sending goosebumps across your skin.

“Try not to make it a habit,” you mutter, forcing yourself to focus on the wound instead of the pair of dark brown eyes that appear almost black in the dim lighting of your living room.

The man is silent while you work to clean up all of the blood that is dried to the skin of his neck and chest.

“What about you?” He asks when you pull the now red-tinged towel away for a final time. “Do you make a habit of bringing strange, wounded men into your home?”

“Can’t say that I do. You’d be the first.” Then, because the way he’s looking at you makes you feel like you’re the one who lost a liter of blood, you speak again before he has a chance to respond in that voice that makes it hard for you to focus on what you’re supposed to be doing here.

“There‘s no exit wound, so that means the bullet is probably still inside. I’m going to leave it there, because attempting to extract it here could do a lot more harm than good.”

He gives a nonchalant half shrug. “Wouldn’t be the only bullet to live inside me.”

“Oh?” You quip, somehow only mildly surprised by the admission. “You collecting them?”

The corners of his mouth tug upwards into something resembling a smirk. “Something like that.”

As curious as that makes you, you don’t pry. You don’t think you could possibly like the answer. You do the rest of your work in the kind of silence that doesn’t actually feel quiet because it only gives your thoughts time to get louder and louder.

You blot a few fresh droplets of blood. What the hell is this guy involved in?

You place a sterile dressing over the wound. If this isn’t his first time getting shot, how many times has he been shot?

You secure the dressing to his chest with medical tape. What is his name?

As soon as you pull your hands away, he starts to stand in front of you. “Oh,” you squeak, “No, I wouldn’t stand up quite yet. You should give it a few minutes to make sure your bandage doesn’t soak through—”

The man, now towering over you, shakes his head. “This should hold me together. I’ve had worse.”

Jesus Christ.

“At least let me give you something for the pain,” you try to reason with him, standing up. When you do, your chest is only a few inches from his, still bare in front of you. You instantly start to put some space between you. “Seriously, that’s going to fucking hurt—”

He chuckles low, cutting you off. “Extra strength ibuprofen doesn’t really do much for me these days, but I appreciate it.”

You’re at a loss for words for a moment, and you aren’t even sure why. It’s not like you should be thinking of an excuse to make the man hang around your apartment for any longer than necessary. You’ve done what you set out to do - bring him inside, make sure he isn’t going to bleed out, and patch him up. Mission accomplished. Now all that’s really left is to send him on his way and lock the door behind him.

“Right,” you huff a humorless laugh. “Well, I would tell you to stay out of trouble, but something tells me it wouldn’t do much good.”

He grabs his jacket and blood-soaked t-shirt off of the couch, choosing to forgo the latter and instead slip only the zip up hoodie back on.

“No, probably not,” he deadpans, the huskiness of his voice making your apartment feel hotter than it actually is. “Thank you, though. I appreciate this. You didn’t have to help me.” He pauses, looking you directly in the eye, his expression grave and unreadable. “And if you were smart, you wouldn’t have. So let’s keep this the one and only time you do this, yeah?”

The way he’s looking at you gives you very little confidence to fight him on that. Every smart retort that pops into your head dies on your tongue under his stare.

You only nod, and after another wordless, tense moment, he begins to show himself out.

“You at least gonna tell me your name?” You call after him, willing your voice not to crack.

He doesn’t so much as look over his shoulder when he answers with another humorless laugh.

“I promise, it’s better for us both if I don’t, angel.”

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

Three days pass, and with each one, you’re a little more convinced that the man with the haunted, espresso-colored eyes who sat bleeding in your living room was nothing more than a figment of your imagination.

Then you see the blood-stained hand towel you had used to wipe his skin clean, and you’re reminded that it was not a fever dream. He really had been here, and you had helped him, and you have no reason to believe you’ll ever see him again now.

That is, until a knock from outside your bedroom window wakes you up at seven o’clock in the morning on your day off.

At first, you think you dreamed it. But then you quickly remember what happened last time you heard something from outside this very window, and before you’re fully awake, you’re swinging your legs over the side of your bed and walking the short distance to the window. You peak out of the curtain, and upon first glance, you see nothing.

What would there be to see, anyway? You’re on the second story. Someone would have had to climb your fire escape to—

You glance down and freeze, your entire body going rigid at what lay on the platform of your fire escape.

Flowers.

It’s nothing extravagant. A small bunch of wildflowers tied together mid-stems with a string. But still, flowers. On your fire escape at seven o'clock in the morning.

A folded piece of paper rests beneath the stems, enticing you to open the window and see what it says. To see who the hell they could possibly be from, though a specific, bruised face already pops into your mind in answer.

You look around again, peering both ways down the alley outside your window. There’s nothing but a few trash cans and the same dumpster that your mysterious, after hours patient had hid behind.

If not him…then who the hell else? You can’t even recall the last time someone gave you flowers. The dead, wilted ones currently on your coffee table are from a street vendor that sells them down the block from the hospital you work at. You bought them for yourself.

Once you have convinced yourself that no one is lurking in the alleyway, watching for you to open your window, you do so, quickly grabbing the small bouquet of multi-colored wildflowers and the piece of paper before shutting (and locking) your window once more.

The handwriting on the folded note is a masculine scrawl.

The flowers in your living room need to be thrown away

Thanks again, angel

- F

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

You installed a security camera outside of your bedroom window the following day.

Its position allows you to see your fire escape, as well as the mouth of the alleyway outside of your bedroom.

You didn’t do it because you’re creeped out, or because you feel unsafe. You did it because if he were to come again, you don’t want to miss him. You don’t want to be left wondering if it’s really him.

The man with a scar just under his clavicle, the man who left flowers on your fire escape and then ran before you had a chance to get out of bed, the man who called you angel, the man whose name starts with F.

You’ve been referring to him as Frederick in your head for two months now. You spent an embarrassing amount of time scouring baby naming websites for male names that start with F, and Frederick stood out the most. It means peaceful ruler, and the irony of that makes you laugh considering the circumstances under which you met, but unless he ever returns and tells you his actual name, you will continue to let yourself believe it’s Frederick.

Fred, for short.

After two months, you begin to doubt that will ever happen. You helped him, and he returned with flowers to thank you, and that is the end of that. You eventually stop glancing out your window at every little bump in the night, you stop checking the Ring camera footage hoping that one of the notifications is him, and you resume life as normal.

So when a tapping sound randomly wakes you in the middle of the night after more than two months without a trace of him, you first assume it’s only the thunderstorm raging outside. You think so little of it that your initial response is to simply turn over, pull your comforter tighter, and close your eyes.

Then you hear it again.

Just a bit louder this time, but now undeniable. Knuckles against glass. Still, you hesitate, the fear of realizing that someone is outside of your window, on your fire escape in the dead of night momentarily paralyzing you. Then, still half asleep, you remember what happened last time there was a knock on your bedroom window, and you quickly grab your phone off of your nightstand, jerking it from the power cord.

Your most recent notification is informing you of movement on your security camera. The description reads a person is standing on the fire escape knocking on a window.

You pull up the live footage as your heart threatens to beat right out of your chest. Your hands go clammy, anticipation surging through—

His hair is longer and his beard has grown in full since you last saw him, but there’s no doubt in your mind that it’s him.

Your trembling thumb hovers over the microphone button for a moment before you’re able to work up the courage to press it.

“No flowers this time?” You speak into your phone, loud enough for him to hear you over the rain that pours down around him. Right away, he glances at the camera located in the upper corner of the window, his expression somewhere between a smirk and a pained grimace.

“Sorry,” he huffs. “Didn’t exactly have time to pick any in between getting my ass kicked and climbing your fire escape at three in the morning.” He pauses. “So what’s it gonna be, angel? You gonna let me in or do I need to walk to the closest emergency room?”

You don’t answer him over the camera. Instead, you put your phone down, flick your nightstand lamp on, and then take a few steps to your bedroom window. Your curtains are closed, and you take a deep breath before pulling them open.

You’re actually doing this again. Letting this stranger, this injured man, into your home again in the middle of the night.

Only this time, he’s sopping wet.

He doesn’t say anything when you first open the window. He just ducks beneath the frame with a sharp hiss, one forearm braced against the sill as he carefully maneuvers one leg through the opening. For a moment, he pauses halfway inside, his shoulders tense beneath the rain soaked fabric of his hoodie. His eyes squeeze shut as he shifts his weight, and a low, involuntary grunt escapes him.

You automatically reach out, your hand hovering near his elbow.

“I’ve got it,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

You don’t argue, but you still stay close while he swings his other leg through the threshold of the window and then straightens his posture as much as he can manage. One arm instinctively folds across the right side of his ribcage, guarding it, while rain droplets drip from the ends of his hair onto your bedroom floor.

“Sorry about the mess,” he grunts, glancing down at his boots that squeak against the hardwood.

You offer a small shrug. “I need to mop anyway.”

Now that he’s inside, you take a closer look at him. There’s a bruise forming along his cheekbone, and another reddish, puffy knot at his temple. His bottom lip is slightly cracked, caked with dried blood. There’s bags beneath his brown eyes, as if he has hardly slept since you last saw him.

“You look like hell, Fred.”

Thick brows scrunch together. “Fred?”

You nod. “That’s what I’m going to call you until you tell me your actual name. Which I’m assuming is not Fred, then?”

Air blows through his nose in a near silent laugh, his chest shaking with the movement before another pained grimace flashes across his face. “Not Fred.”

Your eyes rake downwards where he still clutches his side. “Let me guess,” you sigh, “ribs?”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Think so.”

You jerk your head in the direction of your bedroom door. “Go to the living room. I’m gonna see if I can scrounge up some dry clothes that might fit you.”

He hesitates, another ghost of a laugh escaping him as his eyes trail downwards. “Maybe grab some pants for yourself while you’re at it, yeah?”

By the time your brain processes his words, he’s already walking towards your bedroom door, leaving you wide-eyed and warm-faced. You glance down in confirmation of what you’re already painfully aware of: you aren’t wearing any pants.

A t-shirt just long enough to conceal the curve of your ass, but no pants.

You recover from the embarrassment quick enough, springing into action to find a pair of pants for yourself as well as a change of clothes for the drenched man in the other room. Luckily, you still have a bag of random clothes your ex had left at your place forever ago that you had forgotten to throw out. He’s a bit stockier, more muscular, than your ex, but they are similar in height. These might be a little bit tight, but they will at least be more comfortable than wet, cold clothes.

When you enter the living room with a plain white t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants only a minute later, he has already removed his jacket and undershirt.

His eyes flicker downwards and back up again, lips twitching with the threat of a smirk at the realization that you had taken his advice and put on a pair of pajama pants before his gaze lands on the men’s clothing in your hands.

“Ex boyfriend’s,” you explain, probably quicker than necessary as you place them on your coffee table. “They got pushed to the back of my closet. Should fit you well enough.”

His gaze softens a tad at that. “Thanks.”

You nod, then glance down, your attention instantly drawn to the right side of his ribcage. The skin there is already darkening, a bruise beginning to bloom beneath a patch of angry redness and subtle swelling. You take a small step towards him, a tentative hand coming to his side. Your fingertips brush the skin there ever so lightly, and he lets you, the muscles there tensing.

“Take a deep breath for me,” you murmur.

He inhales, his torso stiffening and muscles in his jaw clenching before he releases a shaky exhale.

“Again.”

Though it clearly brings him discomfort, he’s able to take a reasonably deep breath, which puts your mind somewhat at ease.

“You know, telling me exactly what happened would help me assess the injury more accurately,” you hum, dropping your hand from the warm skin of his side and crossing your arms over your chest.

He snorts. “Got kicked. Boot to the ribcage.”

Considering he had a bullet in him last time he was in your living room, the answer is only mildly alarming.

“People seem to enjoy beating the shit out of you.”

He raises a brow at you. “Is that my official diagnosis?”

You sigh, eyes flickering back down to the puffy, red skin of his otherwise toned abdomen. “It’s impossible to know for certain without an x-ray,” you shrug. “It’s probably just a bruised rib or two. Possibly fractured. Not much to be done either way.”

“Yeah,” he grunts, reaching down for the t-shirt on the coffee table in front of him with a grimace. “That’s what I figured.”

Now it’s your turn to cock a brow. “Why’d you come here, then?”

You can’t help the question as it slips out. He has clearly had more than his fair share of injuries - the evidence of them are littered across his body in old, fading bruises and scar tissue. A cracked rib is minor in comparison to the marred skin of his chest where you had patched him up just two months ago.

For once, he doesn’t meet your gaze. Instead, he gives a nonchalant shrug as he maneuvers the dry t-shirt over his head.

“Guess I thought it would be a safe place to lay low until this storm blows over.”

A crack of thunder booms in the distance as soon as the last word leaves his lips. Part of you wants to press for more, but you figure that is likely as honest of an answer as you will get from him, so you hold back all the other questions that threaten to spill from you.

What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into? Why here? You really had nowhere else to go?

Who the hell are you?

Instead, you say nothing. You simply pick up the pair of sweatpants still sitting on the table next to you, and hand them to him in offering until he accepts them.

“There’s a bathroom just down that hallway,” you tell him with a small nod in the direction of the guest bathroom. “You can throw all of your clothes in the dryer, if you’d like.”

For a moment, he only stares at you. His mouth parts slightly as if he’s going to speak, but then changes his mind and only nods.

“I’ll get you an ice pack. If you’re going to hang out here, you’re going to ice that rib, Fred,” you sigh as you start to walk in the direction of your kitchen. “And you’re going to take some ibuprofen—”

“It’s Frank.”

You stop in your tracks, quickly turning to look at him. “What?”

“My name,” he clarifies, voice gruff, “it’s Frank.”

Your surprise undoubtedly shows on your face at the revelation. You repeat the name, more to yourself than anything, with a slow nod.

“Nice to meet you, Frank.”

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

To your disappointment, but not your surprise, Frank had already left when you woke up later that morning.

Frank. At first, it felt odd to finally know his actual name after calling him Fred in your head for over two months. You got used to it quickly, though. By the fourth, fifth, sixth time that he shows up on your fire escape, you forget how it ever felt to not know Frank Castle’s name.

His appearances became somewhat predictable.

Every two to three weeks, you wake up to soft tapping on your window in the late hours of the night. Sometimes he has cuts, sometimes bruises. Sometimes both. You patch him up to the best of your abilities, you offer him food and water, you let him sleep on your couch until daylight comes, and then he slips out of your front door so silently that it doesn’t even wake you.

That is, until his most recent visit, when you woke up and found him still snoring softly in your living room. He had shown up on your fire escape, as he always does, with a split lip and black eye. The injuries hardly warranted a nurse’s consultation, but you welcomed him in, anyway.

You walked into your living room that morning fully expecting him to be gone. When you realized that he hadn’t moved, you couldn’t help but stare at him for a moment. Early morning sunlight was trickling in through your curtains, spilling across his face and catching on the bruises that colored his skin.

It was by far the most at peace you’ve seen him in all of the months that you’ve known him.

But Frank is a light sleeper. As quiet as you tried to be, he woke as soon as you started moving around your kitchen to make yourself a cup of coffee.

He seemed just as surprised as you were that he had slept so long. And then, when you offered him breakfast, he surprised you both again.

He stayed.

He stayed while you cracked eggs into a bowl and whisked them together with a splash of milk and extra shredded cheese - just like your grandmother always did when making omelettes, you told him. He leaned against your kitchen counter with a cup of coffee, quietly watching you move around your apartment as if he had done so a hundred times before. As if it was any other Tuesday morning.

Conversation flowed easier than it had ever had. You told him about some of your patients from the past week. About a little boy who had proudly showed you his dinosaur bandage after getting stitches, and about the elderly man who shamelessly flirts with every nurse in your unit despite having recently celebrated his fiftieth wedding anniversary.

More than anything else, you talked about yourself, because Frank asks more questions than he answers, but you did learn that he hates mushrooms with a passion, and takes his coffee black.

That was a month ago now, and you haven’t seen him since.

Not a word. No late night visits, no flowers or thank you notes left on your fire escape in the dead of night. You had given him your phone number scribbled on a post-it note the fourth or fifth time that he showed up to your place, but he hadn’t made any use of that, either.

The first couple of weeks, you didn’t think anything of it. It was normal to go a few weeks without seeing him. But now that it’s been a whole month, you’re worried.

Why hasn’t he come by? Is he okay? Did he skip town? Did he get into some kind of altercation that he wasn’t able to walk away from? Is he even alive?

You stay up late each night, unable to find sleep, your thoughts racing with all of these questions that you have no way of finding the answers to.

You’ve spiraled over the unknown more than you care to admit. From randomly checking your security camera footage in the middle of a shift to searching for his name in local obituaries, you’ve let his extended, unexplained absence consume you. When you’re awake, you’re wondering where he is, what he’s doing, and when you’ll see him again. When you’re asleep, his brown eyes and scarred skin appear in your dreams.

Friends and coworkers have started to notice how distracted you’ve allowed yourself to become, too. Hence the reason you’re at a crowded, noisy bar at 10:30 on a Wednesday night.

A couple of coworkers had all but drug you with them after your shift earlier today, insisting that you needed to get out, have a few drinks, and get the mystery man who you refuse to admit actually exists off of your mind.

For the first hour or two, it worked.

You mingled, gossiped, laughed. But now? Two martinis in, exhausted from a twelve hour shift, and listening to some twenty-one year old sing karaoke off key? You can’t stop your thoughts from wandering back to the very person that you had hoped to drown from them.

When you tell the coworker who had invited you that you’re going to head home because you’re exhausted, she tries to convince you to stay for one more drink. When that doesn’t work, she tries to convince you to let her walk you home, and although you appreciate the offer, your apartment is only a few blocks from here and you really just want to be alone with your thoughts and the crisp night air.

Very quickly, you regret not letting her walk you home, or ordering yourself an Uber, or flagging down a fucking taxi.

“Hey, sweetheart. You need a ride somewhere?”

Something in your gut tells you the sudden, masculine voice is talking to you without even looking. You stumble the slightest bit, but you keep walking, giving no acknowledgment that you had even heard him. Your hand instinctively goes to your purse that rests against your hip. Inside is your Glock that you’ve still never actually had to use.

Footsteps thud against the pavement behind you. Your fingers twitch against the leather fabric, preparing to reach down inside.

“Hey!” The voice calls out, louder this time, right behind you. A hand clamps down on your shoulder. “I’m talking to you. Don’t be rude now—”

Three things happen at once.

You shove your hand down into your bag to grip the gun nestled inside, you come face to face with the tall but scrawny man still grabbing your shoulder, and a faceless, hooded figure emerges from the shadows of the nearest alleyway.

“Doesn’t seem like she’s very interested to me,” a deep, gruff voice booms from beneath the hood. It startles the man enough to release his hold on your shoulder and take an immediate step back. It startles you, too, but for different reasons.

You instantly recognize that voice. You’ve thought of it every night since you last heard it a month ago. You’ve thought of it every night since you first found its owner bleeding outside of your apartment.

And if the voice isn’t confirmation enough, the thick, dark beard peeking out from beneath the hood is plenty.

“Oh, I was—” The scrawny man stutters, taking a few steps backwards, attempting to put some distance between him and the unexpected presence, “—was just seeing if she needed a ride—”

“Wrong woman,” Frank barks, lifting his hood enough to reveal eyes so dark that they look black beneath the streetlamp, fixed on the man with an unwavering intensity that silently promises violence.

The man continues to stumble backwards and your grip on the Glock, still tucked out of sight, relaxes.

“S—sorry, man,” he squeaks. “I don’t want any problems. Swear—”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

The man doesn’t say another word before scampering away in the opposite direction, leaving you alone with Frank Castle.

Are you hallucinating? Did someone spike your fucking drink at the bar? Or is he actually standing in front of you, beard fuller and hair longer than you’ve ever seen it, looking at you like he doesn’t know if he should stay or disappear again?

“Hey, angel.”

The words seem to snap you out of a trance. One second, you’re standing there, staring at him with squinted eyes, and the next, you’re pulling your pistol out of your bag, the muzzle pointed directly at his chest.

He takes an involuntary step back, his hands raising in front of him in shocked defense. “Christ, what the fu—”

“I had that handled.” You wave the gun around haphazardly for emphasis.

Frank grabs the barrel of the Glock, pushing it downwards. “Would you stop swinging that thing around?” He pauses, leaning in to take a closer look at you. “Are you drunk?”

You’re unable to stop the laugh that escapes you at that. “Why don’t you tell me? You know, since apparently you’re stalking me.”

“Stalking you?” Frank scoffs, almost offended. “I ain’t stalking you.”

You shove the gun back into your purse without taking your eyes off of his incredulous expression. “Oh, no? You just so happened to be in the exact right place at the exact right time after ghosting me for a month?”

He falls silent, giving a small nod to himself as his gaze wanders up and down the street before settling on the cracked pavement beneath his boots. Anywhere but your eyes. “I wasn’t trying to stalk you, alright? I was in the neighborhood and saw you go into the bar. Just wanted to make sure you got home alright.” He pauses, meeting your gaze once again, his dark eyes as intense and unyielding as ever. “And it’s a good thing that I did.”

It’s your turn to scoff at that. “Right. So you care enough to make sure that I get home safely…” You take a step closer to him, your stare unblinking as you look up at him in the light of the streetlamp, “but you couldn’t pick up a phone and call me? Couldn’t leave a note? Couldn’t climb my fire escape at any point in the last month to let me know you hadn’t been gunned down in a random alley in Hell’s Kitchen?”

Frank’s jaw tightens as he swallows thickly. No answer.

You snort a humorless laugh, taking a step back. “That’s what I thought.”

You start to turn around, to walk away, when the small, petty part of you easily influenced by alcohol begs you to open your mouth again. “And just so you know, Frank, I checked the obituaries to see if you were dead.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but you’re already walking in the opposite direction.

He lets you go and does not try to hide the fact that he follows you the rest of the way to your apartment, not turning around until you’ve safely entered the building.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

That night, Frank Castle appears in your dreams.

It isn’t the first time he’s been conjured by your subconscious, but it is the first time that you wake up and have to question what is fantasy and what is reality due to how utterly lifelike it had all felt.

You hear a gruff voice calling you angel. You see tortured brown eyes staring at you the way they had beneath the streetlights, heavy with the weight of everything he had refused to say. But instead of staying silent when you start to walk away, he stops you. He calls out for you with a restrained grunt of your name, and asks you not to go.

When you jerk awake to the sound of your alarm, your heart is racing, and for a few disorienting moments, you have to remind yourself that you’re alone in your bedroom. Frank Castle is not here. He’s not snoring in your living room, he’s not waiting on your fire escape for you to open the window and let him inside.

You don’t know if he ever will be again.

It’s the kind of dream that leaves you in a melancholic headspace for hours after waking.

You try your hardest to go about your day as normal. You clock in for a twelve hour shift at the emergency department, feeling severely unrested and slightly hungover. You drink more coffee than you usually do to get you through the first few hours of the morning, in between patients.

First, a seven-year-old boy with a fractured elbow. Skateboarding accident. Next, an elderly woman with a nasty grease burn. Bacon accident. Then, a construction worker with a mangled finger. Nail gun accident. And now…

“There’s a man in Central 12. Says he hit his head. Possible concussion.”

You briefly look up from your task of restocking a crash cart to give your charge nurse, Jenny, a nod of confirmation. “I’ll be with him in just a moment.”

She’s silent for a second. “He asked for you by name.”

That gets your undivided attention. You look up again, this time noticing an amused expression on Jenny’s face that piques your interest even further. “Do you know who it is?”

Jenny shrugs. “Never seen him before. Says his name is Fred?”

You drop the oxygen mask you’re holding out of surprise. “Fred?” You echo as Frank’s face flashes through your mind.

She nods, the amusement on her face quickly shifting into confusion. “Yeah, why? You know him?”

You can’t bring yourself to say yes until you walk to Central 12 and see him with your own two eyes.

And even then, when you see Frank Castle sitting on the exam table in his normal attire of bruises and all black, you still have to question whether or not you’re actually awake, or in your bed, still dreaming.

You close the door before speaking. “You know, showing up to my job isn’t really helping you with the stalker allegations.”

His broad shoulders lift with silent laughter as he looks around the room, not meeting your gaze. “Tried to go by your place this morning,” he says simply. “You weren’t there, so I took a guess…figured you might be here.”

You hum, crossing your arms over your chest as you come to stand directly in front of him. Your eyes skim over his face, looking for any sign of visible injury. “Here I am,” you exhale. “Let me guess. You didn’t actually hit your head?”

Another snort of laughter as his gaze meets yours. You’re aware that it could be your imagination playing tricks on you, but you swear that for a split-second, his eyes flicker down to your lips and then back up.

“I’m having a hard time remembering,” he grunts, a spark of something humorous appearing and then disappearing from his stare. “Maybe you should check me over and make sure I’m not concussed while you hear me out.”

Maybe it’s the rough timbre of his voice, or maybe his choice of words, or maybe the way he’s looking at you, but whatever it is makes goosebumps spread all the way down your spine.

There’s a waiting room full of people waiting to be seen just down the hallway. People with actual injuries. People who might really be concussed. People who don’t come in and out of your life like ghosts.

At least a dozen different reasons as to why you shouldn’t indulge him come to mind, but none of them stop you from reaching for the penlight clipped to your scrub pocket.

“Follow the light.”

He obeys without complaint, lips quirking slightly at the corners as his eyes track the beam left, right, up, and down.

“Any dizziness? Blurred vision? Nausea or vomiting?”

You already know the answers before he opens his mouth.

“No. None of that.”

You click the pen off. “Tell me your full name.”

He huffs something between a laugh and a sigh. “Francis David Castle Sr.”

That answer does take you by surprise. Not the fact that his first name is actually Francis. No, what surprises you is the suffix. Senior. Because if Frank is actually Francis David Castle Sr., then that can only imply…

“You have a son?”

His expression changes almost immediately. The slight amusement disappears from his face, but he doesn’t drop your gaze. “Had,” he grunts. “Had a daughter, too.”

He doesn’t need to say anything else. His choice of words makes it clear. Had. Past tense. No more.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” you murmur sincerely.

Frank nods, so small that it’s nearly imperceptible as he clears his throat. “Yeah. Me too.”

You don’t press the subject further. Not here, not now. You just lock the information away with every other fact he’s hesitantly handed over since meeting him. Like his name and how he takes his coffee.

“Alright. Last question,” you say gently. You swallow down the small lump that has unexpectedly formed in your throat, forcing your attention back to the matter at hand. “Why are you here right now, Frank?”

He studies you for a long moment before answering, making the small exam room suddenly seem suffocating.

“I’m here to tell you I’m sorry,” he says, his voice and expression equally grave. “For disappearing the way that I did. For…making you worry. I didn’t think…” he trails off, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. He shakes his head, a humorless laugh escaping him. “Hell, I don’t know what I was thinkin’.”

You nod slowly, taking a seat on the stool in front of him before responding. You glance down at your hands in your lap. “Why did you?” You ask, voice meeker than you intend for it to sound. “Disappear?”

Another moment of silence that feels eternal. “Thought it’d be better for you. Safer.” You meet his gaze at that. His lips purse, and you think that’s as much of an explanation as he’s going to give, but then his lips part again. “…and I guess it’s been a long time since I’ve had someone care about me like that. Kinda forgot what it feels like.”

He swallows thickly at that, like he’s holding himself back from saying anything more. Without thinking, you wheel yourself closer to him until your knees are nearly brushing his where they dangle from the exam table. He stares down at you, and you up at him, and the rest of the hospital outside of these four walls seems to fade away.

“Safer?” You murmur. “You know you’re talking to the girl who invited a bleeding stranger into her apartment in the middle of the night, right?”

He chuckles low, his broad shoulders rising and falling with it. “Exactly,” he sighs. “You won’t keep yourself safe, so I guess it’s up to me.”

You quirk a brow. “So you were stalking me last night, then.”

He hesitates just long enough for you notice the faint, barely visible blush that blooms beneath his beard. “Stalking is a strong word.”

“I knew it.”

The blush on his cheeks grows a deeper pink and he rolls his eyes, now avoiding yours. “Look, I wasn’t…wasn’t trying to follow you or anything weird. Just…every now and then, I’d check in. Make sure nobody’s hanging around your building.” He pauses, his jaw clenching. “Make sure that nobody has connected you to me.”

Although that might possibly be the most honest Frank Castle has been since you first met him, it somehow leaves you with more questions than answers.

It’s never been a secret that the man who shows up on your fire escape bloodied and bruised on a regular basis has his fair share of secrets that reek of violence and destruction, but hearing it come from his own mouth that merely being associated with him could potentially jeopardize your safety…

It’s the kind of honesty that should send you running in the opposite direction. But then again, there’s a lot about Frank Castle that should have sent you running in the opposite direction a long time ago.

Yet here you are. Not running. Not even telling him to leave. You weren’t able to walk away from him the very first time that you found him bleeding outside of your apartment, and you sure as hell aren’t able to now.

Slowly, you rise from the stool you’ve been sitting on. Once at eye level with him, you take a small, tentative step closer, stopping when your thighs brush against his knees. Usually, the two of you are only ever this close when you’re examining a black eye or busted lip, but right now, there’s no injuries in sight. Just his big, chocolate brown eyes and slightly chapped lips inches from your own.

“You were wrong about one thing,” you murmur, voice breathy. Your hands hover awkwardly for a moment before settling atop his thighs, the touch intimate in a way that’s brand new. “You disappearing wasn’t better for me. It only made me feel like I was losing my mind.”

The air in the room turns thick and heavy at the admission. Borderline asphyxiating. At first, he says nothing, but brings one hand to rest against your hip. His grip is loose enough that you could easily step away if you wanted to, but tight enough for you to know that he hopes you don’t.

“Yeah,” he grunts, voice low. “That makes two of us, then.”

The confession comes as a pleasant surprise that gives you enough courage to ease yourself just between his legs, further into his embrace. His eyes flicker down to your lips for not the first time since stepping foot in this room, this time undeniable and unabashed.

You clear your throat a bit in a failed effort to break the tension. “Well, good news,” you breathe, “I don’t think you’re concussed.”

He chuckles low, his gaze unwavering. “That is good news. I’d hate for you to think I’m not thinking clearly right now.”

And before you even have a chance to wonder if he’s really about to do what you think he’s about to do, he leans forward and closes the small amount of space separating your lips from his.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

Your phone rings at 8:30 that night, just one hour after you get home from your twelve hour shift at the hospital. You’re stepping out of the shower when your screen lights up with an unknown number.

Normally, you ignore or send them straight to voicemail. More than half of the calls that you get these days are robocalls, but this particular number isn’t being flagged as a potential spam risk. In fact, it’s a local number, with a Hell’s Kitchen area code.

And though there’s no way of knowing for sure who it is, you secure your towel around your midsection and answer as if you do.

“I was starting to think you’d lost my number.”

You’re first greeted by silence. Then a familiar, rough chuckle that makes goosebumps bloom on your still damp skin.

“Nah.” There’s another beat of quiet. “Just took me a while to work up the nerve.”

You snort a laugh and take a seat on the edge of your mattress. “The man who gets into gunfights on a regular basis was afraid to call a girl?”

He doesn’t deny it. “I didn’t say it made sense.”

You hum in response, trying to fight down the flight of butterflies in your stomach at the mere sound of his voice in your ear. “So, where are you bleeding right now?”

Another low laugh pours through the speaker. “No blood yet tonight,” he sighs. “That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Oh?” You chirp with a hint of sarcasm. “Anything you’d like to share with the class?”

More silence. He clears his throat, as if he’s trying to force the words out, “I’m calling to ask you something I should’ve asked you earlier.”

You grin despite the small bundle of nerves in the pit of your stomach.

“You got any plans tomorrow night?”

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

When you hear a knock on your front door at exactly seven o’clock, you’ve already been dressed and pacing your apartment for nearly half an hour.

Even though you already know who is on the other side, you instinctively glance through the peephole. You see a freshly shaven Frank Castle - looking around almost nervously and holding a small bouquet of wildflowers.

Just like ones he had left on your fire escape several months prior.

You take a steadying breath, smoothing your hands over the front of your outfit and hope that it’s good enough for whatever the hell you’re going to be doing tonight. When you had asked what he had in mind, he had laughed, painting a vivid picture in your mind of the light blush that was undoubtedly blooming on the apples of his cheeks.

“Haven’t figured that out yet,” he murmured. “Wasn’t sure I’d even get this far.”

You struggled to see Frank Castle taking you to a five star restaurant, so you picked something somewhat casual but still cute. Comfortable, and weather appropriate, but cute.

At least you hope so. You don’t even remember the last time you had to select an outfit for a date. A date or…whatever this is.

Before you can overthink that, you open the door for him.

For a second, neither of you say anything.

Frank’s eyes travel over you slowly, but not in a way that makes your skin crawl like it would if it were literally anyone else. He looks at you in a way that makes you feel like he’s trying real hard not to look at you, and that makes you feel warm all over.

“…Hi,” he says at last.

You can’t help but smile at how simple yet nervous the singular word sounds coming from his lips. “Hi.”

His gaze drops to the flowers in his hands as though he’d forgotten he was holding them. “These are for you.” He holds the bouquet out to you in offering. “Figured the others probably needed to be replaced a long time ago.”

You exhale a shaky laugh, thinking of the flowers he had left on your fire escape just days after you first met. You had kept them in a vase in your kitchen for long after they wilted, not wanting to throw them away.

You don’t tell him that, though, or that you intend to keep these for even longer.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

….i had originally planned for this to be longer, but life and my brain had other plans, so i hope it’s still cute as is. sorry if the ending seems rushed. maybe one day i will pick this story back up and write a part two with my original plans for this fic, if people are interested and inspiration strikes!