Wisdom Writes

Tony takes every opportunity he can to throw a party. This time, it happened to be because

Somewhere during the night, when the talking died down and people began to leave, you look over your shoulder.

Bucky is standing on the balcony, looking down at the city.

"One sec," you tell Steve. He just shrugs and turns to Nat.

As soon as Bucky senses you behind him, he straightens up and plasters on a smile.

His hair is slicked back, collar buttoned up to his neck. He looks.. uncomfortable. Like he doesn't feel like he belongs.

"Still in a brooding mood, huh?" You chuckle, taking a sip of your wine.

He doesn't look at you. Just raises the beer bottle to his lips. "It's so crazy how much can change so quickly."

You follow his eyes. The New York city lights glimmer below the Avengers tower, faint voices and cars honking filling the empty space.

It was only a few weeks ago that Steve brought Bucky back from a mission, seemingly healed from his Winter Soldier persona.

He never really got the time to sjust to all the changes since he went into the ice.

"Yeah. Time can be weird like that."

As S.H.I.E.L.D.'s interim Director, you're versed in Bucky's story. Reading it on paper never prepared you to meet him in person, though.

"So... What do you think of the 21st century's beer? Is it what you expected?"

He looks down at the bottle in his hands, swirling it once. Your eyes flick to his shoulders. Tense. Like he'd been thinking.

"It's.. fine," he shrugs. "Kind of lackluster."

You laugh at that. "Well, welcome to America." You playfully bump him with your hip as you turn to walk back inside.

"Wait." A pause. Bucky readjusts his ti, as iff he regretted saying anything already.

"Listen, I never really got the chance to thank you for everything you've done for me since I got out."

You immediately redden at the attention. "Stop, you know you don't have to-"

"Y/n."

You finally look up.

His steel blue eyes are fixated on yours. Searching.

“You make me happy like no one else. I'm not sure what exactly that means yet, but… I know it means something.”

It’s the middle of the night when Frank shifts on his side in his sleep. His arm sweeps the space next to him, expecting Jazmyn’s outline. 

His arm hits empty cot. He frowns.

Jazmyn never wanders.

“Jaz,” he grunts, wiping his eyes. No answer. Frank swings his legs over, eyes squinting against the darkness. 

Jazmyn is crouched near the door to their base, hands braced in front of her as if holding a gun. Her finger curls over and over, pulling an imaginary trigger. Every muscle in her body is flexed. Rigid. Ready for an order. 

“Jaz,” he repeats. She doesn’t show the slightest bit of recognition to his voice, her body still angled at the door. 

Frank lets out a low, exasperated sigh. “The hell are you doin’? Stop fucking around.”

She doesn’t move. Instead, she mutters something over and over, pupils constricted to tiny dots in her brown eyes. 

“Loud and–and clear, over. Mission… accomplished. Over and out.” Her words are fractured, but she chants it over and over, as if in a trance. 

Frank freezes. The way her movements are rigid. Her trigger finger keeps contracting. This isn’t a game. 

Frank raises a cautious hand, stepping closer. “Listen, Silencer–” 

She moves in a flash. Before Frank can finish his sentence, she’s on her feet, pointing the imaginary gun at him. 

“Mission accomplished. Over and out.” she repeats again. 

“Easy. Friendly.” 

Her eyes snap up to his. Still distant, but there. 

“Swept the perimeter,” he continues, eyes never leaving hers. “All clear, Specialist Smith.”

She blinks. It’s been a long time since she’s heard that name. Her rank instead of a legend. 

Frank notices how her arms drop an inch, her senses slowly coming back. “At ease, soldier,” Frank commands, voice still rough from sleep. 

She begins to pant, chest rising rapidly as she drops her arms fully. Her eyes dart around the room.

The cot in the corner. The faint sounds of the city.

Not Kandahar.

Frank’s hands twitch at his side, having almost reached out to her. Decides to let her process. 

“You with me, Smith?” he asks cautiously. 

Her face twists in anger. Not at him, but at her. For allowing this to happen again. In front of Frank. 

Without another word, she turns, wrenches the door open, and leaves.

Chapters: 5/24

Fandom: The Punisher (TV 2017), Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con

Relationships: Frank Castle/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Frank Castle, Dinah Madani, Curtis Hoyle, Billy Russo

Additional Tags: Fluff and Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Slow Burn, Canon-Typical Violence, Snipers, Military Backstory, Post-War, Trust Issues, Eventual Smut, Canon Rewrite, Frank Castle Needs a Hug, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Emotional Manipulation, Government Agencies, Survival, Frank Castle Has PTSD, Dissociation, Psychological Torture, Heavy Angst, Past Sexual Abuse, Rage, Touch-Starved

Summary:

After the Kandahar ambush, Frank Castle and his troops came home.

Jazmyn Smith didn't.

Left behind by Operation Cerberus to eliminate its loose ends, she became the Silencer—a ghost whispered about by soldiers, criminals, and the few survivors she failed to kill. Wherever Agent Orange pointed her gun, she shot. Even if that meant clearing entire rooms. 

Now home, she hunts traffickers and gangs in a futile attempt at atonement.

But when a victim of her crusades confronts her, she's dragged back into the conspiracy that destroyed her life. 

Frank Castle doesn't believe in ghosts. Only consequences. When his hunt for the truth behind Cerberus puts him on a collision course with the Silencer, both are forced to confront the bloodshed they thought they'd escaped.

I start off by giving myself time. If I'm having a really hard time just writing ideas down or an idea doesn't come to me in the moment, I get up and do something else, coming back the next day.

Now. Sometimes this works, and sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes it gets to a point where I have to be disciplined so I don't end up taking a whole writing hiatus.

Next, I sit down and literally write trash sentences about what I want to happen in a scene, action by action. It usually looks something like this:

The raindrops patter against the roof of the truck. Her clothes are soaked through from the rain.  She peels off Frank's shirt. He starts to mumble something. She strips to her undershirt, puts on gloves, and disinfects everything with the first aid kit. 

Once I have a rough outline out, everything immediately seems easier to me.

Next step is to turn these sentences into more complex ones, adding dialogue where I need to.

By the time they make it, rain is pouring down, drenching them both. She shrugs off her soaked jacket, revealing the thin gray henley underneath and grabs the med kit. She takes the sheers from the kid and cuts his shirt open to reveal the bullet hole in his lower abs. “Don’t… don’t fuck this up,” Frank wheezes. Before grabbing tweezers, she takes rubbing alcohol and pours it directly on the wound. 

Lastly, I bridge the gap between these sentences. Something I ask myself is: what needs to happen to cause the next action?

And now we have:

By the time they make it, rain is pouring down, drenching them both. She leans him against the side of the van as she opens the door before she helps him climb in.  Jazmyn wastes no time. She shrugs off her soaked jacket, revealing the thin gray henley underneath and grabs the med kit.  “Work with me here,” she says as she slips rubber gloves on.  “Don’t… don’t fuck this up,” Frank wheezes. With newfound urgency, she takes the sheers from the kid and cuts his shirt open to reveal the bullet hole in his lower abs. I can work with this, she says. Before grabbing tweezers, she takes rubbing alcohol and pours it directly on the wound.