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Description
Frank wakes up—no, is dragged from blissful unconsciousness—to that strange smell of cleanliness and medicine and disinfectant that he has grown to hate.

And with consciousness—even before he can properly take stock of his surroundings—come the memories of gunfire and blood and death.

He can almost hear it all, shouts of agony and the thuds of dying bodies hitting the ground, can almost smell blood. Can almost feel his little girl’s body cradled in his arms, the life slipping out of her and staining his hands, bone-deep.

At first he can’t think past it, reaching for anything other than those few seconds is an uphill battle, like fumbling over a rifle, hands slippery with blood.

It’s all he can do to keep breathing, to remember that he is doing everything he can to avenge their deaths. And he tells himself a million times over that vengeance is all he can give them now.

Vengeance. The very thought makes him laugh, bitter guffaws that spill out of his mouth and echo off the stark white walls long after he stops.

He tries to recall the feeling of the gun in his hand, the smell of blood on the air, the dying screams of the mobsters he had killed, the momentary peace which that had brought. Tries to recapture that feeling and some of his sanity with it.

One batch. Two batch. Penny and dime. One batch. Two-

None of it helps, not really.

So with a sigh he gives in, and lets himself bring to mind the only image that has ever been capable of muting the chaotic mixture of violence and guilt that fills his head.

It’s an image of you, one that’s burned into his mind—or maybe onto his heart, because that’s the only explanation that makes sense really.

You’re dressed in blue—the blue of a summer sky that comes after sunset—and you’re laughing at something he has said. He remembers feeling surprised that he’d gotten you to laugh like that—open and clear and carefree—surprised, and also just a little bit proud.

He remembers the way your eyes had continued to twinkle with mirth even after your laughter had faded away. And he remembers the softness of your hand as you laid it on his arm and leaned in to kiss him, leaned into him, full of trust and affection. He doesn’t think he’ll ever deserve that.

But he remembers still. Remembers the way your breath had hitched when he’d reached out and cupped your cheeks, tipping your head up to let him kiss you better.

It’s one of the few happy memories he has, one of the few that hasn’t been drowned out by all the shit he’s seen, all the killing he’s done. One of the few that’s strong enough to go against all that and emerge the winner, much like you yourself.

So while it’s not enough to bring him peace, it is just enough to dull the pain that has been his constant companion. It’s the best he can do when you’re not actually with him.

He drifts back to sleep with that picture of you playing through his mind, and it almost drowns out everything else.

X

So when he wakes up again and the first thing his eyes rest on is you, your hand soft on his cheek, your gaze sharp with relief, he’s fairly sure that he should be forgiven for thinking that it’s a dream.

“Never thought I’d die and go to heaven,” he mumbles, mouth twisting into an almost-smile as he lets his eyes rake over your form, drinking you in.

“Shut up,” you breathe, and your half-hearted annoyance draws an actual smile from him, “now’s not the time for silly pickup lines.”

He’s laughing again as you set about freeing him from his restraints, not the hysterical cackling from before but hushed chuckles that are tinted with pure amusement- something only you seem capable of awakening in him.

“How about a kiss then?” he suggests as he sits up, ripping out the needles, swinging his legs off the side of the bed and standing all in one drawn out movement that leaves him mere inches from you, crowding into your personal space, “prove that you’re real.”

You scoff and smack his shoulder, not entirely gentle.

And with that he accepts that you’re here, and he finds that the memories that’ve already begun clamoring for his attention, those godawful images, are pushed back in your wake.

“Let’s get out of here first and I’ll give you more than a kiss,” you huff out, already turning away from him, reaching for the bag that you’d placed by the bed.

But he can’t help it, can’t quite stop himself from reaching out and snagging your elbow, pulling you back to him. You’re warm against his chest, your heartbeat soaking into his skin through the thin hospital gown; your eyes soft and liquid, surrendering to his gaze, just as your lips give in to his when he captures them.

You close your eyes and rest your hands on his chest and let him draw you close, his hands clutching at your waist with an urgency that borders on desperation.

It’s a familiar rhythm, this push and pull between you two, and he can think almost clearly now, can focus on you, bright and pliant and ever so alive in his arms.

You pull away after a minute but your eyes remain shut, your breathing slow and almost relaxed, and when he rests his forehead on yours—a movement that’s almost too tender—you let him.

He steps away first, letting you move past him and reach for the bag and the shotgun, taking the opportunity to just look at you and try to hold on to the spell you’ve cast for a few more minutes.

And it’s only when you’re standing in front of him, holding out a pair of clothes, that he speaks again.

“You shouldn’t have come,” the words come out as a gravelly whisper, full of regret, tinged with the self-loathing he knows you hate.

“Frank, stop it,” you don’t sound angry, only determined, and it’s almost enough to make him smile again, “come with me now, or so help me god, I will knock you out and drag you out of here. Your choice.”

You stand toe-to-toe with him, eyes fierce as you hold his gaze, and he knows that he could refuse you. He knows that he could knock you out and push you out of the room, raise the alarm, continue with this farce of a trial.

But as he looks at you, wild-eyed, messy-haired, blood trickling out of a bullet graze wound on your left arm, probably injured in a lot of other places as well but still hefting a shotgun that should have been too heavy for you, fighting for him… he knows that he will go with you.

So he jerks his chin up in a half-nod, and takes the clothes you hand him. You turn away, checking your gun before walking over to the door and easing it open. He pulls on the clothes as fast as he can, making sure not to wince or groan, trying not to worry you any more than he already has.

And when he walks up to you and puts his hand on your back, drawing you out of your survey of the exit route, you hand him the shotgun, pulling out a revolver for yourself. He takes it and follows you out of the room in silence, through the deserted hospital corridors littered with unconscious bodies.

And he realizes in a flash that you had done your best not to kill anyone. Stupid. Probably the only reason you’re injured.

He doesn’t say anything about it, not till you’re both outside and in the car you’d brought.

“You risked too much,” he sighs finally, watching you as you start the car, steadfastly refusing to look at him, “Hell, I’m not worth it. You should know that, ___.”

For several long minutes you don’t respond, and then you draw in a shaky breath, throat bobbing, and you turn to him with blazing eyes.

“Don’t you dare say that again,” you grit through clenched teeth, voice shaking with repressed sobs, “you hear me, Frank Castle? Don’t. You. Dare.”

It’s nothing new, this argument, but it’s never been quite like this- after all, you’ve never rescued him from the death penalty before. Just as you’ve never been on the verge of tears.
He wants to say that he understands, wants to say he’s sorry for hurting you, say that he’d like to do better, tell you that he can’t be wholly yours till he finishes this crusade and maybe not even then.

But he knows that you understand all of that, and all you want is whatever meager portion of love he can give you now.

So he reaches out and places his hand on your knee, and with barely a whisper, he surrenders, “I hear you, ___.”

It’s enough, it’s all you ask of him, and it’s not so hard. No, it’s the easiest thing he’s done in a long time.

So he shuts up and lets you drive, and wrestles with the certainty that he can never let you go. It’s a losing battle from the start, but he doesn’t think he minds. Not with you beside him.

Description
Frank wakes up—no, is dragged from blissful unconsciousness—to that strange smell of cleanliness and medicine and disinfectant that he has grown to hate.

And with consciousness—even before he can properly take stock of his surroundings—come the memories of gunfire and blood and death.

He can almost hear it all, shouts of agony and the thuds of dying bodies hitting the ground, can almost smell blood. Can almost feel his little girl’s body cradled in his arms, the life slipping out of her and staining his hands, bone-deep.

At first he can’t think past it, reaching for anything other than those few seconds is an uphill battle, like fumbling over a rifle, hands slippery with blood.

It’s all he can do to keep breathing, to remember that he is doing everything he can to avenge their deaths. And he tells himself a million times over that vengeance is all he can give them now.

Vengeance. The very thought makes him laugh, bitter guffaws that spill out of his mouth and echo off the stark white walls long after he stops.

He tries to recall the feeling of the gun in his hand, the smell of blood on the air, the dying screams of the mobsters he had killed, the momentary peace which that had brought. Tries to recapture that feeling and some of his sanity with it.

One batch. Two batch. Penny and dime. One batch. Two-

None of it helps, not really.

So with a sigh he gives in, and lets himself bring to mind the only image that has ever been capable of muting the chaotic mixture of violence and guilt that fills his head.

It’s an image of you, one that’s burned into his mind—or maybe onto his heart, because that’s the only explanation that makes sense really.

You’re dressed in blue—the blue of a summer sky that comes after sunset—and you’re laughing at something he has said. He remembers feeling surprised that he’d gotten you to laugh like that—open and clear and carefree—surprised, and also just a little bit proud.

He remembers the way your eyes had continued to twinkle with mirth even after your laughter had faded away. And he remembers the softness of your hand as you laid it on his arm and leaned in to kiss him, leaned into him, full of trust and affection. He doesn’t think he’ll ever deserve that.

But he remembers still. Remembers the way your breath had hitched when he’d reached out and cupped your cheeks, tipping your head up to let him kiss you better.

It’s one of the few happy memories he has, one of the few that hasn’t been drowned out by all the shit he’s seen, all the killing he’s done. One of the few that’s strong enough to go against all that and emerge the winner, much like you yourself.

So while it’s not enough to bring him peace, it is just enough to dull the pain that has been his constant companion. It’s the best he can do when you’re not actually with him.

He drifts back to sleep with that picture of you playing through his mind, and it almost drowns out everything else.

X

So when he wakes up again and the first thing his eyes rest on is you, your hand soft on his cheek, your gaze sharp with relief, he’s fairly sure that he should be forgiven for thinking that it’s a dream.

“Never thought I’d die and go to heaven,” he mumbles, mouth twisting into an almost-smile as he lets his eyes rake over your form, drinking you in.

“Shut up,” you breathe, and your half-hearted annoyance draws an actual smile from him, “now’s not the time for silly pickup lines.”

He’s laughing again as you set about freeing him from his restraints, not the hysterical cackling from before but hushed chuckles that are tinted with pure amusement- something only you seem capable of awakening in him.

“How about a kiss then?” he suggests as he sits up, ripping out the needles, swinging his legs off the side of the bed and standing all in one drawn out movement that leaves him mere inches from you, crowding into your personal space, “prove that you’re real.”

You scoff and smack his shoulder, not entirely gentle.

And with that he accepts that you’re here, and he finds that the memories that’ve already begun clamoring for his attention, those godawful images, are pushed back in your wake.

“Let’s get out of here first and I’ll give you more than a kiss,” you huff out, already turning away from him, reaching for the bag that you’d placed by the bed.

But he can’t help it, can’t quite stop himself from reaching out and snagging your elbow, pulling you back to him. You’re warm against his chest, your heartbeat soaking into his skin through the thin hospital gown; your eyes soft and liquid, surrendering to his gaze, just as your lips give in to his when he captures them.

You close your eyes and rest your hands on his chest and let him draw you close, his hands clutching at your waist with an urgency that borders on desperation.

It’s a familiar rhythm, this push and pull between you two, and he can think almost clearly now, can focus on you, bright and pliant and ever so alive in his arms.

You pull away after a minute but your eyes remain shut, your breathing slow and almost relaxed, and when he rests his forehead on yours—a movement that’s almost too tender—you let him.

He steps away first, letting you move past him and reach for the bag and the shotgun, taking the opportunity to just look at you and try to hold on to the spell you’ve cast for a few more minutes.

And it’s only when you’re standing in front of him, holding out a pair of clothes, that he speaks again.

“You shouldn’t have come,” the words come out as a gravelly whisper, full of regret, tinged with the self-loathing he knows you hate.

“Frank, stop it,” you don’t sound angry, only determined, and it’s almost enough to make him smile again, “come with me now, or so help me god, I will knock you out and drag you out of here. Your choice.”

You stand toe-to-toe with him, eyes fierce as you hold his gaze, and he knows that he could refuse you. He knows that he could knock you out and push you out of the room, raise the alarm, continue with this farce of a trial.

But as he looks at you, wild-eyed, messy-haired, blood trickling out of a bullet graze wound on your left arm, probably injured in a lot of other places as well but still hefting a shotgun that should have been too heavy for you, fighting for him… he knows that he will go with you.

So he jerks his chin up in a half-nod, and takes the clothes you hand him. You turn away, checking your gun before walking over to the door and easing it open. He pulls on the clothes as fast as he can, making sure not to wince or groan, trying not to worry you any more than he already has.

And when he walks up to you and puts his hand on your back, drawing you out of your survey of the exit route, you hand him the shotgun, pulling out a revolver for yourself. He takes it and follows you out of the room in silence, through the deserted hospital corridors littered with unconscious bodies.

And he realizes in a flash that you had done your best not to kill anyone. Stupid. Probably the only reason you’re injured.

He doesn’t say anything about it, not till you’re both outside and in the car you’d brought.

“You risked too much,” he sighs finally, watching you as you start the car, steadfastly refusing to look at him, “Hell, I’m not worth it. You should know that, ___.”

For several long minutes you don’t respond, and then you draw in a shaky breath, throat bobbing, and you turn to him with blazing eyes.

“Don’t you dare say that again,” you grit through clenched teeth, voice shaking with repressed sobs, “you hear me, Frank Castle? Don’t. You. Dare.”

It’s nothing new, this argument, but it’s never been quite like this- after all, you’ve never rescued him from the death penalty before. Just as you’ve never been on the verge of tears.
He wants to say that he understands, wants to say he’s sorry for hurting you, say that he’d like to do better, tell you that he can’t be wholly yours till he finishes this crusade and maybe not even then.

But he knows that you understand all of that, and all you want is whatever meager portion of love he can give you now.

So he reaches out and places his hand on your knee, and with barely a whisper, he surrenders, “I hear you, ___.”

It’s enough, it’s all you ask of him, and it’s not so hard. No, it’s the easiest thing he’s done in a long time.

So he shuts up and lets you drive, and wrestles with the certainty that he can never let you go. It’s a losing battle from the start, but he doesn’t think he minds. Not with you beside him.