Chapter Text
2006 - Afghanistan
“They gave us a shit detail,” Billy mumbles, sweat dripping down his brow and into his eyes. “Plus they even gave us this goddamn journo to keep our eyes on.” Billy glances at the man in question — Carl Evans. Evans’ helmet doesn’t fit him properly, he’s always clutching his stupid camera and carrying that little recording device. Apparently he works for Rolling Stone and wants to show the American public the real faces of the war and Billy thinks that’s a terrible idea.
“Fucking hell, stop complaining,” Masterson says and gives Billy a pointed look. “I’d rather do this than sit on our asses in Zabul.”
He looks over to his new shooter — Frank Castle — and the dude looks serious as hell, like he’s never laughed a day in his life. “What about you, Castle?” Billy says. “Would you rather trudge through these fucking mountains days on end only to sit on our asses waiting for battalion or would you rather sit on our asses back in camp and wait for the Taliban to launch that offensive we’ve been warned about for months now?”
“Don’t say it like that,” Masterson groans but Castle doesn’t even dignify him with an answer, just gives Billy a sidelong glance and shrugs.
“If Command thinks we’re more useful here…” Castle says.
Billy throws his head back and squints at the skies. “Command doesn’t know shit,” he says under his breath. “Command looks at maps all day and gathers half-assed intel by the fucking Aussies and Brits and then they send our platoon up to the fucking mountains to freeze our nuts off when we should be in Helmand or Kandahar—”
Masterson grabs Billy’s vest and shakes him. “Quit your goddamn yapping before the sarge or the fucking journo hears you.”
“Fine,” Billy holds out his hands placatingly, “Christ.”
/
They’ve set up camp for the night and Billy shares his tent with Castle. They go through their equipment, everything’s still set and smooth. He’s barely talked to the guy which annoys him because he was real close with his last shooter but he supposes you can’t always be lucky. At least Castle agreed to switch between shooting and spotting which Billy prefers though for this mission they agreed Frank be the shooter. The rifle is goddamn heavy so Billy feels a little smug that he doesn’t have to carry it this time.
Frank pulls out a small photograph of himself and a brunette smiling in some park.
“That your girl?” Billy asks because he’s nosy as shit.
“Wife, actually,” Frank says and Billy glances at his ringfinger which is glaringly ring-free. Frank notices and says, “I don’t like wearing it here. Don’t wanna lose it.” He wiggles the finger as he speaks and Billy nods. “What about yourself? Pretty boy like you.”
It might be the first time that Frank’s said anything remotely lighthearted and Billy chuckles in surprise. “Nah. Don’t wanna be tied down. I like my freedom.” He leans back in his cot and gives Frank his best smile.
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. If you’re with the right woman, you’re not losing anything.”
“Ew,” Billy simply says and Frank shakes his head.
“What do you think of that Rolling Stone guy?” Frank asks as he’s pouring water into his MRE-bag.
“Seems fine,” Billy says absentmindedly. “What you got there?”
Frank looks at the label. “Supposed to be mac’n’cheese,” he digs his fork in and takes a bite and grimaces.
“I’ll trade you. I’ve got —” Billy rummages through his rations, “bolognese?” He holds up the package.
Frank grins. “Fuck yeah.”
/
After another day, they’ve finally reached their spot. It’s Billy and Frank, Masterson and Reyes, and McDonaghue (or McD as they call him — fitting for a big guy) and Garza… and Evans.
They set up their mesh, Frank gets the rifle out, assembles it nice and quick, and Billy gets down next to him with his array of scopes. Evans lies down next to Billy and asks, “So, how long do these kinds of things usually take?”
Billy shoots him a real unimpressed look like what are you even doing here. “Dunno. Could be a day or two — could be several weeks.”
“It’s not gonna be several weeks,” Frank scoffs and stares down the scope. “The others’ll be here in three days and we’ll be support,” Frank pats the rifle to make his point and Evans nods. Billy still doesn’t trust the guy — he’s got an eager look in his eye and Billy is pretty sure Evans is just salivating to catch them doing something they’re not supposed to be doing so the cocksucking liberal media can pat his back and push their anti-war rhetoric. Doesn’t matter they all fanned the flames five years earlier. It’s all fucking politics at the end of the day. It’s all a big dick-measuring contest, Operation Enduring Freedom, this crusade, invoking quasi-religious imagery just to rile up the backwoods, sister-fucking, moonshine-drinking constituents as the Hollywood elites clutch their pearls while making movies about 9/11.
“You should give the guy a break,” Frank mutters after Evans has left and gone over to bother Reyes.
“He’s a fucking homo,” Billy says and Frank’s eyes go wide.
“How do you know?”
“He’s constantly checking out my ass.”
Frank laughs. “Now that just sounds like wishful thinking. Don’t say shit like that, Billy.”
“Why? It’s not like they can give him the blue slip.” Billy’s got his eyes locked on Evans. Evans is about forty maybe. Late thirties. Scruffy beard. Well-built for a pencil pusher. And he’s definitely been checking Billy out — giving him hungry looks in the mess hall. Problem is that Billy’s been looking right back.
/
Just as Frank said, three days go by until 1st battalion arrives down in the village. The platoon provides sniper support. Frank and him are surprisingly efficient together. Billy’s really coming around to the guy.
Evans is watching with apt fascination. At the foot of the mountain gunfire is echoing upwards, Billy’s on the spotting scope, giving Frank coordinates and wind directions, and Frank is a goddamn machine. They’re just about two klicks away and Frank never misses a single shot. “Fuckin’ A,” Billy says with smile on his face as Frank shoots a guy clean between the eyes.
Masterson taps them both on the shoulder. “Schoonover is calling in an air strike.”
“What? On the village?” Frank asks.
“Yeah.”
“Isn’t that danger close?”
Masterson shrugs and grins. “Since when does Schoonover care about danger close?”
Billy and Frank both look through their scopes as they see 1st battalion scramble away and then they see the missiles landing, engulfing the village in flames, before they hear the sonic boom of fighter jets. The rest of the guys whoop but next to Billy, Evans gasps. “What about — the marines? Civilians?”
Billy swallows and tries to be as unmoved as possible when he says, “Battalion knows to haul ass and — there were no civilians.”
“How can you be sure?”
“It’s what I’ve been told,” Billy looks up from his scope to Evans who looks at him, mouth agape, wide-eyed. Billy leans in close and says, “This real enough for you?” Evans doesn’t respond and turns his gaze back down to what was once a village.
/
The way back is as uneventful as the way up. Frank and Billy are forced to share their tent with Evans one night — they’re tossing the guy back and forth between the three teams like a child of divorce. It annoys him because he’s getting closer and closer to Frank; he learns that Frank met the wife, Maria, in high school and that they live in a nice house in the suburbs of New York with a white picket fence and everything. Frank is as American as apple pie. The opposite of whatever life Billy is living. Drug addict mother, shitty and lonely childhood, dilapidated apartment in Williamsburg, and Billy will fuck just about anything with two legs. And so his mind drifts to Evans and his hungry eyes. They shouldn’t. But he knows they will.
Evans is scribbling away in his little notebook and Billy asks, “So, what are you trying to prove here? You wanna win a Pulitzer or something?”
Evans raises his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t be opposed to that,” he says slow and sardonic, and Billy smirks as they stare at each other.
Frank clears his throat, diffusing whatever tension was between them.
/
Back at camp, people are aimless, waiting, there are rumors of a new operation, of sending troops out. Billy is almost tingling in anticipation — finally something to fucking do.
They’re in their bunks and Reyes is plucking away at the guitar, humming some tune, until Frank goes over to him and holds out his hand. Reyes raises an eyebrow and Frank just moves his hand in a gimme motion.
“You even know how to play?” Reyes asks.
“Better than you, brother.”
“Fuck off,” Reyes grins and hands the guitar over.
Billy is watching this exchange out of the corner of his eye, still pretending to read his book. It’s this French existentialist bullshit and the main character annoys Billy to the point of frustration. This dude never takes a goddamn stance on anything in his life. Fucking weak. Billy could never. He’d rather shoot himself, he thinks, than just let himself go with the flow and see where it takes him.
Frank sits down on his bunk next to Billy and Billy places the book on his face, closing his eyes, and folding his hands over his chest. Frank strums a few chords before a steady rhythm builds. Removing the book, Billy arches his eyebrow and dares to peek over at him; Frank’s got a smile on his face, head swaying slightly in time with the song.
“Motherfucker,” Masterson exclaims. “Why you been letting Reyes assault that poor instrument when we could’ve been listening to you?”
Reyes makes a noise of protest and Frank — Frank just looks Billy straight in the eyes.
“Springsteen?” Billy asks and sits up.
Frank nods and hums along, sings a few words here and there. Billy sees the way confidence builds in Frank, keeping his eyes locked on Billy, and he starts singing more clearly and loudly until some of the others start to join him. It soon, of course, turns into jovial belting but it’s all the same. Frank grins big and wide and keeps glancing over at Billy and Billy nods at him, like yeah, I see you.
The song ends, the men applaud and Frank stands up and bows. Billy comes up to him from behind and shakes him by the shoulders while leaning in and whispering, “Fuckin’ A, Frankie-boy.”
Frank turns his head and their faces are so close and Reyes shouts, “Just kiss already.”
Billy grins and says, “And give you a free show? Absolutely not.” Frank laughs and puts his arm around Billy’s neck, rustling him a little.
One of the captains enters their tent and they all stand at attention before being told that the Major wants them in HQ for a briefing. “Get ready, boys,” the Captain says, “we might finally see some fucking action.”
Schoonover’s already got the maps up, hands behind his back, his towering figure imposing as always. NATO has got a new operation for them, Schoonover tells them, Operation Mountain Thrust. The objective is to disrupt Taliban command structures and dissuade people from joining and weaken their overall influence. “In other words; we get to shoot some motherfuckers,” Schoonover says and a wave of excitement rolls through the men — adrenaline and too much testosterone make for a fucking nice cocktail, new-found energy, purposeful energy, crackling off every single guy in the room. “We’ll be with the Canadians in Kandahar and it’ll be search-and-destroy. Standard operating procedure — we all know how it goes by now. I expect scorched earth, gentlemen.” He shows them the area of engagement on the maps, lays out the who and what and where before telling them they’ll be out of here in two days.
As they leave the HQ Billy sees Evans smoking, leaning up against one of the buildings, and he excuses himself.
Evans gives Billy a funny look before arching an eyebrow. “You wanna tell me where you all are going?”
“I can’t imagine I’m allowed to do that,” Billy says. “You’ll have to ask Command.”
“Then why come over here?”
“Maybe I want one of those,” Billy points to the cigarette resting between Evans’ thumb and index finger.
“Yeah? I don’t think that’s what you want.”
“Maybe not. But it’s all I can get. Out here, anyway.”
Evans hands him one and lights the cigarette for him, holding out his lighter, and Billy stares at him as he takes a drag. “Most marines do dip,” Billy tells him. “Tastes like shit.”
“Let me guess,” Evans says, “you want something different than the rest?”
Billy smirks. “We don’t have to keep talking in vague metaphors. But I’m not gonna tell you anymore about that because I don’t want you writing about it for your little magazine so all the fucking queers in New York and LA or whatever can feel real bad about the poor guy who has to hide who he really is from the big bad military daddy while fighting for his life in the geopolitical pissing contest.”
Evans doesn’t flinch at Billy’s words. “It doesn’t annoy you just a little? Your buddy Castle can talk all he wants about his wife and —”
“No. I don’t give a fuck,” Billy leans closer and grabs one of Evans’ belt loops with a finger, pulling him in. “And you don’t have to care about me, alright? That’s not what I’m looking for.”
Evans swallows. “What are you looking for?”
“Getting my dick wet,” Billy whispers and he knows it’s crude but again, Evans doesn’t flinch, instead he takes a deep breath, sucking on his cigarette. “And you get to fulfill your lifelong dream of fucking a guy in uniform.”
Evans’ eyes meet his and they both grin. “Lifelong, huh?”
“Yo, Billy,” Frank calls, pulling them out of their little bubble. Billy sighs and takes a step back. Evans looks like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar and Billy rolls his eyes. Frank comes up to them, hands behind his back, standing at fucking attention in front of the journo, always so prim and proper, that Frank Castle. Billy wants to — wants to — he’s not sure. Mess him up. Rough him up. Get him dirty. See what makes him tick. Evans smokes the last of his cigarette, taking such a deep and anxious drag that it almost burns the tips of his fingers and Billy suddenly regrets ever wanting to be anywhere near Evans’ dick because right now he looks so feeble in comparison to Frank. Evans takes his leave and Billy turns to Frank and asks him what the hell he wants.
“You really should cut that shit out. Certainly not on base —”
“Eh. It’s not like anyone’s gonna ask,” Billy says and takes a pull of the cigarette.
“Nobody needs to ask if you’re caught with your pants down,” Frank gives him a very serious look before scanning Billy’s body up and down. “I didn’t figure you for a — you know…”
Billy chuckles. “I’m not. I’m… adventurous — an equal opportunist,” he says victoriously. “You know, what it all comes down to — a hole is a hole.”
Frank pulls a face. “That’s such a disgusting way to put it. Like actually vile.” He’s shaking his head in disbelief and laughs awkwardly.
“We can’t all be romantics like you.”
Frank sighs and pauses. “Yeah, well…”
“Don’t tell me there’s trouble in paradise?”
“No, no. She just worries. And I don’t know how to comfort her. It’s not like her fear is unfounded. Schoonover and that fucking air strike.” Frank puts his hands on his hips and kicks at the small rocks on the ground.
“Schoonover is a hard-ass. But I trust him.” Billy takes another drag and Frank watches his mouth as he exhales and Billy’s mind races in all sorts of directions because Frank has never looked at him like that before.
“I thought you didn’t like command all that much,” Frank’s voice is all hoarse sounding as he speaks and Billy hollows his cheeks just a little as he sucks on the filter of the cigarette.
He blows the white smoke out of the side of his mouth and holds the cigarette up between his thumb and index finger. “You know what the Brits call these? Fags. Colour me surprised when one of the English lieutenants —” Billy smiles as he puts on a horrible cockney accent and pronounces it the British way (lef-tenants) “— asked me if he could bum a fag. I thought perhaps they had different regulations over there than we do. You never know with those Europeans and their loose morals.”
Frank shakes his head again and lets out a short laugh. “You’re gonna get me in trouble, Russo.”
“Why?” Billy asks and tilts his head to the side. Their eyes meet and he grins as he sees about a hundred thoughts wash over Frank’s expression. Billy flicks his cigarette to the ground and snuffs it out with a press of his boot. “I don’t think I could make you do anything you don’t want to do, Frankie-boy.” He doesn’t miss the way Frank’s jaw clenches.
“I’m gonna go — to bed,” Frank says and turns on his heel. Billy smiles to himself and tilts his head back, looking at the perfectly clear night sky.
/
Two days later they head out. Search and destroy. Clear and hold. Attrition warfare. It turns out to be one clusterfuck after another, unclear orders, Billy’s got sand in his eyes and his ears, even feels like it’s in his goddamn asscrack, he’s tired and thirsty but he’s not hungry at least and he’s never felt more like himself. And the best part is that he’s got Frank fucking Castle next to him through it all. Frank Castle is everything Billy has ever wanted to have and to be. He’s stoic masculinity, hard edges all over, taking stay frosty to new heights, a natural-born leader, tactical genius, he is. And he’s always by Billy’s side. Always clasping his shoulder, always smiling when Billy says “Fuckin’ A, Frankie-boy,” always appraising, always a cool, predatory gaze on his face. And Billy will look at him and nod like yeah, I see you. He’s not really sure when they started seeking each other’s approval but it happened and he’s never felt more like he belonged to someone.
While Frank is capable, everything else is a damn mess. The pure ineptitude of some of the fellow marines is honestly frightening and Billy takes a page out of Frank’s book and keeps a cool facade, though internally he knows this whole thing is just powder keg that’s waiting to blow.
He’s leaning against the humvee when Frank comes up next to him and says a quiet, “Hey, man.”
Billy just nods and stares back at the collection of houses they’ve just raided for insurgents. “We shouldn’t be wasting our fucking time here, chasing people who don’t matter. McD told me about the attacks in the cities in Kandahar and Helmand. How come we’re up in the fucking mountains again?”
Frank clears his throat and looks around them. “You ever heard of the Dunning-Kruger effect?” he asks with a small grin on his face. “It’s the — tendency for people to overestimate their knowledge and abilities in areas they’re not really all that skillful in, you know?”
“Frank Castle,” Billy breathes incredulously and gasps for dramatic effect, “are you calling Command stupid?”
“I’d never do such a thing.”
Billy chuckles. “Fuckin’ A.” But after a week of stewing in his own juices, exhausted down to the bone, surrounded by his marines’ sweat, paranoid fears, pent-up raunchiness, and patriotic aggression, Billy is starting to question Command's decision-making process and the Strategic Plan more than ever.
“Another few days and then we get to go back to base for a break,” Frank says. “Can’t wait to call Maria. You really ain’t got nobody to call?”
Billy shakes his head. “Dad’s gone, mom’s…” he scoffs, a hollow, bitter sound, “mom’s a fucking crackwhore who left me outside a firestation —”
“Shit, Billy, I’m so sorry —”
“Not your fault,” Billy says, keeping his eyes locked on the horizon. He can’t look at Frank right now. “Not anybody’s fault but hers. And anyways,” he clears his throat and forces his gaze to meet Frank’s, “I think I’ve done alright for myself.”
Frank wraps an arm around Billy’s shoulders, shaking him a little. “Yeah. Fuck yeah, you did. And you got me. I’ll always have your back, man.”
A warm feeling spreads throughout him. Because it’s true, isn’t it? He’s got Frank and Frank’s got him.
The next morning they head out for another settlement except this time the others have got fucking RPG’s and are waiting for them. Word spreads around, he guesses. He’s crouched behind rubble with Frank to his right, always to his right. The whole thing is cleared hot the second the other side starts firing and then it happens —
A blinding pain sears through Billy’s head in an instant and he’s knocked onto his back, his neck snapping with such a force he’s never felt before. Frank is on him in an instant, his face swimming into view, clear blue skies above him. Frank’s eyes are wide, and his mouth open, and he grabs Billy’s face and Billy mutters, “I’m okay, I’m okay,” he repeats over and over, “I’m okay.” Frank smooths his thumb over Billy’s forehead, shaking and trembling. “Am I okay?” Billy says, voice finally wavering.
“Yeah. Yeah. You’re okay, Billy.”
“What the fuck happened?” he rasps.
“You were fucking — you took a bullet to the helmet.”
“What the fuck.”
“Yeah,” Frank laughs, disbelieving and relieved. “What the fuck.”
/
The brush with death has Billy tingling all the way to the tips of his damn toes. The doc checks him out, clears him, he’s not even got a concussion, if anything his neck might hurt a little from the recoil. Billy can absolutely live with that.
They’re back at base and everyone clampers to the showers, it’s not exactly dignified, sharing a shower with twenty other men, everyone is eager to get the dirt and stink out of every crevice in their body so no one gives a shit about dignity and decorum.
Billy seeks out Evans the minute he can. Evans is sat at one of the benches with some other marine and is scribbling in his stupid little book, recording device between them, and Billy stops and decides to just watch for a second. He’d much rather have it off with Frank but Frank’s not quite there yet — Billy’s not sure he ever will be and maybe that’s fine too. He will never forget the look in Frank’s eyes when Billy was shot in the head. It was pure panic. No better way to describe it. That’s gotta count for something. Thinking about Frank is an itch, and Billy is filled with a violent need to scratch. It’s gone beyond the mere sexual — that seems to undermine the raw feeling Billy senses. No, he wants to own. And Frank is so good, so fucking good, with his picture-perfect life and Billy just wants to be a part of it, maybe. Maybe he’s just tired of his shitty condo and his shitty mom and his shitty food and everything else that’s shitty in his life — and there’s a lot — and maybe he just wants Frank to care enough to ask him to come over when they’re on block leave and have Maria cook something, something homemade, something made from scratch and then he’ll sit on the porch with Frank, drinking beers, and Maria will sit on Frank’s lap, drinking wine, maybe they’ll even kiss in front of him and Billy will watch and he’ll sense the kiss through them and maybe, maybe he’ll even get to watch them fuck, watch Frank bend his beautiful wife over the furniture and watch pleasure twist her face. Yeah. That’s what he wants.
“Hey,” Evans’ approach startles Billy out of his dream.
He clears his throat. “Hey. Let’s go.”
“Where to?”
Billy doesn’t answer, just walks. He doesn’t peek over his shoulder to see if Evans is following him. He walks all the way to the furthest mess hall, the one that’s rarely in use, finds the supply closet and drags Evans inside with him.
“Yeah?” Evans asks. “You sure?”
“Fuck yes, I’m sure.”
Evans sinks down to his knees, fumbling with Billy’s fly, and Billy tilts his head back against the door, thankful that Evans doesn’t waste time with kissing or other shit. Billy wasn’t lying when he said he was an opportunist. Problem is that there aren’t many opportunities in his current situation. So a near middle-aged limp-wristed liberal arts cuck like Evans isn’t bad, all things considered. Billy doesn’t really give a shit about who sticks what where, it all feels good. A hole is a hole and a mouth is a mouth and Christ, Evans wraps his mouth around Billy’s cock and it’s the best thing he’s felt in a long time. A quick combat jack with a magazine that’s sticky because all the other guys have had a go too is fine, but man. Having a go like this is incomparable.
“Fuck — you gotta be — breaking some kind of journalistic code of ethics or something,” Billy breathes as he opens his eyes and stares down at Evans who simply smirks and sucks harder, pressing the pad of his fingers at Billy’s rim and it’s too dry but it’s still so good and Billy keens over, thrusting a little into the warm, wet mouth. “Shit — gonna come,” he gasps and then he does and Evans — the clever man — knows to swallow because there isn’t really anything to clean up with.
He leans against the door and Evans even tucks him back in, pulls up his zipper and everything before rising to his feet and grinning. “You going to return the favour?”
“God yeah,” Billy says and does.
Evans doesn’t last nearly as long as Billy had hoped but it’s fine. Billy wipes his mouth with his hand and stares at Evans before saying, “You write about this, I’m going to fucking sue you for defamation or libel or whatever and then I’m going to kill you.”
Evans holds up both hands and laughs. “Don’t worry. This wouldn’t exactly look good for me either.”
Billy grins. “No? You don’t want your readers to know about your hot homosexual affair forged in the mountains of a righteous and patriotic war?”
“When you put it like that — it would probably sell good.”
“Yeah. Get you that Pulitzer.”
Evans laughs again. “Yeah,” he pulls out his packet of cigs as they step outside again. “You want one?”
Billy nods, Evans gives him one, they look at each other one last time and then Evans heads off. Billy waits a few minutes before following.
He lights the cigarette and stares at the mountains in the distance. The sun is setting and it coats everything in a pinkish hue — a more emotionally inclined person might even call it beautiful.
Billy sees Frank approaching him and gives him a nod.
“Didn’t actually take you for a smoker,” Frank says.
“I’m not. Evans offered again,” after I fed him my cock and made him swallow it all Billy doesn’t say though he wants to. He wants to see how Frank would react. Disgusted? Intrigued? Horny? Frank is always so fucking cool and collected — Billy wants to see how to make that façade crumble. He wants to poke the bear until the bear bites back.
He’s watching Frank from the corner of his eyes and Frank is shifting back and forth on his feet, seemingly nervous. “Don’t worry, Frankie-boy. Cancer won’t get me. I’m sure I’ll die too young for that shit to develop anyways.” He places one hand over his heart and grins.
“Maria’s pregnant,” Frank blurts.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Billy says. “Or, congratulations. Whichever you prefer.”
Frank gives him a long look before muttering a quiet “Thanks.”
“Wait. How far along is she? When did you see her last?”
“Oh, fuck you for implying anything like that,” Frank gets up close in Billy’s face. “I should knock your fucking teeth out.”
Billy holds out his hands in surrender. “I’m just saying, man —” He barely gets to finish the sentence before Frank shoves him and Billy falls on his ass. Excitement surges through him and he leers at Frank and, fuck, he would love a fight but people are already rushing to them, grabbing Frank by the shoulders. Frank shakes them off, saying he’s alright, that he won’t do it again. He’s staring down at Billy the whole time and Billy is staring right back, seeing the way tension ripples through Frank’s face and body and it’s so obvious that it actually annoys Billy; of course the tipping point is the man’s wife. How trite.
Frank extends a hand and Billy takes it, letting Frank help him get up on his feet again. Frank doesn’t let go of his hand though — he holds onto Billy, a steady and strong grip engulfing his hand. Billy meets Frank’s gaze and he can see the exact moment Frank surrenders.
“Sorry,” Frank mumbles.
“Yeah. Me too,” Billy tells him.
That night Billy dreams of white picket fences and lush, green gardens and barbecues with the Castles.
/
Frank finds Billy cleaning his humvee. They’ve apologized a few times by now, Billy saying he didn’t mean anything by it, and Frank had said sure did sound like you were insinuating a few things there, brother, and Billy would apologize again and say, look, man, I didn’t exactly grow up in a normal fucking household, I’m sorry, I’m used to every man for himself. And then Frank had gotten this look in his eyes, real sincere and sad, and then he had said alright, alright.
“Hey,” Billy says.
“Hey,” Frank says and whistles. “I don’t think you can get that thing any cleaner.”
Billy chuckles. “Need it functional.”
Frank nods and looks very serious all of a sudden and Billy thinks, fuck, he’s about to cuss me out again, but Frank says, “You know, we’ve got leave in a weeks time. You — you going back stateside?”
“Not sure,” Billy wipes his hands on his cargos.
“Well. You should come over. Maria’ll cook something nice.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, man. It’ll be good.”
“You sure your pregnant wife wants me there?”
“Oh, fuck off. She feels like she knows you by now — by how much I talk about you.”
Billy grins. “You talk about me?”
“‘Course. You’re my goddamn brother. Wouldn’t want it any other way. Come over for dinner. Some beers.”
“Thank you. I will.”
Frank smiles big and wide in a way he rarely does and Billy thinks, yeah, he’s got Frank Castle right where he wants him.