Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s nearly two in the morning, and you’re walking home from the bar. Not absolutely shit-faced, but with a healthy buzz and a dose of regret about the amount of money you’ve spent. Nothing left over for rideshare. Fuck. Normally, you wouldn’t be out this late alone, but your designated driver flaked on you. The neighborhood is the right kind of sketchy; bad enough that it keeps the rent low, and good enough to actually be livable. Even so, you feel safer knowing you’ve got your belt knife in its sheath on your left hip. It’s a nice double-edged thing, The blade is maybe four inches long. You’ve practiced drawing it, brandishing it, and a few different maneuvers with it. Even taken a few self-defense classes when you managed to scrape together a little extra money. It’s a reassuring thing to have, even if it isn’t technically legal to be carrying. New York can be really dangerous, just like any big city. Just like anywhere, if you’re a drunk woman walking home alone.

The summer air is warm, but not oppressive, and the neighborhood has slowed to the relative quiet that keeps the sidewalks well-lit under yellowed streetlights, but the atmosphere feels eerily deserted. You fidget with your purse knowing you have just under a mile to go before you get home. As you cross to the next block, two guys turn from the cross-street and start walking fifteen feet behind you, chatting among themselves. You start looking for an open bodega or something to duck into. Everything is shuttered. Your hand reflexively touches the handle of your knife.

You quicken your pace when you realize the two guys behind you have fallen quiet. You listen for their footfalls, and with a knot of sinking dread in your stomach, you realize they’re closing the distance. Fuck. Seconds before your brain screams to run, just fucking run, one of the guys, tall and rail-thin, grabs you bodily, sliding a hand over your mouth, and drags you into the nearest alley. The other one, shorter and more muscular, helps prevent your flailing limbs from hitting anything, or breaking free. Once Skinny has you pressed against the rough brick wall of the building, Muscles snatches your purse from your shoulder and starts rifling through it. You turn your head to break free, and loudly insist, “I don’t have any cash.” You don’t like how close Skinny is leaning into you. He smells like cigarettes and Jäger bombs.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, squeezing his left hand back over your mouth hard. “What does she have?” he says over his shoulder to Muscles.

“Just a couple bank cards and a cellphone,” Muscles says to Skinny, brows furrowed. To you, he says, “Maybe you have something at your place,” as he searches through your wallet and takes your ID. He squints in the low light and reads your address aloud. The knot of dread in your stomach tightens even more.

“I think she has something for us right here,” Skinny says darkly. “Help me hold her if she gets loose.”

Muscles drops your purse and pockets your belongings, then helps Skinny by leaning into the right side of your body, pinning your leg so you can’t kick, and pinning your right arm up so it’s parallel to your shoulder. The brick is cold against your back, and you try to push back, but Skinny is leaning his weight into your left, one hand still locked firmly over your mouth, and when he lets go of your arm and grabs at your right breast roughly, fabric tears. Your left hand is free, so you draw your belt knife, and slash at Skinny’s right side. A deep cut opens up across his ribs, and maybe if it was only him here, his hesitation and disbelief would have bought enough time to escape. But with Muscles here; it’s hopeless. As Skinny takes a step back to check his wound, Muscles grabs you by both shoulders, and before you can react, he shoves hard, slamming you against the cold wall. The back of your head and both of your elbows slam into the bricks, and your vision wobbles. You lose your grip on your knife, and it falls to the ground.

“Fucking cunt,” Skinny says, bending to pick it up in his right hand while pressing his t-shirt to his side. “You want to play with knives? We can play with knives.”

He slashes your left arm with it, a few inches above the elbow. A cut a half-inch deep and three or four inches long opens across your flesh. The knife is so sharp that the pain almost doesn’t register at first, but the shock of it does. Your cry is muffled by Muscles’ chubby palm. The cold air penetrating deep into the cut feels unnatural, and then it burns. Especially when Skinny grabs your bleeding arm and wrenches it. You cry out in pain. You look down to see blood welling dark and steady, soaking through your cardigan. You stare at it, dazed.

“How do you like it, bitch?” Skinny growls, and cuts you again, a couple inches higher than the first one. You cry out again against Muscles’ sweaty palm, tears pricking your eyes. You can feel the blood running down your arm, slicking your palm, and falling in fat droplets from your fingertips. You’re scared, but you don’t want them to see it.

You twist your head to free your mouth. “Fuck you!” you shout, and then, as you had been taught to do, you scream “Help! Fire!” as loud as you can as you struggle against Muscles’ powerful grip. He gets his hand back over your mouth. With every movement, Skinny holds your other arm pinned, your struggle pulling at the gashes. A dark stream of blood slowly oozes out. Skinny throws your knife to the ground and reaches behind him to pull a pistol from the waistband of his jeans. Muscles drops his hand, allowing Skinny a clear path to strike you across the left side of your face, the cold metal hard and brutal. You fall silent. Everything feels a little hazy, and wobbly. You choke out a groan and taste blood in your mouth.

“You mouthy bitch,” he grins, jamming the barrel of the pistol under your chin with his right hand while his left reaches between your legs.

"Why don't you pull the trigger, you fucking coward?!" You choke out. You’re struggling sluggishly against them, but your jaw hurts and you’re seeing double. The weight of both of them leaning against you makes it impossible to move. Skinny tugs at the button of your jeans, and as his cold hands roughly grasp to pull them down, you hear a gunshot. You thought it would be louder. Then a second one, the same. It takes you several seconds to register that Skinny hasn’t shot you. And that suddenly you can move again. Muscles isn’t holding you anymore. No one is holding you down. You slump forward, gasping for breath.

You blink several times, trying to clear your head. You look down and see both of your attackers lying dead at your feet, blood pooling rapidly toward your shoes. “What the...?” The coppery smell of blood hangs heavy around you, and you feel nauseous. You turn away before your brain can fully process the wounds.

Chapter Text

“Are you okay?” a figure at the mouth of the alley says evenly, and your gaze follows the sound of it. He’s dressed all in black, holding a pistol with a suppressor on it. He twists the suppressor off and drops it into his jacket pocket before quickly tucking the pistol away somewhere you can’t quite make out. He shows you both his hands.

“I...I think so?” you say, unsteady on your feet. Your head hurts, and it’s hard to think. The man’s heavy footfalls close the distance between you.

“You’re bleeding,” he says, and reaches out to touch your face. You recoil, and he withdraws. His eyes flick down and see that your pants are partially undone. “Easy. Not here to hurt you.” You reach up with your bad arm, huge mistake, to touch your own face, and for the first time, you realize the man is wearing a tactical vest with a very familiar white emblem painted on it. The Punisher. You don’t dare say it out loud. You hiss as your fingers contact the small cut on your cheek. The blood on your hand leaves messy fingerprints where you touched.

“That one has my stuff,” you point at Muscles, your stomach rolling as you see the jagged hole in his skull. The smell seems to intensify at the sight. You swallow hard to bite back the nausea. You’re starting to feel a little more yourself. You think maybe that blow with the pistol rattled you harder than you realized. Your eyes flick briefly to the dead men. Your left arm feels hot, and when you reach up to touch your face again, you realize your blood has been pooling at your feet, a dark glimmer in the streetlight. “So much blood...” you whisper.

“It’s not comin’ out fast. Looks like he got a vein. We have time.”

Your eyes follow the methodical movements of the infamous vigilante’s kneeling form as he collects your purse, then rifles through each of the dead men’s pockets. He retrieves your possessions, and tucks them inside your purse. He picks up Skinny’s pistol and tucks it into the waist of his jeans. Then he picks up your knife. He wipes the blood off it, and hands it back to you. “Smith & Wesson,” he says with an approving nod. “Good choice.” You clumsily re-sheath it with your off-hand.

“Thanks,” you say vacantly. Your mind feels too fuzzy to absorb the compliment.

“Hey,” he says gently, getting to his feet. “Hey, are you with me?” He holds your purse out, and you take it in your right hand, looking down at it like you don’t even know what it is. Your eyes flick back to the corpses.

“Yeah, I am. I just—my head hurts.” You meet his gaze, reach up to touch your head, forgetting you’re holding your purse, and clumsily drop it. He bends again to retrieve it for you, and that’s when you realize he can see your panties. Your jeans are still undone and partially drawn down. Instinctively, your hands go to your zipper, pulling it up and refastening the button. His jaw locks, and he keeps his gaze high. You pretend he didn’t just interrupt something far worse than a mugging.

“I was shadowin’ these pieces of shit. Glad I caught up when I did,” he says, kicking Skinny’s corpse hard on the words pieces and shit.

“You saved me,” you say softly, eyes flicking from his chest to his face.

“I guess.”

“Thank you.”

He looks you over for a moment. “Your arm’s in pretty bad shape. Let’s get you to a hospital.”

“No,” you say. “I don’t have insurance. The bills will ruin my credit. Closing on my first condo in thirty days. The underwriters won’t clear my close.”

He sighs and looks the wounds over in the dim light; he knows he has to get pressure on them. He pulls his long jacket off and tosses it over an old metal barrel. He grabs the shoulder of the long-sleeved shirt he’s wearing underneath, and tears the sleeve free. He wraps your wound carefully and ties it. “This’ll hold it for now. Let’s get you home. I’ll patch it up. Can you lead the way?”

You nod. You’re unsteady on your feet, but he drapes his long coat over your shoulders and helps you steady yourself as you turn toward your place. While you’re walking, you give him your name. “Nice to meet you. I’m Frank,” he replies.

“I know,” you say, wincing at the aches and pains that blossom from where you were struck. “I saw you in the papers. You’re a hero." His jaw clenches at the word, but he doesn't interrupt. "I never bought any of the bullshit they said. Terrorism my ass.”

Frank laughs through his nose and cracks a genuine smile. “Frank Castle: Not a Terrorist. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

You point, “One block up; it’s the ugly one on the right with the fire hydrant out front.” You take a couple more steps, and then stumble. Frank catches you and drapes your good arm around his torso.

“Easy. One step at a time,” he encourages you.

The two of you close the distance to the front door of your building, and you lean heavily against the wall while he pulls your keys from your purse. “Fourth floor, 4B,” you say quietly. Your head really hurts, you run your fingers through your hair at the back of your head and realize your scalp is bleeding a little. You lick your lips and they taste of blood, split where Skinny smacked you with the pistol. It’s only now you realize your face is swelling.

Frank gets the front door open, and then lifts you carefully. You drape your good arm over his shoulders and lean your head against him. He smells faintly of gunpowder, and the acrid scent somehow helps clear your head as he carries you up the stairs to your apartment door. You can smell him, too; masculine and clean. You tell yourself it’s wrong to notice. You lean closer to breathe him in anyway. He sets you down carefully on your feet, unlocks your door and helps you inside, his hand carefully holding your good one to steady you.

Once inside, you shrug off his coat and drape it on the back of one of your kitchen chairs. He takes both guns out of the waistband of his jeans and lays them on the table. “We need to get those cuts cleaned up,” he says, as he removes his vest with the harsh sound of Velcro and pulls it over his head. He sets it on top of the guns.

“Bathroom’s this way,” you reply.

-_-_-_-_-

It’s once you’re sitting on the closed toilet lid, and Frank has turned to get your shower running, that you realize your tank top is torn and your bra is showing. You try to hold the strap up and it falls again. Your eyes start to burn with the threat of tears, and you try to blink them back. You’re still trying not to think about what almost happened.

“Okay, it’s nice and hot. I’m going to need to wash out the cuts on your arm. Do you have any vodka?”

“Kitchen counter,” you struggle to keep your voice level.

He returns with the bottle. “This is going to hurt like a motherfucker,” he tells you. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to the hospital?”
You nod.

“Have some,” he says, holding out the vodka.

This is the moment when you’re thankful that you splurged for the pricey shit for once. The stuff you usually buy isn’t fit for drinking straight. You take a huge pull, and it burns all the way down. You hand it back to Frank, and he takes a swig himself. He hands it back to you, “More,” he says. You take another swing and offer it to him.

He takes the bottle from you. “Brace,” he says flatly, and then splashes some of the vodka over the cuts. You bite back a scream that devolves into a whimper, sweat breaking across your forehead with the effort.

“Fuck,” you hiss.

He rifles through your medicine cabinet and takes out every over-the-counter painkiller you have: ibuprofen, acetaminophen, and naproxen. “Take these,” he says, placing five ibuprofen tablets in your hand. You’re pretty sure that’s more than you’re supposed to have. He catches your raised eyebrows, “Yeah, don't make a habit of it. It'll take the edge off tonight.” He pokes around in your linen closet and pulls out several towels.

Frank carefully peels the ruined sleeve of his shirt from your wounds. It sticks and tugs, and you hiss in pain. “You need to take your showerhead and spray these cuts out really well. It’s gonna hurt like hell.”

You sit on the edge of the bathtub, and try to follow his instructions, but the pain is searing. You let out a choked cry. The pain makes you dizzy and you feel like you’re going to vomit. “I can’t,” you whimper, hands trembling. “I’m sorry.”

Frank exhales. He cups your right cheek in hand, and his brown eyes meet yours. “It’s gonna be okay. I’m right here.” He shifts awkwardly on the closed toilet lid, and you rest your hand on his knee. He uses one hand to steady your arm, and the other to direct the spray of the shower. The water hitting the exposed tissue might as well be sand from a sandblaster. You stifle a scream, and squeeze his knee with your good hand, your knuckles white. You’re breathing fast and you have spots in your vision.

“Deep breaths,” he reminds you. He demonstrates as he directs you. “In. Okay. Hold it; now breathe out,” he repeats it several times as he finishes cleaning the cuts. You take another swig of vodka.

“I’m gonna need to stitch those up; they’re too deep,” he points. “Don’t suppose you have a suture kit somewhere?” he asks as you swallow.

“No. I have a sewing kit.”

“Nah, if I use sewing thread, you’re gonna get an infection for sure. Cotton breeds bacteria. Needles’ll work though.”

“I have some fishing line. It’s on my crafting desk in the corner.”

“Perfect.”

_-_-_-_-_-_

He’s got you lying on your back in your bed. You’re still partially propped up on your good arm, watching him work. The overhead light is on, and he has your ring light clipped to the headboard and pointed at the wounds. He soaks the implements in vodka, then preps the fishing line and needle.

“Don’t have a bite block. Next best thing.” He reaches down and unbuckles his belt, and for a split second, every muscle in your body tenses in panic. Instinct, not reason. Frank tugs his belt from its loops, folds it over, and says, “You’re gonna want to bite down on this.” You place it between your teeth and hold it there carefully. “Okay, sweetheart. You wouldn’t like this on a good day. After tonight? Even less. I’m sorry. I gotta pin you. Gotta keep you still.” You’re dreading the pain of the needle more than the physical contact, but the way he’s looking at you is making your world tilt. Or maybe it’s the vodka.

“Now I’m gonna need you to lie back,” he places a hand gently on you, and guides you down. You don’t resist. You can tell the vodka is working, because even though you’re still in pain, it feels a little further away. Your pulse is racing against his palm, and you can feel his calloused fingertips press into the soft skin of your shoulder as he reassures you. “It’s gonna be alright.”

He climbs on top of you, carefully straddling your chest, keeping his full weight off of you. You can breathe easily, but you can’t move. He uses his right knee to brace and pin down your left arm. Your breath is trembling. You know the pain that’s coming, and you try to steady yourself by taking slow deep breaths like Frank showed you. All that does is let you breathe in his scent. The core of you clenches involuntarily, and your breath catches. It’s the absolutely wrong time for your body to respond like this. You feel a pang of shame. The tangy scent of gunpowder still clings to his clothes, grounding you here where you lay.

“Here we go,” he says. With the first pierce of the needle, you clamp down on the belt in your mouth and try not to scream as he works. You squeeze his thigh with your free hand and sob. The waves of misery rise and fall; the prick of the needle, the unbearable fire of the fishing line passing through your flesh, and the sickening tug-tug-tug of each knot closing the wound. You’re crying and squirming beneath him; whenever your movement threatens to destabilize the work he’s doing on your arm, he bears more of his weight down on you. You’ve never felt suffering like this. You want to beg him to stop, but when you look over and you see your arm flayed wide, you know you need him to keep going. So you bite down harder, leather belt muffling your curses. Your jaw aches from the effort, even more so on the side where Skinny hit you with his pistol; but it all feels like background noise next to what Frank is doing.

Each time he completes a stitch, the pain subsides enough to almost be bearable. He looks down at you, his brown eyes kind. “You’re doin’ good,” he pauses, “You’re real tough, you know that?” He smiles at you, and that tension spikes again in your groin. Then you feel the needle again, and you’re biting back a whole new set of screams, choking down your sobs, blinking away tears. “I’m right here with you.” There’s something about the way he says those five words that makes your heart lurch in your chest.

He’s going as quickly as he can, but it feels like you’ve been under him for hours, the waves of pain have no beginning and no end. You have a headache from clenching your injured jaw and being battered. The left side of your face is swelling. Yet Frank’s calm voice keeps you steady, keeps you conscious. “Last one,” he assures you.

You take another breath, and twist against his body as the pain crescendos. After what feels like an eternity, the pain has subsided to something tolerable. Sweat stands out all over your skin. You take a slow, trembling breath, and finally stop clenching your jaw. As he sets aside the equipment he just used, you look up the length of his body. The power coiled in his arms, the curve of his neck, and the set of his jaw. He looks down at you, and you think something that you’d never dare say aloud. Frank Castle is not the right person to have those thoughts about. Not now. Not ever. You’re terrified it was plain as day on your face. You hope he didn’t notice. You realize your hand is still gripping his thigh. You relax your hand, but when you remove it, you feel like you’ve waited half a beat too long. You try to cover by reaching up to your aching jaw as he takes his belt from between your lips.

The whole left side of your face hurts when you try to open your mouth. He brushes your hair back and checks the injuries there. “Just a little cut on your cheek; you’ll barely have a scar,” he brushes a thumb across your bottom lip, inspecting the splits there, but saying nothing.

He shifts off of you carefully. “I’m gonna get you an ice pack,” he says. You hear him moving around your kitchen. You’re pretty sure you forgot to refill your ice cube trays. You sit up gingerly, favoring your right side. You look at your torn tank top, damp in places from the shower. The cardigan you were wearing is a blood-soaked ruin lying in a pile on your bathroom floor. You look at the two massive gashes in your arm, stitched with clear fishing line. You think of the men in the alley, their hands on you; you’re drawing in on yourself without realizing it, pulling your knees to your chest, as you think of Skinny grabbing at you, his cold rough hands trying to pull your pants down. You think of what would have happened next if Frank weren’t there. And then you cry.

Not the brutal, ugly cry of choking back pain, but the silent weeping that causes your whole body to tremble as you rock yourself. Frank walks in then, a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a hand towel, “Turns out you didn’t have any ice, so I–” he breaks off.

He approaches slowly, and sits beside you on the edge of the bed, “Hey, hey now,” he says softly. “It’s over. You’re safe now.” He takes your face between his hands, pressing the frozen peas to your swollen jaw. “Hey, look at me,” your eyes meet his, and all you see is kindness. Compassion. “It’s over,” he reminds you again.

Tears are still spilling down your cheeks, but the corners of your mouth turn upward into the smallest smile. Your eyes flick to his lips, and you bring your left hand up to cover his right. You’re looking into his eyes again, and you let your thumb steal the lightest caress across the back of his hand before moving your grip to hold the peas to your own face. You cross your good arm over yourself and look down at your lap.

“They were going to rape me,” you finally say it out loud, putting words to the fear that has gripped you since Skinny grabbed your chest in the alley.

“Now all they’re gonna do is fuckin’ rot,” he says. He shifts awkwardly, “Uh, look. Do you have anyone you want me to call for you?” You shake your head. All your family live far away, and never wanted you to move to New York in the first place; your dad would probably demand you come home right now. And you don’t have any friends locally that you want to tell about this. You don’t think you want to tell anyone about this. Ever. Frank runs a hand through his hair, glancing left and right, not sure if he should say what he’s about to say. “I can stay with you tonight, if you want. On the couch,” he gestures toward the living room.

You brace for a beat, afraid to react. That strange tightness in your chest is back. Then softly, you say, “Will you?” It’s barely a whisper, but when you meet his gaze, he seems less tense.

“Of course.”

He leaves the room and you return to the bathroom. You wash your face, dab some ointment on the cuts, and then brush your teeth. You apply lip balm; your split lips are swollen and chapped. You carefully put on leggings and a t-shirt, trying not to strain your stitches. You cover the cuts with bandages so you can sleep without getting snagged on anything, and without the wounds seeping onto your sheets. Everything still aches, so you take some acetaminophen and then decide to throw your ruined outfit into the garbage. Even the stuff that isn’t blood-stained is tarnished, and you don’t want it anymore. You walk to the kitchen and drop it into the bin.

Frank is too big for your small loveseat, but he does his best to spread out anyway. His boots are under the coffee table, socks tucked into them, and his ripped shirt draped carefully on the back of the loveseat. He has a throw draped over his torso.

“Frank?” You whisper.

“Mm?” He grumbles.

You hold yourself, and sigh. He opens his eyes. You can’t meet his eyes when you ask. Can’t risk seeing his reaction, “Will you stay with me tonight? Next to me, I mean?” You don’t know how to say that you just need to be held. It’s true, even independently of the confusing tangle of emotions you’re feeling. Like that feeling in your chest that keeps spiking, or the desire pooling low in your belly as he sits up on your loveseat, and the throw falls from his bare shoulders.

“You sure you want that?” He asks.

You nod, and then turn back to your bedroom. You hear Frank behind you, and when you ease yourself back into bed, you draw the covers back on both sides of the bed in quiet invitation. You lie down on your good side, and feel the bed shift as he climbs in next to you. He’s lying on his back, the small and respectful distance between you like a chasm.

You roll onto your back, and lay your hand at your side, trying to close that distance. Your hand creeps closer and closer, and you stop. You feel sad and lonely and desperate. You shut your eyes and listen to the sound of his breathing.
Moments later, he takes your hand in his, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You give his hand the faintest squeeze. He returns it, almost imperceptible. Your tension starts ebbs, your adrenaline finally crashes, and you sleep.

Chapter Text

The light of the morning wakes you gently, but the aches and pains are cruel. You open your eyes and find yourself alone in bed. Your hand slides over to the place where Frank had laid beside you the night before. You don’t know why you’re thinking he’d still be here. He killed two men last night; he probably wants to be as far from here as possible. You can’t say you blame him.

You get out of bed, and head for the bathroom. You use the toilet, and carefully shower, making sure you get all of the last traces of last night off of you. You’re under the running water for as long as you can stand while holding your stitched arm up and away from the spray. You exit, towel yourself off, brush your teeth, pop another few ibuprofen, and head back to your room to put on clean clothes. You choose a long-sleeved shirt to cover the stitches and the fresh bandage you put on, but there’s nothing to do about hiding your bruised face and split lips; you’re going to use up some of your sick time and wait for bruises to fade enough to cover with concealer.

When you walk toward the kitchen, you're surprised to find Frank still in your apartment. He's sitting at your dining table, drinking a cup of coffee. “There's more in the pot if you want it.”

“Thank you,” you reply, and fix yourself a cup. You join him at the table.

“Cleaned your knife for you,” he says, setting it on the table. He looks at it, and at your arm, and then at Skinny’s pistol still sitting on the table. “Fucker used your own blade on you,” he says flatly, the undercurrent of anger clear.

You stare into your coffee, ashamed. “I was outnumbered. Shouldn’t have drawn it. It’s my own fault.”

“It’s not your fault. It was a good move because you were outnumbered,” he sighed, “Just need to know where to stick it so the fight ends fast.”

“The self-defense classes didn’t teach me where to stab someone.”

“You should get a gun,” he tells you.

“I’m not going to buy a gun. I’ve never even held a gun. I can’t afford to take lessons. What if I accidentally fire into the wall and shoot my neighbor?”

Frank picks up his gun, “This is a Beretta M9. Nine mil. Reliable. Heavy. Won’t jam. Same model as my sidearm when I was in the Corps.” He drops the magazine out of it, and sets it on the table. He clears the chamber, and pockets the bullet. “Here,” he says, holding it out; he pulls the slide back so you can see for yourself. “It’s empty. The only person you could hurt with it is me. If you throw it at me. Go on, take it.” You take it gingerly in your hand. It’s heavy, but not as heavy as you thought it would be. Probably because it’s not loaded. Frank moves his coffee aside and slides his chair around the table so he’s sitting right beside you. “There. Now you’ve held a gun,” he smiles warmly, and you offer it back to him, but he shakes his head. “Go ahead and put your finger on the trigger,” he urges.

“Frank, I–” you start.

“It’s not a cobra, sweetheart. It won’t bite you.” You want to be mad at him. You’ve hardly been around guns, except maybe a few of your dad’s friends who had hunting rifles. And even then, they were usually put away when you were around. “Go ahead,” he urges again.

“Okay.”

You pull the trigger and the gun clicks. It’s underwhelming, and suddenly you feel silly for being so nervous about it.

“Well done,” he says, and takes it back. He pulls the bullet from his pocket and pops it into the magazine, then puts the magazine back in. “Here. Safety’s on. This time, keep your index straight along the frame; off the trigger,” he demonstrates, and then holds it out for you. You take it even more gingerly than last time, and this time, unsurprisingly, it’s heavier.

“Stand up.” You get out of your chair carefully, keeping the barrel pointed at the floor. “Point it at the fridge,” he says. You do your best to do an “aiming pose” and he chuckles. “Calm down, Jason Bourne,” he says, teasing you. You frown. He moves to correct your stance, “Here’s how you actually do it,” he begins to encircle you, and you draw in a breath at the feel of him against your back. He misreads it, thankfully, “Is this okay?”

“Yes. Yeah. Show me,” you say, steadying your nerves.

And then his arms are around you. With verbal instructions, he adjusts your hands on the gun, “Wrists locked. Arms up. Don’t lock your elbows,” his hands on the backs of yours, then at your wrists, then encouraging your arms level, his breath on your neck as he speaks causes your center to clench involuntarily. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Plant your feet. Shoulder-width apart.” You do. “There you go. That’s the proper stance.” He steps back from you, “How does that feel?”

“Good,” you say, but you’re not really talking about the gun. Heat rises up your neck and you can feel the heat creeping up your face. You hate that this is happening. You can still feel the ghost of his touch on your arms. You drop the stance and carefully set the gun on the table. “But what if someone breaks in here, I shoot at them, and I miss, and it goes through the wall and kills my neighbor?”

“Don’t miss,” he says.

“Seriously though!” your brows furrow. “I’d never forgive myself.”

“Even a .22 will go through drywall. Point is, don’t squeeze the trigger unless you’re sure you’ll hit your target. This nine’s solid. It’ll put someone down, and has a manageable recoil. It’s a good gun to learn with.”

“Wait, you actually want to teach me to shoot?” you ask, startled. Patching you up is one thing, but this? “Why would you take the time to do that? It’s a lot. It’s too much.”

For a second you think you see guilt flicker across his face. Then it’s gone, and he says, “Guy put a gun to your head, and you dared him to pull the trigger. Most people would fold. You didn’t. That’s worth my time.” You heard what he actually said. But what you feel is, ’You are worth my time.’ Either sentiment is enough to twist your chest into a knot.

Chapter Text

On Wednesday, Frank returns carrying a gym bag. He’s dressed plainly, but comfortably: black jeans, black boots, and a t-shirt. If you didn’t know who he was, you never would’ve guessed. It was unsettling.

He sets the bag on the kitchen table, and notices the little orange prescription bottle sitting there. “I thought you didn’t have insurance,” he says flatly.

Technically I do, but it’s a five-grand deductible, so I basically don’t. Not with the mortgage underwriters watching my accounts for major irregularities. Turns out a telehealth consult and a prescription are well within my means.

He picks up the bottle. “Antibiotics.” He looks at you with what is almost a smile. “You faked a UTI?” He sets the bottle back down.

”Yep,” you say. You don’t really know if nitrofurantoin is the ‘right’ stuff, but it’s better than nothing.

”Clever.”

”Safe gamble of the frugal.” You shrug.

”Lemme have a look,” Frank gestures at the bandages on your arm. He takes a few steps closer as you peel back the adhesive.

“You’re takin’ good care of it.”

”Trying.”

”Ready to start?” he asks.

”Yeah.”

”Sit.” He gestures at the dining chairs.

”I thought you were going to teach me to shoot.”

Frank grins. “You want me to set up a target in your kitchen? Sit,” he orders this time. He takes the seat opposite of you and unzips his bag. The Beretta looks the same as last time. “I told you what this is. Do you remember?”

“An M9,” you say.

”Right.” He sets it on the table and takes out a second gun that is nearly identical. “This one, I’m loaning you. Beretta 92FS. Civilian version of mine. Both with a standard mag holding fifteen rounds,” He sets two magazines on the table, and returns the M9 to his bag. “First rule: always check if it’s loaded.” He gestures at the empty grip and the magazines. “Just because there’s no magazine in the mag well doesn’t mean the chamber’s empty. Rack the slide to clear it.” He demonstrates, and a round pops out onto the table. Frank picks it up and slips it into the pocket of his jeans. ”Now it’s unloaded.” He points at the button sitting right by where the trigger guard meets the grip, and says, “This is the magazine release. Push it to eject the magazine.”

Frank sets the gun down in front of you, and points again, “This is the decocker. Safety. Down is safe; up is fire. We’re leaving it safe today. Now, load it,” he orders, placing a magazine in front of you. You pick it up carefully and push it into the grip until it clicks into place.

“Mag’s seated. Rack the slide to chamber the first round.” You do as he says.

“Good. Now unload it.”

You press the release and the magazine drops and clunks onto the table before you can catch it. ”Sorry.” You blush and look away. You rack the slide, and the round pops out and rolls across your kitchen floor. “Dammit.” Your first thought is to retrieve it, but you’d rather preserve what’s left of your dignity at the moment.

Frank doesn't comment, just says, ”Show me the empty chamber.” You do.

“Attagirl. Now do it again. Next time, cup your hand over the ejection port when you clear the chamber. You can eject the round into your hand.” You repeat the process until it’s easy, the magazine is empty, and there’s a pile of ammo on the table.

He gets up to put on a pot of coffee and grabs a glass of water. On his way back to his seat, he collects the round from the floor. “Now you’re gonna reload the magazine while we wait for coffee.” He demonstrates the first one, and then watches you silently as you reload the rounds into the mag.

Frank sits with you for two more hours. He sips coffee as he watches you, and you stop every few ‘unloads’ to drink your own. He drills you again and again. Load the mag. Chamber the first round. Eject the mag. Clear the chamber. Again. Again. Again. Reload the magazine. Repeat. It’s mechanical, but there’s something rhythmic about it that steadies the part of you that’s been twisted into a knot since Saturday night. Your hands are aching from the effort, but one thing is for sure: you’re not treating the Beretta like it’s a cobra anymore, and Frank can see it.

You think he might be proud of your minute personal growth. The part of you that you’ve been trying to ignore since Saturday night is quietly pleased by the idea.

”That’s lesson one,” Frank says, “I’m going to leave this here with you,” he says as he slips a lock into the 92’s trigger guard. He pockets the key, and sets the gun on the table in front of you. “I want you to keep practicing like you did today. Next time, I’m going to time you.”

You look at the gun, and then at him. “Thank you, Frank,” you say quietly. He gives you a small nod, and you turn your attention back to your hands. You flex them a few times; they’re sore. Especially your fingertips.

”Not a problem.” He points at the 92 and adds, ”Not so scary when you’re on the right side of it, huh?”

You nod, and he adds, “I have your number from Sunday. I’ll call you with a location. Bring this with, and we’ll do some target practice.”

”Aye, captain,”

you say playfully as he exits.

”Not a captain," he says flatly, without turning around.

Could call him Sir, you think, staring at the door he just walked out of. You snap your eyes back to your table. Worst joke ever. Not funny. Never even thought it. You get up from the table like you’ve just been caught stealing from the cookie jar, and prep the coffeemaker for another pot.

You sit at the kitchen table, clutching the handle of your coffee mug. The silence of your empty apartment feels almost claustrophobic. Suddenly you worry that you’ll never feel like you’re on the right side of anything ever again. You feel anxiety gradually tightening in your chest. You pick up the Beretta, and as you start running the drill, each mechanical click ebbs away your tension. Your mind stops and your hands work.

You wake up in a cold sweat from a nightmare you don’t want to remember. It’s one thirty in the morning. Your heart is pounding, your jaw aches, and your hands especially ache. You get up and head to the bathroom, the ghost of the cold bricks from your nightmare still pressing against your back. Your breath is fast and unsteady. You take some ibuprofen and lean against the sink trying to steady your breath and slow your heartbeat. You raise your head to chance a look in the mirror. You’re still a mess. You can’t believe Frank didn’t say anything. Then again, what was there to say? The swelling has gone down a lot, but the bruise covering your left cheek is still an ugly deep purple, now with green at the edges. It’s tolerable to chew, but it still hurts. The cut on your cheek is scabbed over now, and you resist the urge to pick it. You check the stitching in your arm. It’s ugly, but it’s clean. No sign of infection. You can tell it’s healing, because it’s starting to itch. Strange how the wounds that bled so badly are the least painful now.

You return to your bed, and try to get back to sleep, but your mind won’t let you. Every time you close your eyes, you’re back in that alley. And the least upsetting bit of it is the thick coppery smell of blood in the air. Your stomach turns at the thought. You give up on sleep altogether. Coffee. It’s always a good time for coffee.

You make yourself coffee, and lower yourself onto the loveseat, holding the hot mug between your hands, and sipping. The warmth of it is comforting. You stretch out on the loveseat and pull the blanket around you, and when your body finally wins over your mind, sleep takes you.

Chapter Text

Frank calls you with a time and a location for the meet: Friday, noon You take a page from Frank’s book and dress minimalist and practical; jeans, sneakers, a t-shirt. You make sure your hair will stay out of your face. You don’t know how long you’ll be gone, so you make a large thermos of coffee and pack some sandwiches; enough for two. You put the 92 into your oversized purse, cover it with a scarf, and then put the food and coffee containers on top. You put on makeup, and tell yourself that it’s only because you need to cover the worst of the bruising in order to go out in public. No other reason. Any other reason would be wrong. Inappropriate. You thread the sheath of your Smith & Wesson onto your belt, throw on and zip your favorite oversized hoodie, and pull it over the top to cover the sheath.

It’s just after noon when you arrive at the derelict warehouse. You see the battered steel door standing open a crack, and go in. Sure enough, Frank is there. The building is completely hollowed out, and the corrugated metal roof has partially collapsed in some places. Any windows this place had were broken out long ago, which is actually nice because it lets the fresh air in and helps cut the smell of rust and old oil that clings to the place. He’s set up some targets: some human-shaped outlines spraypainted on a far wall, a half-dozen sheets of plywood are propped against another wall, figures crudely painted on them as well. He’s made three different ‘lanes’ and each one has a line drawn in chalk on the floor maybe ten feet from the target.

Frank is standing at a makeshift countertop composed of stacked wooden crates. He’s got nearly a half a dozen magazines staged and loaded. An open box of rounds is sitting mostly-empty, and you can see more boxes piled inside his gym bag. You watch as he continues to load rounds into a magazine. You see that his knuckles are swollen, bruised, and that he has small cuts in places. He’s got a bruise purpling on his left cheekbone, and a split lip. “Hi Frank,” you say. He looks up from his work.

”Hey,” he replies. He sees you looking at his injuries and seems to brace himself.

”Typical day at the office?” You smirk, gesturing at his cheek.

”Something like that,” he mutters. And with that, the tension in his shoulders eases. Whatever comment from you he was bracing for next came. You look around the warehouse again.

”Hell of a setup,” you tell him. You reach into your purse. “I brought coffee,” you lift the thermos from your purse and gently shake it back and forth for emphasis.

“Lifesaver,” he says as he finishes loading the mag. He sets it beside the others, then opens the thermos and pours some into the top, before sipping it appreciatively. “Thanks. Needed this.” He gestures to the mock ranges he’s made, “I’ve marked it out about three yards from the target. Nine feet. Toes at the line. That’s where we’ll start.” He sets the cup of coffee down and bends to reach into his gym bag. “Which one?” he asks, straightening up. In one hand, he holds a pair of foam earplugs. Across the opposite palm hangs a pair of what looks like giant headphones. You choose the earplugs, and it is not because you are worried about looking silly or smudging your makeup. Neither of those things matter at all. Not one bit.

”Gimme the Beretta,” he orders. You carefully pull it from the bottom of your purse. He removes the trigger lock and hands it back to you. “Show me you practiced your drills.”

True to his word, he does time you. Same as before. Seat the mag. Rack the slide; chamber the round. Eject the mag. Rack the slide while cupping the ejection port to catch the round. You think you could do it with your eyes closed at this point. No, you know you could. After a few cycles, he tells you to stop. “Well done. Right where you should be. A bit better, even.” Your chest fills with warmth at his modest praise. You really did practice. You timed yourself, even.

Frank leaves you standing there to fidget the earplugs into place, and approaches one of the lanes he set up. He stands a good distance back from the line he’s drawn on the floor for you, and takes the stance he showed you. It looks better when he does it, and not just because of the definition in his shoulders. He holds the Beretta like it’s part of him. Like it always has been. He locks his wrists and his forearms ripple. You very pointedly snap your eyes to the target. Earplugs in place, you come closer, so you can see it more clearly. He fires three shots in quick succession, and the sound is deafening, even with the ear plugs, it’s enough to make you flinch reflexively. You catch the set of his jaw before he puts his back to you, taking the exact Hollywood stance he teased you for in your kitchen; standing with the target on his right, arm extended. Jesus, his back, you catch yourself thinking, and you stomp the thought down. You brace for the sounds of gunfire this time, but it still makes you jump and your heart beat a bit faster.

”So you’re John Wick now?” you tease. Looking at the target, you can see that the cluster, though not as closely grouped as the first set, is still very tight. He makes it look effortless. He turns to face you, glancing at you with a small frown. When he refocuses on the target, a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he fires across his chest making a third incredibly tight cluster. He switches the gun from his right hand to his left and, firing one-handed, repeats. Another tight cluster.

He holsters his gun and turns and looks you in the eye, “I’m a Lieutenant, Marine Corps rifle and pistol expert, and a Scout Sniper. You get those credentials, and you can stand like Jack Reacher all you want. Until then; two hands.”

You nod in understanding, and then the two of you move up to your line.

Reacher was expert-level too,” you say, not really looking to make a point with it, just looking for an in for a bit of small talk. He hands you a full magazine. You seat it into the well.

”Yeah,” Frank says, “But he’s Army. Marines have higher standards for our marksmanship quals.” He stands up a little straighter with that. After a beat, “Alright. You ready for live-fire?”

“Yeah,” you say, taking a deep breath. You turn toward the target and do your best to take the stance he taught you.

”Your feet are planted; good. Elbows are good. Don’t forget to lock your wrists,” he tells you, before stepping in closer to assess your grip. “You're choking up too high on the backstrap. You don’t want to leave a gap,” he steps closer and carefully shifts your hands. You know he’s being delicate because you’re holding a loaded gun, but that doesn’t stop the heat from creeping up your neck. “You hold it too high like that, and the slide’ll bite you. Hurts like a sonofabitch and bleeds even worse. Too low, and it’ll kick like hell.” The safety is still on, and you haven’t chambered the first round yet; Frank, slow and with control, racks the slide to show you how the back of it could catch your hand, chambering the round in the process. “See? Now that you got your hands in the right spot, you gotta keep it steady. Right hand’s your strong hand; push with that one. Left is support; use it to pull, back and inward. Your hands fight each other. Keeps the muzzle down. That’s how you control the recoil.”

Frank steps back. “Take the safety off.” You do. “Remember. Push-pull. Now squeeze the trigger.”

You pull the trigger, and the combination of the sound of the gunshot and the jerk of the recoil scares the hell out of you. You flinch, and thank God that your wrists were locked, because you did not do a very good job controlling the recoil.

You squint at the target. Frank’s jaw tightens. He’s fighting a smirk. “Good news; you didn’t shoot yourself in the leg. Bad news? You just ventilated my damn warehouse.” You feel the hot creep of embarrassment spread across your face as he points at a hole in the corrugated metal wall, low and to the left of the board the target is painted on. “You’re heeling. You over-compensated for the recoil. Too much push with your right.” Still standing beside her, he says firmly, “Take your stance.” He inspects. “Good. More pull with the support this time. Again.”

This time, the gun jerks and fires high, and you know you’ve missed the board entirely again. “Dammit!” you hiss under your breath. You bite your lip.

”Too much pull that time. Made your shot go up and to the right,” Frank says. “Find that sweet spot in the middle. Go again.” You resume your stance. You take a deep breath, and tell yourself you will not flinch this time. You clamp your whole body to brace for it, and prepare to fire. “Elbows loose,” Frank reminds you. You try to relax only your elbows. Don’t flinch. Don’t you fucking flinch, you silently tell yourself. You squeeze the trigger And you flinch.

”Better,” he says, pointing at the new bullet hole you’ve made about two feet to the right of the board and higher than where you were trying to aim. You managed not to flinch as hard. “You’re getting there, but you’re flinching. It’s throwing off your aim. Dial it in. Again.”

You take another three shots, and still can’t even hit the board. “Eject the mag,” Frank tells you. You eject the magazine into your left hand and pass it to Frank. Reflexively, you rack the slide, hand over the port. The bullet lands in your palm, and you hand that to him, too. His face is unreadable, but you think you see pride in his eyes. Maybe you’re projecting; maybe you’re just pretty proud of yourself right now. Even if you can’t hit the broad side of a barn. Frank slides the bullet back into the magazine. “Take your stance,” he says, “I want you to dry-fire.”

The unloaded gun feels strangely light in your grip. You pull the trigger. You flinch, even at the underwhelming click. “You see how much that flinch moves the gun? That’s what’s fuckin’ you up. Gotta break it. Fire again.”

You keep at it for a while. Your forearms are starting to ache from locking your wrists, your hands ache too. But you’re not giving up. You stretch and flex your hands one at a time like you’re doing exercises to avoid carpal tunnel syndrome. It helps relieve the building tension. You’re going to hit that target. You keep firing the empty pistol, until you start to feel that anxious coil in your guts finally unwind. Your wrists are locked, but because you want them locked. Not because you’re mentally bracing yourself. Finally, fucking finally, you fire without flinching. You even manage to keep your eyes open. You do it several more times before Frank speaks up.

”There,” he says, ”That, is steady. Let’s make it loud again.” He hands over the magazine. You seat it, chamber a round, and assume the correct stance. You breathe deeply in and slowly out a couple of times, and stare at the center of the target as if you could just beg the bullet to get close this time. You fire, and this time the bullet is right about level with where you were aiming for. Unfortunately, it’s about four inches to the right of the plywood sheet the silhouette is painted on; the closest you’ve gotten yet. You’re disappointed, but it’s progress.

You relax and drop your right arm, barrel of the gun pointed at the floor, index finger across the frame like Frank taught you. You use your left hand to work the muscles in your right forearm. “Well, I guess that’s something,” you say flatly. It’s not a boast.

”You’re getting a feel for it. Keep going,” he encourages you. Despite being half-empty, the gun is starting to feel heavier than it did when you started. But you meant what you said to Frank: you’re not quitting until he does. You take a deep breath, assume proper posture and focus. You fire. Closer to the board this time. Without shifting your stance, you attempt to correct. You fire again, and manage to clip the edge of the board.

”Fuck yes!,” Relief punches through your aches and pains.

”Don’t celebrate yet, sweetheart. All you did was piss ‘im off.”

You pull a face, playfully, and re-assume the position. You fire again. On the board. Again. Closer to the crudely painted black outline. “Good. If this was a proper target, you’d be on paper.” You try to shift, try to get it closer still. You fire. You’re still not hitting where you’re aiming: center mass, but you are edging closer to the black.

Your hands hurt like hell, but you have two rounds left. You correct yet again. Closer! Two more shots; one further away, one closer again, but both on the paper. You’re on your last shot. It lands even closer still, but lower. “Fuck,” you say breathlessly. You eject the magazine and rack the slide. Nothing in the chamber. Definitely empty. You hold out the empty magazine out to Frank. “You want me to do another one?” you ask. He pauses for a moment, then takes it from you.

”Your muscles are getting fatigued; that’s why you dipped,” he says, gesturing at your last shot. “Let’s break for lunch.” He holds out his hand for you to hand him the pistol. You turn it over. You’re silently relieved that lunch was his idea. Your hands ache fiercely. They were already hurting this morning. You probably overdid it with the drills the last couple days. Your fingertips are still tender, and you secretly hope that Frank doesn’t ask you to load magazines today.

_-_-_-_-_

You and Frank are sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on an old wooden crate, and you open the plastic tub you packed the sandwiches in. You wince as you grip the lid to pull it off. “Sorry it’s just PB&J; it’s the only thing I knew that would keep without a cooler.”

”I like PB&J,” he says, taking a bite. You lift a sandwich and take a bite as well. A silence falls between the two of you, and it’s oddly comfortable. At least for you. And now that you’ve thought about it, you’re self-conscious. You realize how close he is to you. Your pulse quickens, and there is that feeling again. The one that doesn’t exist.

You swallow a bite of sandwich and blurt, “Have you ever met Spider-Man?” It was meant to be casual, but it sounds stupid out loud. Like all the heroes know each other? Idiot!

Frank talks around a mouthful. “Not yet. Pretty sure I’m already on his shit-list, though.”

”Fair.” You admit, taking another bite.

After maybe two minutes of silence, Frank swallows, takes a sip of coffee, and then quietly says, “Did meet a guy in a devil costume, though.”

”What?” you say incredulously, smiling crookedly, eyebrows furrowed.

”Yep. Horns and everything. Threw him off a roof.”

You snort, trying not to laugh, “Oh my god.”

Mouth full, Frank glances at you, deadpan, “What? He bounced.”

That does it. You dissolve into full-on belly laughter. You know you shouldn’t. He’s probably telling the truth. Well, not about the bouncing part, but Jesus. Your eyes sting with tears, and you wipe your face with your sleeve. Even when you try to get yourself under control, the giggles bubble back up. Finally, Frank smiles. Really smiles. Warm, easy, reaching all the way to his eyes. The real deal. What it looks like when he’s not trying not to smile. For a second it makes your chest tighten. You shove it down, replaying,’He bounced.’ in your head and laughing all over again.

He shakes his head, but the smile lingers.

The rest of the modest meal was shared mostly in silence, trading the thermos lid back and forth for coffee. You wash a couple naproxen from your purse down with a swig, and Frank gives you a sidelong look. “Laughing like that hurt my face.” You touch your bruised left cheek. It wasn’t a lie, but it isn’t the whole truth either.

When the food’s gone, you stand and stretch your back, wrists, fingers, and shoulders, ignoring the sharp ache. Hands on hips, you take a breath. “I’m ready to get back to it when you are.”

“You sure?” he asks. He has watched you fidgeting and trying alleviate the soreness of your muscles.

“I’m sure. I’ll quit when you quit.”

_-_-_-_-_-_

Frank looks you over for a moment, and then stands. He grabs a magazine from the stocked ones on the crate. “Alright. Now that you’re able to handle the recoil, put that flinch in check, and actually keep your eyes open when you shoot, I can teach you how to aim.” He walks over to the crate near the first target area, picks up the magazines, drops them in his pocket, and tucks the unloaded pistol into the waistband of his jeans. He drags the crate over to the line drawn on the floor in front of the second target. “C’mon,” he waves you over.

Once you’re standing beside him, he points at an “X” that is drawn in black permanent marker. “See that X?” You nod. “Do this,” he uses his hands to make a small triangle with his thumbs and index fingers, “Hold it out in front of you like this, and use your fingers to frame that X.” Once you confirm you’ve got it framed, he says, “Close your left eye,” he pauses for a beat, and then asks, “Does it look like the X moves outta the frame?”

”No,” you reply.

”Good. You’re like most people then: dominant eye on the same side as your dominant hand.”

”Dominant eye?” You’ve never heard of such a thing.

”The eye your brain trusts to line shit up. That’s gonna be the one you use to aim. Keep both open, but use the right.”

He takes the pistol out of his waistband, and points to the front and rear sights. “You’ve got a dot on the front sight, dead-center, two dots on the rear sight. Line ‘em up.” He raises his arm. “If the front's above the rear, your shot’s gonna go high. If the rear's below front, your shot’s gonna go low. Get ‘em in a line, and you’re level. Make sure the front post is centered in the notch. Gaps on either side of the front post should be the same size. You do all that, you’ve got sight alignment.” He hands you the pistol, and you take the proper position and try. You reflexively close your left eye. “Both eyes open,” he says, “It’s harder but it’s correct. Never create a blind spot when you don’t have to.” Your aim falters as you try to guide the pistol with both eyes open. “Focus on the front dot, not the target. If you can see the target clearly, you’re doing it wrong. If you’re seeing the rear sight clearly, you’re doing it wrong. All that matters is that front dot.”

You try to aim for the center-mass of the target using the sights. Frank watches you, but doesn’t speak. You dry-fire, just to test it out, and the barrel twitches. “Don’t pull the trigger, squeeze the trigger. Gentle. Go too hard, and you’ll lose your sight picture as you’re takin’ the shot. Which means you miss. You point this at the enemy, you don’t fuckin’ miss.” You take a moment to line the dots up horizontally. Level. Then the posts vertically. Centered. This time, you’re more careful with the trigger. “Nice,” he says, “Load up.” Frank holds out a magazine for you.

You’re actually a little bit excited to try live-fire with the sights. Maybe you’ll actually hit the black this time. You want to prove to yourself that you can do it. You want to show Frank he’s not wasting his time on this. You take the magazine, seat it, chamber the first round, and give him a quick look and a smile. When you turn to the target, your face is stone serious. You flip the safety off. You make sure your stance is spot-on. Frank’s silence indicates that it is. You take what feels like forever to line it up. “Now, you put that front dot right where you want the bullet to go,” he tells you.

Painstakingly, you get the alignment you’re supposed to have. You put the dot dead-center on the black silhouette. You try to get the balance of push-pull correct, anticipating the recoil. You take a deep breath in, then slowly exhale. You squeeze the trigger. The gun jumps the slightest in your hand, and a hole appears in the head of the silhouette. “Goddamn it, not enough push,” you mutter. Then louder, to Frank, “I’m gonna pretend I did that on purpose,” you say. You hear him laugh through his nose.

”You didn’t drive enough with your strong hand, and let it climb. You called it. Good job.”

”Good job? I did it wrong. I missed,” you clench your teeth, still trying to line up your next shot.

”And you know why without me telling you. You’re learning. Not just wasting my rounds.”

You try to get your sight picture. Center-mass. Your shot lands left and a little lower than where you were aiming, very near the silhouette. Would have been on paper if there were paper.. “Fuck,” you hiss. Without taking your eyes off the target, you ask Frank, “Too much push?”

”Yep. More pull with your support. Balance, you’re firing a gun, not strangling a man.”

You take aim again. When you fire, you’re close, but still low and left. You drop your arms, gun pointed at the floor. You’re not sure how much of your frustration is from feeling stuck, and how much is from the fact that your whole body aches. You turn to Frank, “What did I do wrong that time?”

”You jerked the trigger. Remember, it’s a squeeze, slow and steady. You need to roll your shoulders out too. The fatigue is starting to get you.” You do as he says, but god your arms are starting to feel like fire. You’re not giving up.

After a couple minutes’ rest, you try again. Assume the position, aim, and fire. The bullet hits right at the very edge of the silhouette, low on the torso. “Shit,” you say through gritted teeth.

”You flinched.”

”Shit!

You’re flagging and you know it, but you want to get a good shot. On purpose.

You re-center yourself and position to aim again. You fire. The bullet lands slightly off-center and low, but you’ve hit it. “Gut-shot,” Frank says, “You took the fight out of ‘im. He’s gonna bleed out slow. Cruel woman.” He smirks.

”At least I did more than piss him off this time,” you grin.

”Your support was too soft and you rushed the trigger press. That’s why you dipped.”

Your hands are trembling and your forearms are on fire. You try rubbing the ache out of them one at a time, switching the Beretta from hand to hand in order to do it. You roll your shoulders some more, and you know you’re going to be miserable tomorrow. Maybe even for the rest of the weekend.

After a few minutes of rest and stretching, Frank asks, “You ready for another shot?”

You take aim, and fire. The bullet is only four or five inches to the right of where you were aiming, and exactly the right height, and in the black. “Yes!” You exhale hard; it’s almost a laugh, hands still shaking from the shot. Finally!

”That’s the one,” Frank says. “Chase that.” There’s a warmth in his voice that tells you that he didn’t waste his time with you today. You didn’t waste your own time today. You prepare to fire again. You start lining up your shot, but when you lock your wrists, you start to tremble. Your picture’s wobbling, and you try to get the shot in before your muscles give out. You fire, and the bullet goes wide and to the left. You don’t curse under your breath this time, you just lower the gun and sigh. “We’re done for the day,” Frank declares. “Your muscles are giving out. There’s no value in drilling past muscle failure. Magazine,” he says, hand outstretched. You sigh, and drop the half-full mag into your shaking hand and then set it in his palm. You rack the slide and hand over the bullet. He tucks it into the mag and then pockets it. “Gimme the gun, too,” he says. At first, you think you’ve done something wrong, and maybe he can read it in your face, because he adds, “I’m gonna clean it. After your next live-fire drill, I’ll show you how that’s done.”

You hold out the gun and he takes it from you. Your hands are still trembling. “You did good today,” he says.

”Did my best,” you say weakly.

”I know.” There’s warmth in his eyes, but his face is neutral. The more time you spend with him, the more you think his silences say as much as his words do. “Time for you to head home, sweetheart.”

”Yeah,” you say, suddenly feeling the fatigue and exhaustion more acutely. You pull the earplugs out of your ears and tuck them into your pocket. “Walk me to the station?” you ask hesitantly.

”Of course.”

_-_-_-_-_-_

You and Frank are walking toward the station, each with a bag slung over your shoulder. Him with his guns, ammo, and whatever else he has in there, and you with your purse, which feels disappointingly light without the 92 in it.

As you’re walking together, three guys burst out of a small bar, chattering loudly. They don’t even notice you as they cut across the street. You instinctively jerk hard, clutching Frank’s forearm and pressing yourself close to him. Your pulse skyrockets, and you feel like you’re suffocating. It makes you breathe fast and shallow. You can’t stop yourself from looking over your shoulder to make sure they aren’t doubling back to follow you. Tears rise behind your eyes, but you fight them. Your whole body is shaking.

Then you feel Frank’s hand on top of yours, warm, heavy, and steady. He squeezes once, firmly. “I’m right here,” he says.

The words ground you just enough to grab onto. You force your breathing under control, and release your death grip on his arm. You know he thinks you’re brave, and tough, and you can’t let him see you fall apart. You keep your hand under his and use it as an anchor until you can put yourself back together.

It’s only surface-deep. Inside, your chest is still tight, your breath still jagged, your heart still hammering. But you school your face, unclench your jaw. You slip your hand away from his, careful not to look like you’re fleeing.

“Yeah. Thanks, Frank,” you manage, clipped, voice steadier than you feel. “Guess I’m still a little jumpy, but I’m fine.”

You’re not. You’re still in the middle of an anxiety attack, just masking it.

At the train station, just out of camera view, Frank tells you, “I need to know you made it home safe.”

“I’ll text you,” you promise. The words feel heavier than they should, like admitting you want him tethered to your safety.

You leave him standing outside, tap your OMNY card, and push through the turnstile. The train lurches forward, and the whole way home your palm stays welded white-knuckle tight around the handle of your knife. Your heart never really slows.

Chapter Text

It’s Saturday morning, and you can barely move your hands. Everything from your shoulders to your fingertips feels like one solid cramp. Your fingers barely move and have almost no strength to them. You still manage to get the bottle of acetaminophen open, and take a thousand milligrams. You pull the bandage off the stitches now that you’re awake. The wounds really need to breathe. You lie back down in bed and wait for the pills to work.

While you stare at your ceiling, you think back on yesterday. Mostly thinking of Frank. The way he made hitting the target look effortless no matter how he stood. The shape of his shoulders and his back as he fired. The way the muscles in his forearms flexed when he locked his wrists. You think about his hands guiding yours into proper position. You think of it for so long that you start to wonder if he had needed to touch you, or just wanted to. The feeling that twists low in your belly wants it to be true. You remember that you sat down to lunch first. Then he sat down right beside you. There were other crates. There was more room. But he sat right beside you, his shoulder occasionally brushing yours. 

Lying here, waiting for the meds to kick in and take the edge off, you think you’re reading into things. Making something out of nothing. Frank didn’t send any signals. You know it. Yet you realize that the meal you shared with him was the most connected to another person you’ve felt in a long time. You can’t remember the last time you laughed like that, either. Then you think of his smile, and realize how empty and one-sided the media’s narrative truly is. Even people who see the Punisher as a man who takes out the trash have a very one-dimensional view of him. Until a few days ago, that included you. You suddenly feel a wave of shame that has nothing to do with your impulses.

As the sharp pain in your arms finally erodes into a dull ache (at least as long as you stay still), you think again about the alley. You try to push down the anxiety. You know that the only reason it’s gotten to you so badly is because of what happened in college. The ghost of that night long ago still looms over you from time to time, but you've mostly healed. The ‘what could’ve happened’ of last week is more haunting and panic-inducing than what actually did happen. And you only just now reluctantly admit it to yourself, but seeing two dead bodies at your feet, gunshot wounds to the head, and the thick coppery smell of the pooling blood...it has shaken you. And you’ll never admit it to Frank. Just because they deserved to die didn't make it easy to see. Now you worry that being glad they're dead makes you a bad person. It's all so complicated.

You think about texting Frank again, but you don’t know what to say. The only message you sent him is the one he asked for: Made it home safe.

You realize you’ve been scratching your stitches when you snag one with your fingernail and wince. It’s so itchy! You’re tempted to cut the stitches out just to get it over with, in hopes it would stop the itching, but when you look more closely at it, you know that would be a bad idea. You’re pretty sure it would split wide open again if you did.

And when the itch subsides, you're replaying yesterday again. You might be making more of Frank’s actions than you should be, and seeing things that aren’t there because you desperately want to see them. Because, you finally let yourself think it on purpose: Frank Castle is sexy. You want him to touch you. You want to feel his hands on yours again. You’re a grown adult and there is nothing wrong with feeling desire. And you’re certainly not going to let your mind run wild with assumptions just because of the touch of his hand, and him sitting next to you to eat lunch. It’s already weird for you, the way the lust has crept up on you. You don’t have to beat yourself up for it; you’re shaken, you’re not dead. But you aren’t going to say a damn word to Frank about it.

And just when you start to feel okay with thinking those thoughts about Frank, the other half of your brain cuts in. But what if you only feel that way because he saved you? Why are you attracted to a man who shot two men in front of you? What is wrong with you? Relationships built on trauma don’t work. It’s unhealthy. You know that.

Then your thoughts contradict again. Who said anything about a relationship? That feeling low inside you that tightens reflexively, and makes you squirm in your bed? That’s your body telling you exactly what it wants: sex. You try to ignore it. Your mind is at war with itself and your body. And the sane part is losing two-to-one. Maybe you’re just pent up. Maybe if you touch yourself, you’ll stop thinking about him this way. Unfortunately, your arms still hurt like hell. Even if you really wanted to, you can’t. Not yet.

Okay, enough of this. Fuck. None of this is productive. Nothing is going to happen, so there’s no point in thinking too hard about it. At least you’re no longer pretending not to think about it at all. You get out of bed as carefully as possible, and get on your computer. You download some forms from the web and fill them out. Might as well get the ball rolling on your concealed carry permit. You’re not able to submit them digitally, so you tell yourself you’ll do it Monday on your lunch break. Just anything to get your mind off the storm of conflict crackling inside you.

You eat a meal, and then draw a hot bath in order to soak your sore muscles. Holding your stitches out of the water on the left doesn’t help. You lie there in the water for two hours, draining and re-filling the tub with fresh hot water when it starts to cool. It helps release some of your tension, but the aches still remain. Once you realize how wrinkled your fingers and toes are, you get out and dry yourself. You put on a pair of pajama pants and lie back in your bed again.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Frank: How’re the stitches after yesterday?

You: Fine. Itches like hell though.

Frank: Normal.

You don’t know how to respond, or if you should respond again. But you imagine him reclined on his couch, or maybe his bed, shirt off, phone in hand. That image causes warmth to pool between your legs, and before you realize it, your fingers are pressed against the outside of your pajama pants. 

You squirm for just a moment, and when you realize what you're doing, you jerk your hand away like you burned it. You’re not a teenager. Stop.

You withdraw your hands to your phone and scroll videos to distract yourself until your eyelids grow heavy and you drift off to sleep.

You're in the warehouse, and Frank is correcting your grip on the Beretta. You've been struggling to aim. So instead of watching you flounder, he stands behind you, his firm chest pressed to your back, arms around you. You hear him breathe in more deeply through his nose than necessary; he’s smelling your shampoo. His hands cover yours, and as he leans in, his breath is a whisper across your cheek. His hands force your hands steady as he tells you to pull the trigger. You think you feel his lips against your ear as he speaks the words, and the tension coils in you, leaving your panties damp as you obey his command. “That is exactly how the push should feel, sweetheart,” Frank says. His mouth is on your neck, and suddenly you're somewhere else; a bed. You roll over in the sheets. Frank is on top of you. His mouth covers yours, and it’s all heat with his broad chest pressed to yours. You're caged between his arms, his hard length pressed against you. You whisper his name. You tell him you want it. Yes, you're sure. You need it. Now his lips are on your left thigh. You’re spread for him. The grip of his hands. Fingertips pressing into your skin. You feel his breath against your sex as he leans down to–

You jolt awake in bed. It's still dark outside. There's an ache between your legs. You're incredibly wet. The intensity of the dream is already fading, but the memory of his breath against your ear makes you clench. You take a deep breath; your hands are trembling, but not from the aftermath of the live-fire practice anymore. The sharp pain from your fingertips to your shoulders is eroding into a dull but intense ache that still requires meds to take the edge off. You get yourself a cold glass of water and wash down two naproxen as you try to push the dream from your memory.

_-_-_-_-_-_

It’s your first day back to work, and you’re thankful that your desk job doesn’t require you to lift your arms much. You spend all morning tapping away at the keyboard, falling into a familiar rhythm. You embrace and enjoy the normalcy, slipping back into your routine. You know it’s good for you.

You did your best to cover the bruising on your face with concealer before you left the house; if anyone has noticed, they haven’t asked about it. You have to admit that you’re relieved.

When lunch time rolls around, you skip food in favor of submitting your application for your concealed carry permit. Starting the application process for legally getting a gun was the easy part. Actually getting the permit will take time. You return to your desk after your lunch break, and you're glad you’ve got things moving. It feels good to be proactive. You are painfully aware of the fact that you spent days illegally possessing a firearm. One given to you by a man convicted of murder. A lot of murders.

After work, you ran a few more errands, and now you’re sitting at your dining table, eating the takeout you picked up on your way home. You smile at the shopping bag sitting in front of you. Inside is your prize: an insulated lunch bag. Big enough to pack a nice meal for two. You’re planning to step it up from peanut butter and jelly next time. The fact that you’re planning a meal now, thinking of what Frank might like... it makes something tighten in your chest. You want to make him smile again. You want him to notice that you care. And you want him not to notice. It’s just a meal. It’s not an admission of anything.

Once you finish eating, you retrieve the cold pack from the new lunch bag and put it in your freezer. You settle yourself onto the couch and watch some TV, trying not to think about how badly you’re hoping your phone will buzz. Anything from Frank; asking if anyone mentioned your bruises... or better yet, setting a time and place for your next session.

Your phone doesn’t buzz.

Around ten o’clock, you crawl into bed, feeling the right kind of tired. You’re the least on edge you’ve been since that night in the alley, and sleep comes easily.

_-_-_-_-_-_

Just before your workday ends on Wednesday, your phone buzzes in your pocket. It’s Frank.

Saturday. Noon. Same place.

Your heart leaps into your throat for the briefest moment. You curse under your breath that you have read receipts on. He knows you’ve just read his message. Now you have to answer right away, and you can’t overthink it. Or think just the right amount and say something clever. So instead, you respond:

I’ll be there.

_-_-_-_-_-_

It’s Friday, and you’ve just left the office for the day. You get a haircut (nothing major; just freshening up the look you already have), and stop by the grocery store and buy everything you need to make tomorrow’s lunch.

Once you get home, you get started right away. You pack two bottles of a decent craft beer at the bottom of the insulated lunch bag you bought. You make four turkey and cheese sandwiches with mayo. You put mustard on yours, but knowing that not everyone likes mustard, you decide to put some on the side into a tiny resealable plastic container. It’s part of a set your mother got you before you moved to New York. You slide a plastic knife into the box, and figure Frank can add the mustard if he wants. You wrap each sandwich carefully. You add carrots, too. You pack the whole thing so the sandwiches don’t get crushed.

In the morning, you’ll brew the new coffee you bought; it’s supposed to be better than the stuff you usually buy. You hope Frank likes blonde roast. Then you’ll fill the thermos. You’ll take the lunch bag out of the fridge, slide the cold pack into it, and take it all with you to meet him. And then you’ll pretend that you didn’t agonize over what you packed. You’ll act like it was an afterthought.

You lie in bed and you can’t sleep. Tonight, you’re not thinking about the alley. What’s keeping you up is your stitches itching like a bastard, and your stomach and your chest twisting with the anticipation that, in less than twelve hours, you’ll be seeing Frank again.

By two in the morning, you’ve given up getting to sleep naturally; you creep into your own kitchen and pour two shots of vodka into a glass, and add some orange juice. You chug it, and then go back to bed. Vodka has less staying power than sleeping pills; the last thing you want to do is oversleep. And two shots isn’t enough to cause a hangover. You climb into bed and back under your covers.

When the warm buzz of the alcohol slows your mind and fills you with warmth, you’re finally able to drift off to sleep.

You’re lying on your bed, Frank standing beside you. He carefully unbuckles his belt and slides it free of its loops. He drops it to the floor, then joins you on the bed. You run your hand down his chest, and palm his growing length over his jeans. He inhales sharply, and leans down to press his lips to yours. “I want to show you something,” he says. He lies beside you on the bed. You caress his chest over his dark green henley, your fingertips teasing what bit of bare flesh you can reach where the front buttons are undone. He undoes the button and zip of his jeans. You place a soft kiss on his neck right where it meets his jaw, and then whisper in his ear.

“What do you want to show me, Frank?”

“Exactly how I want you to touch me,” he replies. You look down the length of his body to see his hand wrapped around his cock, moving firmly and slowly. You should be admiring his length, but what captivates you is the ripple of his forearm as he grips himself. The flex of his hand, the strength in his wrist; all moving in a steady rhythm. It’s all you can focus on as he works himself up and down. You reach to place your hand over his. You want to learn the rhythm he likes.

The grating sound of your cell phone’s alarm tone pierces your sleep. “Goddamnit,” you mutter. Sure, you feel well-rested, but you’re flushed and there’s an awful ache between your legs. That dream could have lasted just a few more minutes. You hate that the relief feels like disappointment.

You sigh and get out of bed. After you use the bathroom and brush your teeth, you start brewing the new coffee you picked out, then put on some makeup. Just enough to look nonchalant; the kind that looks subtle, but makes your eye color pop. You don’t want Frank to think you’re trying to look nice for him. You decide to dress plainly again, but thankfully it’s hotter today. So you wear a pair of tight-fitting athletic leggings, a tight T-shirt, and then throw on an oversized flannel shirt that you leave unbuttoned and wear like a jacket. You are toeing the line of plausible deniability. You want him to notice you. To think you’re sexy. And absolutely not on purpose.

When the coffee is done, you pour it into your thermos and seal it. You take out the insulated lunch bag, and slip the cold pack inside. You sling it, and your purse, over your shoulder, and head out to meet Frank Castle for your next lesson.

Chapter Text

You arrive several minutes late. Frank is sitting on a crate. He has dragged a large wooden cable spool in from outside and laid it on its side as a makeshift table. “Sorry I’m late,” you say. “I had to reload my OMNY card and there was a line.”

“Didn’t want to jump the turnstile?”

You pretend to be scandalized, “Mr. Castle, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.” His mouth tightens a bit at that, trying not to smirk. You tug on the shoulder strap of the lunch bag. “I brought some food for later,” you say. Reaching into your purse, you pull out the thermos. “And coffee for now or later. Instructor’s choice.” You set the lunch bag, your purse, and the thermos on the makeshift table.

“Let’s do the coffee now,” he says. He’s acting like he wants to sit you down and give you bad news, and you don’t like it one bit.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he moves a small bag from the floor to the table, “But it’s time to take out your stitches.” He was clearly bracing for a negative reaction from you.

“Oh thank god,” you sigh. “They’ve been itching like hell.” Frank gives a small, crooked smirk at that. “What?” you ask. “It can’t possibly be worse than when they went in. Let’s do this.” You peel your flannel off, and you swear that for just a millisecond, you saw his eyes flit down to your chest. Your heart beats a little faster as you tie the flannel around your waist.

“Sit here,” Frank gestures at the part of the spool-table that isn’t covered with the items you brought. He opens the thermos and pours some of the hot coffee into the lid, then hands it to you. “Here,” he says. You take it and sip it carefully; it’s still very hot. It is better than the stuff you usually buy. You pass it to him, and he takes a sip. His eyebrows arch in appreciation. “That’s some good coffee,” he says.

“Yeah, it was on sale. I thought I’d try something new,” you say. Another thing that wasn’t a lie, but wasn’t the whole truth, either. What were you supposed to say? I picked it out just for you, Frank. Hell no. He downed the last of the coffee and winced a little before using it to cap the thermos.

From the small bag beside you, he pulls a couple of wrapped medical tools. Forceps and a pair of sterile scissors. “You ready?” he asks.

“Yeah.” He puts on a pair of nitrile gloves, opens one tool, then the other, and then carefully uses the forceps to pinch and hold the fishing line in place. He carefully draws it taut, and you hiss in pain. He pauses for a moment, his eyes searching your face. You’re wearing a grimace, but you say, “I’m good, I’m good. Keep going.” He uses the scissors to snip the line just below the knot, then uses the forceps to pull the line completely loose from your skin. While it definitely doesn’t hurt as much as it did going in, the sensation of the nylon fishing line tunneling through your dry and still-sore skin is unnerving.

“One down, twenty-three to go,” Frank says quietly. He works through a few more as you grit your teeth.

“You’re good at this,” you compliment him.

“One of my best friends is a Navy Corpsman. He taught me a few things.” He doesn’t look up when he says it.

“That’s like a Medic but in the Marines, right?” Frank nods. “Cool.” Frank pulls another stitch taut, and it snags somewhere deep in your arm. You groan and clench your teeth even harder. “Fuck that stitch in particular,” you hiss. Frank snips the line and pulls. You pretend you’re clearing your throat in order to stifle a sob. You really don’t want to see what he is doing to your arm, but you want to watch him work. While he’s focused on the stitches, you can steal longer looks at his features without getting caught. Your eyes rake slowly across his profile, starting at his full lips as they tense slightly in concentration, then moving to his faintly-stubbled jaw, down the length of his neck. Pausing to watch his Adam’s apple bob gently as he swallows, then continuing down to the plunging unbuttoned neckline of his navy blue henley. Just the smallest teasing hint of his chest. You watch it rise and fall.

“You okay?” he asks. Your eyes snap to his face. Shit. He’s looking right at you. He caught you staring at his chest. You blink a couple times.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just zoned out for a minute there,” you assure him. If he knows you were checking him out, he isn’t letting on. Maybe your eyes really were glazed over.

“Good. I’m about half done. Looks like these are going to stay closed up.”

“Good.”

“Have you had any swelling in your arm? Tingling? Numbness?” he asks.

“Yeah. Pins and needles all over, especially when I’m at my desk at work or carrying stuff. Numb spots right here,” you gesture between the two slashes, and then down the outside of your arm toward the back of your hand. “Fucking weird.”

“That shitstain gotcha pretty good,” he said, brows furrowed. “The nerve damage’ll get better with time. Bouts of swelling, too. Vein was severed. It’s gonna take your body time to re-route the bloodflow.” After a beat, and another little bite of pain prickling in your arm, he says, “There. Last one’s out.”

You look closely at your own arm, stitch-free for the first time since that night. “Jesus. It’s ugly.” You don’t know why you thought it would suddenly look less raw and angry when the stitches came out. Your eyes sting. You refuse to cry. Not for this.

“It’s not that bad,” he says.

“Compared to what? A shark bite?” you huff; a small sniff escapes before you can stop it.

“Ain’t pretty. Doesn’t have to be. Here,” he says. He sets the tools down, and rolls up his left sleeve above the elbow, revealing a lumpy round scar in his forearm, just below his elbow. It’s thick, and you can tell it runs deep, but you don’t think it looks too bad.

“What happened?”

“Guy stabbed me with a broken broom handle while I was in prison,” he says, rubbing a thumb across it.

“Holy shit.” A broom handle. The shock sinks in. If it were anyone but Frank, you’d probably say ‘I’m so sorry,’ or something, but the set of Frank’s body is solid and unbothered; whatever you’d say would bounce off. So you swallow the words. You sit in silence for a moment as he rolls his shirtsleeve back down to just below the scar. “It’s different for guys. Guys look good with scars.” You look down at your sneakers, wondering if it’s better to let people think you did it to yourself than admit what happened in the alley. “No guy wants to date a woman who looks like someone put her in a meat grinder.”

He glances at your face, not the scars. “Any man who decides he doesn’t want you because o’ that,” Frank gestures at the twisted pinkish-purple lines. “Isn’t worth shit. So don’t waste your time worryin’ about that,” he stands up, and tosses the medical tools into the small bag. You cross your arms, trying your best to use your right hand to cover the newly-forming scars. “Here,” he says, “Almost done.” He affixes Steri-Strips across both cuts to make sure they don’t reopen. “Keep these dry. No soaking tonight.”

“‘Kay,” you say softly. While Frank is stooping to put away the last of the medical supplies, you hop down from the makeshift table, untie the flannel from your waist, and put it back on, desperate to cover the long, discolored lines in your flesh. You’ve suddenly forgotten all about trying to look like you weren’t trying to look pretty today. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Frank reach down and pull ‘your’ Beretta from his bag. He turns back to you. For a moment, you think you see disappointment on his face, but then it (whatever it was) is gone, and he’s handing you a set of ear plugs. Once you’ve got them fitted into your ears, he holds the 92 out to you. Safety’s on; you take it by the grip, and rack the slide to check the chamber. Yep. Loaded. You feel the weight of it.

“Mag’s fully loaded?”

“Of course.” Something about the heft of the Beretta in your hand makes you feel a bit better. “I’ll have you do a couple hours of drills,” Frank continues, “We’ll break for lunch since you brought some. Then I’ll show you how to clean it.” He points at the 92. “You don’t take care of your gun, it won’t take care of you.” He pauses for a beat. “Now. Let’s do some shootin’,” he says.

“Maybe if I imagine that skinny fuck’s face on the target I’ll actually be able to get decent grouping today,” you say with more bravado than you feel. You don’t want to imagine Skinny’s face. Or remember what his dead eyes looked like staring off to nowhere with his brains on the asphalt less than two feet from your shoes. You suppress a shudder.

“Attagirl, that’s the spirit,” Frank smiles for real, and the ugly memory instantly evaporates. So does most of your self-pity over the scarring. You are sure that nasty feeling will come back to rear its head again later, but for now? It’s just you and Frank. Your shoulders drop and you can breathe again.

_-_-_-_-_-_

Frank jumps right into the live-fire exercises with you. You’re both stationed at the third makeshift lane, and he has about a dozen mags set on top of a wooden crate ready to go. He explains double-action and single-action and what that means for how to handle the trigger. After about twenty minutes of firing DA/SA pairs, your aim is a lot more consistent, and you’re not hitting low-left on the DAs nearly as often. Next, he has you drill shooting DA/SA  pairs with a solid breath between them. Near the end of your third magazine, you get five shots in a row into what Frank calls the A-zone. Center-mass. You’re absolutely giddy. You look at Frank, index finger on the frame now, the muzzle still downrange, “That fucker is not getting up, Frank,” you laugh, your left hand briefly resting on your hip.

“Not this time, sweetheart,” he smiles. The real one. Again. “You got ‘im good. Let’s take a coffee break; rest your shoulders or you’ll end up like you were this past week.” You put the safety on and set the Beretta on the crate. You’re feeling warm, so you tug your flannel off and tie it around your waist. You plop down on the crate, and Frank, thermos in hand, sits next to you. Right next to you. His right shoulder is close enough to your left shoulder that you can feel the heat coming off him. He takes the cap off the thermos, pours coffee into it, and hands it to you. You drink half of it, and hand it back. He downs the rest.

“How’d you know how bad my arms were this week?” you ask.

“Because I saw the way you moved when you left. Lemme guess; flat on your back for the rest of the weekend, pounding NSAIDs until Wednesday?”

“Yep,” you admitted. “It was worth it though. I said I wasn’t gonna quit on you. I meant it.” You look at your toes. “Still do.” You cross your right arm over your chest and curl your right hand around your mangled arm. 

You see Frank watching you, and that’s when you realize that the gesture lifts your breasts and presses them together. You’re not sure if he’s looking at your cleavage, or the shame in your posture, and you withdraw your hand. He refocuses on the thermos, pours a fresh cup of coffee, and offers it to you. “It still bothers you,” he says flatly, not looking at you.

“Yeah.”

“It means you survived,” he says. “This?” he gestures at his arm, and the scar under his shirtsleeve. “This was good luck.”

“How is getting stabbed good luck?” You ask, not with opposition in your voice, but sad resignation. Your eyes are still locked on your injuries.

“He left it in, and when I pulled it out, I had a weapon. He’s shitting into a bag if he’s still alive, and two other guys are dead.” He meets your eyes as he says, “And I have this.” He taps the place on his shirt that covers the scar.

You think it’s a hell of a way to keep score. You also think you understand what Frank is getting at. “Why’d he stab you in the first place?”

“I shivved his boss.”

“So he was kinda mad, huh?” you deadpan.

Frank looks at you for a long moment and then bursts into laughter, and the sound of it, warm and vibrant, tangles up inside you, stirring and twisting together the tense feeling in your chest with the tense feeling deep in your belly. Seeing the moment of joy reach his eyes, you can’t hold a straight face, and your face splits into a grin. “Yeah, he was pretty pissed,” Frank agrees.

_-_-_-_-_-_

Frank draws a new line on the floor with a piece of chalk. “Five yards,” he says. “I want you shooting from here now.” Your groupings aren’t as tight, but you’re still in the black. You smile to yourself as you keep working on the target. In the middle of your second magazine, you get another good grouping in the A-zone.

“Dead,” you say under your breath. You realize you’re still smiling. 

“I want you to start going to a real range,” Frank says. “Your form’s good. You know what you need to work on. You can rent a pistol there. They’ll try to get you to take the .22. Say you used to shoot with your family back in...” he trails off for a moment. “Where’d you say you moved from?”

“I didn’t say.”

“So where’d you move from?”

“Ohio.”

“So say you used to shoot with your family back in Ohio. Tell ‘em you want the 92. You’re a good enough shot they won’t question it.”

“I’ll go Monday after work,” you tell him. Silently, it’s a promise.

It’s the last drill of the day; he wants you to practice ‘two in the chest, one in the head’ and you do a decent job with the first two shots, but you feel like you're too slow to line up for the headshot. You fire your last rounds, drop the empty mag, and check the chamber. The gun’s empty but you still engage the safety. “It’s hard to believe that two weeks ago, you’d never even held a gun.”

“I’ve had a good teacher,” you smile. You can feel heat creeping up over your cheeks.

“Okay, go ahead and have your lunch,” he says.

“Our lunch,” you correct him, gesturing toward the table. “I packed enough for both of us.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. You think the lunch has the exact effect you were going for. “Alright, Chef; what’s on the menu?” He sits on the crate, propping his elbows on the spool.

You open the bag and reach in. “Nothing fancy. Turkey and cheese with mayo.” You set Frank’s two sandwiches in front of him, and yours in front of you. “Side of mustard if you want it,” you place the little container on the table beside the sandwiches, and balance the plastic knife on top of it. “And best of all.” You grin, and pull out the beers.

“Nice.”

You hand him one, and then twist the top off your own. You sit next to him. Not so close that your shoulder brushes his, but close enough that you can ‘accidentally’ shift your leg so that your knee occasionally makes contact with his. You count four times that he allows the contact to linger. And two more times that he shifted and brushed against you. 

If it means to him what it means to you, he’s certainly not giving any indications. Acting like he doesn’t even notice it. Maybe he doesn’t. You chew in silence for a moment, then swallow. “You know something silly?” you say to Frank.

“Mm?” he replies, mouth full.

“When I was in elementary school, my dad used to pack me bologna and cheese sandwiches. He’d put Doritos on them. I loved them. I was in college before I realized that was weird.” You smile warmly at the memory.

“It is pretty weird, but it still sounds better than most of the MREs I’ve had.”

As you crunch on a carrot, you work up the nerve to ask him something personal. Nothing high stakes. Just small-talk. You swallow, and then ask, “So what do you like to do when you’re not...” you trail off, then smoothly transition to an acceptable euphemism, “...working?”

He smiles. “Read, mostly. Sometimes I play guitar.”

“You play guitar?” You weren’t expecting that. You quirk an eyebrow.

“I try to. Mostly I just make noise with it until someone tells me to shut up.”

“Isn’t that all guitarists?” you quip. He laughs through his nose at that, and then you follow up, “What got you into that?”

“I picked it up on my first deployment. Had lots of time to sit around between missions.”

You take a big bite of your sandwich and nod. You shift your leg and the length of your thigh is pressed lightly to his. You both pretend not to notice.

_-_-_-_-_-_

After lunch, you pack up everything that needs to go home with you and clear the table. “Go grab the 92. I’m gonna show you how to take it apart. You bring it over and sit down across from him, absent-mindedly racking the slide confirming it’s still unloaded. 

Frank pulls out all the needed supplies. Gun oil, and a pair of each kind of cleaning brush. He tosses you a soft cloth, before walking you step-by-step through disassembly. You’re careful not to drop anything, or let anything roll away. It’s all fairly straightforward, and everything is going well.

Until Frank slides his bore brush down the barrel, and works it in and out. His forearms ripple as one holds the barrel and the other works the brush. In and out, rhythmically. You know he’s just clearing carbon residue from the barrel. But all you can think about is the dream you had last night. A blush creeps over your face, warm and unwelcome. You avert your gaze, but it’s too late. Your panties are wet and the shame of it deepens the blush further.

You think you can smell your own arousal. Your heart starts pounding, and you grab the gun oil. You dab on more than you strictly need, hoping to god that Frank can’t smell you, and that the scent of the gun oil will drown it out. You pick up your own bore brush, and suddenly cleaning your own gun barrel is the most interesting thing in the world. You work the brush in and out, and try not to think.

When you finally dare to flick your gaze up to look at Frank, his eyes are already on you. You’re convinced for a split second that he can smell you over the gun oil. That you’re red as a tomato and he’s going to ask about it. Instead, he just says, “Lemme see,” with a hand outstretched. You hand him the barrel and he inspects it. “Looks good,” he hands it back.

After what feels like an eternity, your heart rate finally returns to normal. The heat in your face subsides, and Frank’s walking you through putting the 92 back together. He packs up his gear, and you’re still using the cloth to rub the residue of gun oil off your fingertips. Once you give up, you give the cloth to Frank and he tucks it away.

“You said you’re going to the range on Monday?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me know how it goes,” he says. After a beat he adds, “I’ll walk you to the train.”

_-_-_-_-_-_

Once you’re behind the locked door of your apartment, you send a single text message:

Made it home safe.

Chapter Text

Monday at work is uneventful. John from Receiving invites you to join him and a few others at the nearby bar, but you decline. After work, you head to the nearest range you can find. Frank was right; they do try to get you to rent a .22, but you won’t budge. You spend about an hour and a half shooting before calling it a day.

It’s different, standing with the target, but not with Frank. The minor distraction of other people coming and going, and the major distraction of other people’s gunfire both make it harder to shoot straight, but the absence of Frank keeps your head a little clearer and your hands just a little more able to compensate for the change. You don’t consider it an improvement.

While you’re on the train home, you send Frank a text: I got them to give me the 92. I did alright today, but nothing to write home about. It was harder than I thought to focus with other people around shooting too. Hope you had a good weekend. You send it before you can talk yourself out of it.

As you’re letting yourself into your apartment, your phone buzzes. Your heartbeat picks up as you read his name on the notification.

The extra noise will get ya. We'll work on that next time. 

‘Next time.’ Your heart beats even faster. Your chest tightens. 

You think about how to respond, but don't know what to say. Another message arrives.

Been thinking I should teach you how to handle your Smith & Wesson. Offense and defense. No more battle scars for you.

You're smiling now. You type out a response. I'd like that. Let me know when works for you.

Will do.

You stare at the exchange for a long moment. You can't wait to see him again. And you tell yourself it's just the training. And maybe the muscles. And nothing more than that.

_-_-_-_-_-_

Friday morning, you get a text from Frank with an address. Meet me in back. 10pm tomorrow. Wear athletic gear.

You reply with, Got it. And the saluting emoji.

After work, you go to the range and get in some more practice with the Beretta, then go home and make yourself pasta. You open a bottle of red wine, and sip its contents from a glass throughout the evening as you pack. By eleven, you've settled on the couch with a water bottle, dazedly watching some romantic comedy film starring a guy who looks like he could be Captain America’s younger brother.

_-_-_-_-_-_

It’s Saturday night, and you’re lurking behind the local community center. You’re sure you have the address right, but you’re a little early and getting uneasy waiting for Frank. You’ve got on a pair of athletic leggings and a tank top, with a black hoodie pulled over top. Your purse is slung over one shoulder, and this time you’ve only packed a thermos of coffee. It’s the high-end blonde stuff you brought to your last session with Frank.

You have your knife stashed in the bottom of your purse tonight, since you don’t have a belt to wear it on.

At five past ten, Frank emerges from the shadows off to your left with a bag slung over his shoulder. “You ready to get started?” he asks. You nod, and he uses a key to unlock the back door. You both enter, and he makes sure the door is locked behind you both. 

He leads you to the room. There are mats on the floors, stacks of different shaped and sized pads stacked against one wall, various types of gloves on a shelf next to them, and at the far end, a couple of large heavy bags hanging from chains mounted to the ceiling.

Frank drops his bag on a bench and opens it up. “I gotcha a set of wraps,” he says. He waves you over, and drops them into your hand. He reaches in and pulls out a set of his own. “Sit,” he gestures. “Like this,” and demonstrates how to use them to wrap your hands. You slip your thumb into the loop, then replicate his motions. “Not too tight,” he warns you. Doing as Frank does, you get the wrap between each of your fingers, and all around your hand, then up and around your wrist. At the end, it Velcros to itself and stays in place.

You fumble a lot more while you use your non-dominant hand to wrap your dominant hand, and curse under your breath. Frank helps you. He goes over to the shelf and picks through the supplies, finding a pair of fingerless gloves with padding where your knuckles are. He helps you fit them over the wraps and fastens the Velcro strap at your wrist. “There,” he says. “I want to work on striking and blocking with you tonight.”

You open and close your hands, getting used to the bulk of the wraps and gloves. “Let’s warm up a bit,” he says. You end up spending forty-five minutes doing pushups, jumping jacks, and stretches. He even has you run laps. Once you’ve got a nice sheen of sweat on you from the exertion, he gives you an order, “Make a fist.” You do. He nods. “Now, show me how you punch,” it feels like a trap, because you know you’re going to do it wrong. So you stand, and throw your fist at the air in front of you like a fool.

“Make a fist, extend your arm all the way,” he says while standing behind you. When you do, he circles around to your right and asks, “May I?” his hand stops a few inches from your wrist.”

“Yeah.”

He takes your fist and wrist easily in one large hand, and rotates it inward just the slightest bit more. “There. When you make contact, that’s the angle you want. He comes around to stand in front of you, holds up one calloused palm, and says, “Press your fist into my hand. Feel the difference between how you did it, and how I showed you.” Your hand is touching his in the least sexy way possible, and still your body responds. 

You feel the difference in pressure, but don’t understand why it matters. “Keep your fist rotated inward, wrist locked, elbow fully extended. You line those first two knuckles up with the rest of bones in your arm, and turn the whole goddamn thing into a battering ram. Don’t turn that fist inward? You’ll break your hand. Boxer’s fracture.” He takes your hand and points at the two bones most prone to breaking.

Your breath hitches, and he lets go. He moves to stand beside you. “Stand like this,” and you do your best to copy it. Left foot forward, the right a bit back, shoulder-width apart, more weight on the balls of your feet. “Hands up,” he says, demonstrating. You mimic it. “Always protect your head and face,” he pauses for a moment. “You remember Karate Kid?”

“Wax on, wax off?”

He smiles, “Show me,” you copy the maneuver from the film, sweeping your left hand in a counter-clockwise circle, then your right hand in a clockwise circle. “Yeah, that’s basically it. A simple block. Block me,” he says, and moves slowly. He’s not trying to get a strike in on you, he just wants to see you move. You block with your right. “Keep your left up. Guard your face.” he alternates like that several times, until you remember to keep your non-blocking hand up to shield your face.

“Now, let’s turn your arm into a battering ram,” he says. He demonstrates a solid right cross. “Push off the back foot. Twist your hips, and push the momentum up through your arm. Get it right, and all the power from your hips goes right into that fist.” He has you repeat it several times, correcting your stance, and guiding you on your timing.

He walks over to the pile of pads and grabs a rectangular one that has handles on the back. He stands in front of you, and holds it horizontally. “Show me your right cross,” he says. You try, but it lands weak. You try again, and it’s better. You remember you need to rotate your fist in more. This time, the punch isn’t as hard as it’s supposed to be, but you feel the way the bones in your arm line up. “Keep going,” Frank encourages. Another six or seven times, and you land the rhythm perfectly. You aren’t very strong, but at least you have the movement down. He can tell. “Solid,” he says. “Now let’s do a left jab,” and he tries to walk you through the same motion. Even as you get the hip-twist down, you don’t feel like your left jab is nearly as powerful. You don’t feel all that energy coming from the back foot when you do the jab. You tell Frank as much, and he says, “Now we combine them.” Once you get the rhythm, he swaps the rectangular pad for a pair of big round gloves.

“Striking and blocking.” You throw your cross and hit the mark. Frank taps you in the face with the padded glove. “Keep your left hand up,” he says. You throw a cross again, and this time when he comes in to tap you, you block with your left with a counter-clockwise sweep. But when you drop your right, and he taps you on the opposite side.

“Damn.” 

You keep going on that way for another twenty minutes before stopping for a water break. You offer Frank the coffee from your thermos, which he happily accepts. “Thanks, sweetheart,” he says, opening it up. “This the stuff you brought last time?” he asks.

“Yeah, the good stuff. Blonde. Less bold, more caffeine,” you try not to sound smug. He pours some more in the lid and offers it to you. You drink it carefully, and sit with him in comfortable silence. When you hand the cup back to him, you wonder how many other people get to see him this way. Not as a boogeyman, a hero, or a monster; just Frank.

“So how’d you get the key to this place?” You ask.

“Someone owed me a favor.”

“I owe you, too. Something more than coffee and packed lunches.”

“No, you don’t,” he insists.

“Well, none of this may seem like much to you, because you do it all the time; but it’s a lot for me. It means a lot. And I owe you. Big.” he can tell you’re not backing down.

“You sure?” he asks.

“Yeah.” You put out your hand to seal your promise with a handshake.

“Favor accepted,” he says. Frank takes your hand, just for the briefest moment, and gives it a squeeze. You ignore the flare of heat in your belly and let go, maybe a little too quickly. “You okay?” he asks.

Shit. You must have been making a face again. You blink a couple times, look at him, and then quirk a small smile, “Yeah, just thinking.”

“About that night?” he asks.

“No, actually,” you say truthfully. He reads the relieved surprise in your face. He chooses not to ask what you were thinking about. You’re glad, because you don’t want to lie to him. “I started packing last night for the move. They still haven’t given me the clear-to-close.” You cross your arms. “But thanks to you, I don’t think there’s going to be any problems on my end.” Your fingers brush over the edge of one of the scars for a moment. “Should we get back to it?”

_-_-_-_-_-_

The next hour wears you out. Frank tells you that you shouldn’t punch someone in the head or face with a closed fist if you can avoid it; you’ll be more likely to break your hands or knuckles than harm your opponent. You learn the palm-heel strike, as well as the hammer fist; a downward strike that you land with the fatty part of your hand rather than the bony knuckles. He shows you how to put the extra force into it by using your whole body to create the momentum.

The first session is just those six strikes, paired with the two basic blocks. By the end, you’re better at keeping your guard up, and Frank seems sure enough of your abilities that what were taps to your face are being delivered to your sweeping forearms. And they’re a bit more than taps now.

When you two finish up, you’re breathing heavily and covered in a sheen of sweat. Your shirt is damp at your cleavage and the small of your back. You tug the gloves off and put them back in their place on the shelf. Frank is already sitting on the bench, and you watch him unwrap his hands one at a time. He’s going slowly, so he can neatly roll up the end as he works, and as he carefully winds the wrap, more of his forearm and wrist is visible. The sight makes your breath hitch, and you immediately look away, beginning to tug at your own wrap and copy Frank’s movements.

“Keep those. Bring ‘em next time,” he says. You put them in your purse along with the now-empty thermos. Before you head out into the night air, you zip your hoodie all the way up. Once outside, Frank locks the door. “You’re a fast learner,” he says. “I want to keep working on this with you, but weekends are a no go. I’ve got...work stuff going on.”

“You mean...Punisher stuff?” you say. His expression is somewhere between dread and annoyance. You have a feeling this is where people start asking him a lot of questions. The kind whose answers get him arrested. You suddenly feel like you’ve stepped out of line, but Frank doesn’t look angry. More resigned.

“Don’t call me that,” he says flatly. “That’s their name, not mine. But yeah. That.”

You watch him for a moment as he schools the look of bitterness out of his features, and then gently touch his arm. “I’ll work around your work schedule if you work around mine,” you say, as if he didn’t basically just tell you that weekends aren’t good for him because that’s when he’s out killing people. Fuck.

“Deal,” he replies, the hint of a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth.

As has become your routine, he walks you to the train and says goodbye to you just out of view of the CCTV cameras.

When you’re safe inside your apartment, you send him a text: Made it home safe. 

_-_-_-_-_-_

While you’re in the shower, you think all of this is finally sinking in. What happened in the alley has you fucked up, but it isn’t coloring how you feel about Frank. The reality of it is starting to sink in in a way that it hadn’t before. He killed those guys in that alley, right in front of you. And he would have killed them if you weren’t there. You’ve known from the start that rescuing you was incidental.

What never felt incidental was everything that happened after that. He could have walked away and left you standing over their corpses to figure it out yourself. It’s not like your phone was broken. Shit, you were so rattled from getting hit in the head that had Frank not spoken to you, you never would have known he was there.

He chose to create a witness, one he knew he wouldn’t kill to get rid of, in order to help a woman home. And then do field medicine so she didn’t lose her forever home over a goddamn hospital bill.

You get out of the shower, your thoughts whirring but not getting any real traction. You can’t reconcile the man in the media with the man you’ve actually spent time with. This is exactly why most vigilantes wear disguises. So they don’t have to deal with this. Frank doesn’t get the benefit of being able to compartmentalize. Or have anonymity.

_-_-_-_-_-_

It’s nearly three in the morning, and you’re in bed, staring at the ceiling. You think about getting a gym membership. Which of course leads you to questioning whether or not this is unhealthy. One bad night and you’re someone else. Shooting guns. Throwing punches. Eyeing up the city’s most infamous vigilante like a horny teenager. Coming when he calls, like a lost puppy. You roll onto your side, and squeeze your eyes shut. Pathetic. Get therapy.

Therapy can’t teach you to disarm a man twice your size, the other part of you retorts. A gym membership isn’t a personality trait. Learning how to protect yourself after being attacked isn’t an unhealthy response. And the things you’re thinking about Frank...well. You’re not acting on them. You wouldn’t. Couldn’t. That would be insane.

Not that he’d ever want you like that. The thought stings harder than you want to admit, so you shove it away fast. You force yourself to refocus on the real issue: there is nothing wrong with going to the range or the gym. So, with the internal battle fought, you decide to join the gym by your office. You mentally set your schedule: Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at the gym for cardio and strength training; and Tuesdays and Thursdays at the range. A solid routine to keep you steady. At least until the next text from Frank tips you off-balance again.

Chapter Text

You sleep in on Sunday, and when you wake up, you start packing. There’s two weeks until your scheduled closing date, and suddenly you feel like there’s no time. You pack up all the non-essentials in your bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen, and wrap what furniture you can in moving blankets and plastic wrap. The more you prepare things yourself, the less you have to pay the movers.

By Sunday night, your house looks pitifully bare. You’ve pushed your couch against the opposite wall to make room for even more cardboard boxes, each labeled by room and with your vague shorthand as to their contents.

You’re still waiting for the clear-to-close, but you’re ready for the last remaining meetings, paperwork requirements...anything they could possibly ask for. And you made sure that you have the apartment through the end of next month, so there is no hurry to move, and so you have the option to re-sign the lease if the sale falls through.

It’s all been very stressful. Which is what led your friends to take you out to the bar that night, and you blowing off steam getting wasted and pretending to catcall your friends while they did bad karaoke. You’d spent more than you were supposed to, even with them buying you drinks. It had been one of the best nights you’d had in a long time, until you found yourself walking home alone at two in the morning. You plop down on your couch and lean back into the cushions. You squeeze your eyes shut, pinch the bridge of your nose, and breathe slowly as you force yourself to relax. You don’t even feel sleep creeping up on you before it cradles you gently in its arms.

_-_-_-_-_-_

It’s Saturday night, and as you sit at the table, knocking back drinks with your friends, you have the strangest sense of deja vu. Your friend’s name is called and their song is announced, some 90s alternative love song, and as she takes the stage, your eyes wander the bar. You spot a man as he comes in the door. He scans the room and takes a seat at the bar, orders a beer. He’s attractive and muscular, and the impending reality of homeownership has you feeling more confident than you have in years. On top of that, it’s been artificially augmented by the liquor coursing through your bloodstream. So as your friend starts their performance, you walk over and plant yourself on the empty stool next to the man. You request a mai tai from the bartender, and turn to the man, “Any way I can talk you into a stronger drink?” He looks at you for a moment before his face breaks into a warm smile.

“Whiskey. Rocks.” The bartender is close enough to hear the order.

You gesture back and forth and say, “On my tab.”

You tell him your name, and ask him his. “I’m Frank,” he says.

“Well, Frank...I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before.”

“Haven’t been here since they put in the karaoke rig.” He winces as your friend hits a bad note, “And now I remember why.” The bartender places your drinks in front of you.

“She’s actually pretty good at this one. I blame those last two Long Islands.” You both chuckle, as you sip your mai tai. “Do you sing?” the question is innocent, but you lace the follow-up with subtext, “I’ll do a song with you,” you offer. This is not something you normally do, so it’s good to practice and blame subsequent awkwardness on the alcohol.

“I used to try, when I played guitar. I don’t much anymore,” the genuine answer to your question. He leans over, letting the subtext seep into his own words, “But I don’t do karaoke. Especially not with pretty women who have had too many mai tais,” he says.

“Fair,” you say, your face splitting into a grin. You’re not as drunk as you’ve been letting on, but you’re definitely far from sober. You decide to stop playing it up. Looks like you met an actual gentleman in Hell’s Kitchen tonight. “A true gentleman,” you say, tipping your glass to him before taking a sip.

“So what brings you out tonight with Alanis Morrissette and the gang over there?” he asks.

“My friends thought I needed a night to de-stress. I’m buying a condo, and it’s been a lot to deal with.”

“Ah.” he sips his whiskey. “Congrats on impending homeownership,” he says, tipping his glass to you. He’s smiling, and the warmth of it hits you hard.

“Thanks,” you say. You can feel a blush rising over the heat in your cheeks created by the alcohol. “Not tonight, but sometime,” you fumble, “Would you like to do dinner or something?”

He considers for a moment, and it feels like an eternity. “Yeah,” he says at last, “What’s your phone number?” He takes his phone out of his pocket and internally, you run a victory lap. You are terrible at talking to men, and even worse at talking to exceedingly attractive men. But here you are. He types in your number as you recite it. A moment later, your phone chimes in your purse. “That’s me,” he says.

You look at the bar clock. “Shit, it’s late.”

“You callin’ a rideshare?”

“Nah. Still pinching pennies. I don’t live far; I’m gonna walk.”

“Alone?”

“That an admonishment or an offer, Frank?”

“Both.”

You close your tab. You catch a friend’s eye on the way out, point at the door, and wave. They clearly want to complain, to wave you over and insist on a proper goodbye. Until they see the man standing next to you. They give you a silent thumbs-up, and immediately turn to the table to announce their suspicions to the group. Internally, your ego is out of control; you’re about to be a homeowner, you have a steady job, on track for a raise, and your closest friends all think you’re ditching them to bed the hottest man on the island.

The two of you chat on the walk. “I’ve been living here for about seven years,” you tell him. “Moved here from a small town in Ohio.”

“I’d ask if you like it, but you’re buyin’ a place, so...”

“It’s home,” you say simply. “More home than home ever was.”

“Glad to hear that.”

As the two of you cross the street, a couple of rowdy guys cut in from the cross street. A sense of deja vu spikes in you again, and the world tilts a moment before the feeling slides away. They’re chatting amongst themselves maybe fifteen feet behind the two of you. Frank stands a bit taller, and puts an arm around your shoulder.

“So what do you do?” he asks, as if his entire demeanor didn’t just change.

“I’m a payroll clerk,” you say, “It’s boring, but it pays the bills and I never have to take work home with me. I actually like it. What about you?”

“I used to be in the Corps. Now I do repairs. Sometimes I work security.”

You haven’t totally forgotten your surroundings either; you track the chatter of the strange men to map their whereabouts; it continues a distance behind you for a couple blocks, then you hear them cross the street and move down another intersection and out of range.

“Nice. I have some friends from back home who’re vets. Mostly Army, though. To hear them talk, the whole war was a drinking game.”

Frank removes his arm from around your shoulder, and you’re disappointed. He relaxes, and then chuckles, “That sounds like the Army,” he says, “Good for them.” You’re not sure what that’s supposed to mean, but you don’t ask.

“That’s me up there on the right,” you point up to the next block, “The ugly one with the fire hydrant out front.”

He nods. “Do you like Mediterranean?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you reply, “I like pretty much anything. Or at least I’m willing to try. I won’t eat bugs though.”

“Good call. They aren’t bad, but the texture is...” he trails off into a shudder.

“You ate bugs?” you look at him, horrified.

“It was an emergency,” he admits, “The war wasn’t just a drinking game for some of us,” he says plainly.

“Well, I’m glad Cafe du Insect is off the list,” you say, trying to defuse any tension. You knew from the Vietnam vets back home that mention of wartime could spiral rapidly.

“Definitely off the list.” You’re both standing on the sidewalk in front of your apartment building, and he smiles at you. His brown eyes meet yours, and for a moment you feel like the world is frozen. “Safe and sound,” he says, his eyes flicking to your front door before returning to your face. He looks at your lips, then into your eyes again.

You look at his lips. Full, soft. Back to his eyes again. His hands are on your waist, and you bring yours up his arms to rest on his shoulders. You tilt your head up, and as one, you two close the distance. As your lips meet, one of your hands moves to the back of his neck, fingers gently caressing his skin and trailing up into his hair.

When you break apart, it isn’t awkward. You both smile, and he says, “I’ll call you about that date.”

You smile, and nod. “Thanks for the company, Frank. I’ll see you soon.”

You see in your periphery that he only turns back the way you two came once the front door is latched behind you.

You drift awake on the couch, and this time the tightening in your chest isn’t anxious-but-pleasant, but absolute sadness. The details of the other dreams fade rapidly into confusion and shame. This one? Every moment of it clings with you, because dream-Frank said things the real Frank never would. Frank Castle has never once called you pretty. If you had met another way, any other way, maybe he could have.

Instead, he'd found you helpless in an alley and laid two corpses at your feet. Now he can never see you as something other than broken.

Now you’re crying quietly on your couch, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the events the dream erased, or the ones they created.

Chapter Text

Over the next week and a half, your new routine is filled with work, the gym, and the range. You’ve started your required courses for your concealed carry permit. You skip the gym on Wednesday when Frank invites you to another late night at the community center.

He drills you on the strikes, and adds in two new blocks. It still involves the sweeping ‘wax on, wax off’ motion, but this time, the blocks are low; clockwise for the left, counter-clockwise for the right. Frank calls out the strikes, sometimes one by one, sometimes in groups, and sometimes many, in rapid-fire succession until you’re too tired to strike effectively.

Tonight when you pause for a break, stretches, and water, Frank asks how the range is going. “I’m tightening my grouping, but it’s still not super-great. Probably because I keep moving the distance back just when I’m bringing it in close.”

“Impatient,” he teases.

“Guilty.” You smile.

“Did they clear your close?” he asks.

Your heart skips a beat. He remembered. “Yeah.” you grin. “This morning. I sent them over all the last-minute stuff. The closing’s on Monday.”

“Congrats.”

“Thanks, Frank.” And there is the warm smile again. The one that turns your bones to jelly and heats up the lower parts of you. You bite your lip for a split second, and then grin. You look down at your gloves.

“Back to it. I wanna show you how to break a couple choke-holds before we call it a night. We’ll drill it more next time.”

Next time. The two words you’ve come to crave more than you’d like to admit.

When the two of you step back onto the mats, Frank explains that most people who do a choke-hold don’t do it correctly, and aren’t trained. He says that if someone trained ever has you in a choke-hold, you’re probably fucked. He says you’ll worry about that another time. For now, he’s going to show you the two kinds of choke-holds you’re most likely to encounter.

“I’m going to need to get close and put my arms around your neck for this. I’m going to squeeze, but not hard. Not tryin’ to take you out for real, sweetheart. You gonna be okay with this?”

“Yeah,” you say. Your heart is pounding in your chest again.

“Tap my arm if you need me to let go.”

“Okay.”

Slowly, Frank takes you into a chokehold. His chest is pressed against your back. “Most of the time, someone’ll grab you around the neck like this. If they aren’t tryin’ to put you down right there, then they’ll probably get the other hand over your mouth tryin’ to keep ya quiet, or around your waist if they’re tryin’ to carry ya off,” his breath is at your ear, and yours catches in your throat before you can control it.

“You good?” he says.

“Yeah,” you say sharply. Heat is pooling low in your belly, making your center ache. You also feel a similar heat rushing up your neck and across your cheeks.

“Someone grabs you like this,” he says, “Here’s what you do. I gotcha with my right? So you take that right leg, step back far as you can, while you get both your hands in the crook of my arm.” You follow his instructions. “Hook those hands and lock ‘em,” he says when he realizes your touch is too soft. Too tentative. You adjust.

“Like this?”

“Right. Now pivot on that back foot to rotate your body into your opponent’s chest. And jerk your arms down as hard as you can.” You run through the motions several more times. “Now I’m actually going to come up and really grab you, apply some pressure so you know what to expect. Now, shut your eyes.”

You do as he asks. You hear him move away from you, then somewhere out in front of you. Then he’s silent. Even when you strain, you can’t hear a sound. In a flash, his arm is around your neck and your eyes shoot open. You gasp in genuine terror, and your hands reflexively grasp the arm around your neck. But with eyes open you remember where you are. And exactly who is pressed against your back. Your brain stutters, but your body remembers the drill. Your hands lock, you drop your foot back, and pivot. You break the hold.

“Good job,” he tells you, smiling.

You smile back, but you’re breathing way too hard. Your hands are trembling. You’re focusing on his face way more than you should. You need to see him, remember it’s him that’s here, and that here is here. Your heart is pounding, and you’re trying not to let your mind take you back to that alley. “Thanks,” you finally force out. “That was intense. Still followed through. Just…need a minute.” You focus on slowing your breath until your hands stop shaking. Only then do you add, “Again?”

He runs the maneuver with you several more times, and with each attempt, your instinctual fear wanes into the reality of Frank’s arm around you. His chest pressed to your back, his breath against your neck. The solid strength of his bicep and forearm beneath your grip, and the way that for the barest moment your hips press back against him as you pivot to break the hold.

“I think you’ve got it,” he says. There’s a smile just at the corner of his eyes, and that, combined with the heat at your center has you absolutely giddy. “Okay, last drill of the night. Say someone’s chokin’ you from the front,” he says. “Put your hands around my neck,” he says.

You do, and it’s awkward. “You hook and lock your hands jus like for the other one,” he says, “Only this time, you grab the wrists, and jerk down,” he demonstrates. “Now I want you to try.” He reaches slowly for your neck, the question of, ‘Is this okay?’ as clear as day on his face. You tilt your chin up as acceptance, and when his rough hands close gently around your neck, you feel a flood of heat and moisture between your legs. It shames you, how automatic it is. How your body reacts before your mind can shout it down.

You fix your eyes on his arms, anywhere but his face, praying he can’t read whatever’s written across yours. Shame for sure. Embarrassment. Shock. Didn’t know this would be a turn-on, you think. All of it rockets through your mind in an instant. “Ready?” You say, still not looking up.

“Go.”

You break the hold. Just like the first choke-hold drill, you repeat it. After the first two, you force your shame and embarrassment under control. You school your expression into what you hope is absolute neutrality. This isn’t sex, it’s survival training. Even so, you want to look him in the eyes for this. You continue the drill several more times, and on each pass, Frank tightens his grip. By the last run, he certainly isn’t using his full strength, but he’s not being gentle either.

_-_-_-_-_-_

As you’re peeling off your wraps, you say to Frank, “That was a good session.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “It’s good we got some defensive maneuvers in tonight.”

“Thanks again for doing this with me, Frank. It’s been good for me. It’s really helped with...” you trail off, because you don’t know what to say. “It’s really helped,” you adjust to make it a closed statement instead.

“Glad it has.”

_-_-_-_-_-_

By the time the two of you are walking to the train, the heat in you has subsided, and you almost feel normal again. “So, do you think it’s weird that Hogwart’s is in Greenwich Village?” you ask.

Frank laughs. “Actual fucking wizards,” he says. “Not sure I buy it. Probably just more tech.”

“The get-ups are just as weird,” you add.

“At least they don’t wear masks,” Frank says. 

“I dunno. I think there are some pluses to having anonymity,” you reply. “Anyway, I heard Doctor Strange was an actual doctor before he got magic powers. Or whatever they are.”

“That’s one hell of a midlife crisis,” he laughs.

“Yeah.”

“Some real ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ bullshit,” he adds.

You chuckle at that, and it blooms into full-blown laughter. “I think he really did go to India or Tibet or something!” you gasp. There are tears in the corners of your eyes now, and you’re struggling to wipe them away with the sleeve of your hoodie. After you catch your breath, you add with more seriousness, “We live in a weird fucking world, Frank.”

“We do.”

Again, you’re at the train station, just outside the view of the CCTV cameras. “Good night, Frank,” you smile at him. He looks back at you with one of his suppressed grins.

“Goodnight, sweetheart. Get home safe.”

“I will.”

When you get home, you send him a text confirming that you did.

Chapter Text

After you text Frank, you put your phone on the charger on your nightstand. You strip down and throw your clothes, hoodie, and your wraps into the wash. You hop in the shower to soap the smell of the gym and the grit of your sweat from your skin. You soap yourself, and as you rub firm circles into your sore muscles, you can’t help but think of Frank.

The feel of his arm under your hands as he simulated the rear choke-hold. His muscles rippling under your touch. His rough hands feather-light on your neck at first, and then slowly squeezing tighter and tighter with each run-through. How you’d dared to put on your best Poker face so you could look him in the eye. At the time, you thought it was to prove to yourself that you weren’t being filthy...but standing under the hot spray of the shower, you can admit that it was because you were being filthy.

You don’t even know if you got turned on because of the hands on your neck, the fact that those hands were Frank’s hands, or if your brain is going haywire because it’s been too long since you’ve had a release. God, how long has it been? You ask yourself. Thinking for a moment, you know it’s been six months since you had sex. And...shit; four months since you’ve gotten yourself off. No wonder you’re like this right now.

You try to remember the last time you’ve gone this long without an orgasm, and you can’t. The realization fills you with relief. It explains everything. Too many hormones and too much need put in close proximity of a very handsome self-defense instructor, and no fucking wonder you’re in the state you’re in. Thinking the things you’re thinking. Having the dreams you’re having.

You release that tension, and you can go back to being your normal self, focus on the lessons, and stop getting distracted by lust and wishful thinking that Frank might scratch that itch for you.

You’re fully capable of scratching that itch yourself.

_-_-_-_-_-_

You’re in your bed now, settled onto a clean, dry towel and cozy under your blankets. You have a vibrator beside you, but first you explore the curves of your body with your hands. You cup your own breasts, apply just the right amount of pressure, and then run your fingertips lightly across your nipples. They immediately perk, and goosebumps spread across your body. You move both your hands downward, ghosting your fingertips across your torso. You settle your left hand onto the bed, and use your right to explore between your legs.

You sigh as you press two fingers against your clit, rubbing in firm circles and sending signals of pleasure deep into your center. Your body prickles to life beneath your own touch, and you slide lower, feeling the thick, slick moisture at your entrance. You draw some up, and resume the attention on your clit. You sigh as the motion elicits an involuntary spasm in your groin.

You return your left hand to your breast, and squeeze again as your right hand works. You shut your eyes and squirm under your own touch for a few moments, enjoying the feel of yourself, and knowing exactly what you want. You halt your motions and pick up your vibrator, as you turn it on, you’re thankful that you had another pair of C Batteries in your junk drawer. You hold the vibrator in your right hand, and press the rumbling tip against yourself. You gasp at the force of it, the stimulation causing you to shudder with delight. It’s intense. Almost too intense, but you don’t want to stop. Instead, you want to chase that sensation into oblivion.

You flex your muscles and rock your hips in a rhythm that allows the sensations of the toy to spread into every branch of every nerve inside you. That part of you that has been aching for weeks, making you tense up at even just the thought of Frank Castle.

A sharp jolt of pleasure hits you, and you audibly gasp. Your nerves are alight and your muscles are wound just a bit tighter. The thoughts are starting to trickle in now, and you tell yourself you should stop. The tension in your groin falters a bit at your shame, and the loss of it is frustrating. You force the shame away. You tell yourself it’s okay to think of what you haven’t wanted to let yourself think of.

You close your eyes and imagine. Frank’s hands on your hands, correcting your grip. The sound his belt made as he’d unbuckled it in your dream. The way his voice sounds when he calls you ‘sweetheart.’ You’re breathing heavily now, and you can feel how wet you are. You’re swollen and aching with desire, and the tension is building even higher, even tighter, and as you squirm, you realize you’re halfway up the metaphorical mountain.

Your eyes are closed again, and you remember. The firm curves of his bare chest when he was on your couch. The ripple of his forearms as he locked his wrists to fire upon the crude target in the warehouse. The set of his shoulders when he struck the Hollywood pose. You’re audibly whimpering now. You’re so close to release.

You imagine Frank’s lips on yours. The way his tongue would feel exploring your mouth. The taste of him on your tongue as you explored his. The feel of his hair between your fingers, and lightly clutched in your fist. His smell. Soft little moans are escaping you now, between trembling breaths. You’re trying to maintain the rhythm you’ve set, even as you feel yourself coming closer and closer to falling apart.

You’re close to the edge, and the noises you’re making aren’t so subtle or quiet anymore. Another little fiction flits through your mind. Frank, on top of you, his hard length pressed against your thigh. A hand firmly gripping your throat as he says, “I want you, sweetheart.” And in that instant, the waves of pleasure crash over you. You cry out into the low light of your bedroom, and through the haze of pleasure, you’re pretty sure you’ve whimpered his name out loud. Frank. You’re gasping for air, even as the waves taper off and fade.

You slow your movements, but don’t move the vibrator. After another twenty or thirty seconds, your body spikes with another orgasm, a small, sharp little aftershock that makes your toes curl. When it subsides, you turn the toy off and set it next to you. You lay there in the afterglow, giggling at the rush of it. Should not have waited so long to do this, you tell yourself. A lazy grin is plastered across your face, and the sheen of sweat on your body is already starting to evaporate. For the briefest of moments post-orgasm, you let yourself enjoy the attraction, the fantasies, and the release. You feel too good to feel embarrassed, guilty, or inadequate. Right now, you feel like everything in the world is just as it should be. And tomorrow, all the shit that’s had you so on edge will finally fade away into background noise. Because this, this afterglow? This endorphin rush? This is what you’ve really been craving.

You smile. For the first time in weeks, you let yourself drift in the relief, the ache that’s been coiled in you having finally ebbed, and the tension in your chest eased. Giving in to the lust feels simple. For a fleeting moment, you can almost believe you’ve solved your problem. You tell yourself that tomorrow, things will feel normal again. It’s a soothing thought that follows you to sleep, though somewhere deep down, you know the calm won’t last.

Chapter Text

You’ve finally done it. You’re officially a homeowner. A nice end-unit townhome in a rowhouse; thankfully still in Hell’s Kitchen, and not terribly far from your old apartment. Everyone at work congratulated you this morning, and presented you with a card. With new keys in hand, you’re skipping the gym and heading straight home to meet the movers so they can load up the truck.

_-_-_-_-_-_

At 8pm you’re standing in your new living room when your phone buzzes. It’s Frank. A smile blooms on your face as you open the notification. Sorry it’s short notice. Community center, 10pm tonight? 

You bite your lip, and pause for several moments, the cursor blinking. Standing in my new living room! Movers should have everything unloaded by 9pm. I can make it.

Bring your knife.

Will do.

Well, you were going to set up your bed tonight, but it’s worth sleeping on your mattress on the floor for one night if it means seeing Frank.

_-_-_-_-_-_

You saw the movers out at a quarter to nine, brewed coffee, changed into your athletic wear, packed your wraps, your knife, a couple bottles of water, and filled your thermos with hot coffee before tucking it into the bag as well. Now you’re only minutes away from the community center, and arrive right on time.

You were right about...ehm...taking care of things. Since you started up again, you’ve been a lot more clear-headed. Now when you slip into the unlocked community center to find Frank sitting on the gym bench, wrapping his hands, you’re still noticing all the things you did before, but it doesn’t feel as overwhelming.

“Hey,” you say. You can’t stop smiling. A last-minute invite from Frank is really the cherry on top of the sundae that has been the last couple days.

“Hey,” Frank echoes, looking up from fastening the wrap across his right wrist. He has a black eye, and a small cut healing along his cheekbone, but he smiles warmly. “Homeownership looks good on you.”

“Thanks,” you run your hand through your hair. “Feels pretty great, too.” You set your bag next to him on the bench, and take out the thermos. “I brought you coffee. I have work tomorrow, so none for me tonight.” You retrieve a pair of the padded gloves from the shelving. “I ordered myself a pair of these online,” you tell him. “Should get them within the week.” You plop down next to him on the bench, maybe just a bit closer than necessary, and take out your wraps. You get to work fitting each of them to your hands.

The two of you do fifteen minutes of stretches, calisthenics, and cardio to warm up for the drills. He spends another fifteen minutes reviewing last session’s drills, then spends the rest of the hour teaching and drilling the hook, the uppercut, and several elbow strikes; left and right. 

He calls a water break and you both return to the bench. You sit first, and down half a bottle of water. Frank sits beside you, so close you can feel the heat radiating off him. He reaches into his duffel bag and pulls out a six-pack of beer. “Thought we could celebrate your closing,” he says, plucking a bottle from the pack.

You smile. “Sounds great.”

He pops the lid off and offers the bottle to you. “I asked the beer guy at the liquor store what was good for celebrating good news with a friend. He recommended it. It’s supposed to be good shit.” He shrugs, “I hope you like stouts,” you take it from his outstretched hand, letting your fingers brush his. You’re pretty sure that the contact lasts just a beat too long. 

Friend. The word hits you like a lightning bolt. He thought of you as a friend. Something in your chest twists. If you ever were a charity case, he doesn’t see you that way now. He doesn’t see you as a student. “I do like stouts,” you confirm, looking at the label. “Imperial? You know how to treat a lady, Frank.” You look at the label as he opens one for himself. “I know this brewery; they make a really good porter I like.”

“Seems like you know your beers,” Frank says.

“A bit.”

“I took you for a Long Island iced tea kinda woman,” he smirked.

“You’re not wrong. I’ll drink just about anything, as long as it isn’t an IPA.”

Frank laughs at that, and then raises his bottle. “To your new place,” he says.

“To my new place,” you reply, tapping your bottle to his, then take a swig. 

After several minutes of comfortable silence, sitting so close together you can feel the graze of his thigh against yours, he speaks. “This is pretty good.” He looks at the label.

“Pretty strong, too. I should only have one, or I’ll be too sluggish to get back to it,” you admit, gesturing toward the mats. As it is, you’ve drunk a little too fast and are feeling the signature warmth of a beer buzz radiating from your belly. You’re quiet for a moment. You take another swig of your beer and stare into the mouth of the bottle. “It’s nice to celebrate this with a friend,” you tell him. You say it so he knows you see him as more than a teacher, more than the Punisher, that what he feels isn’t one-sided; but now that you’ve said it, you’re worried that it sounds maudlin. As if you don’t have other friends. You do, but they wouldn’t even consider a quiet celebration a proper celebration. “Quietly,” you add.

Your fingertips trace over the edges of the scars on your arm, and Frank speaks, “Let’s finish these up. I want to show you how to disarm a man with a pistol.” He pounds the last of the beer, then takes the familiar 92 from his bag. He checks that the chamber is empty, showing you as well; shows you an empty magazine before he seats it into the grip. You kill your beer and leave the empty bottle sitting on the bench.

He puts the Beretta in your hand and says, “Point it at my chest. One hand.” You hesitate, then comply. Even knowing it’s empty, your hand trembles a moment before steadying. “Now, if you’re in my position, here’s what you do…” For twenty minutes, he runs you through the motions, never going slack but never locking you out, either. You can feel the way he adjusts, shifting his grip, giving just enough resistance to make you fight for leverage, then changing the angle so you have to find it again. He isn’t letting you win; he’s setting the bar higher with each pass, forcing you to work toward what a real encounter would demand.

“Get your knife,” he says. You quickly retrieve it from your bag, and return to the mats. “Unsheath it. Hold it like you mean it,” you draw the knife and raise it, pulse quickening. He talks you through how to disarm, demonstrating each step, just like he did with the pistol. Then, he shows you some techniques to prevent an opponent from taking your knife from you.

You move on to the last part of the lesson: sparring. You try not to notice that Frank opted not to reverse the drill with the knife tonight. You tell yourself it's because he wants to make sure you're learning to read an opponent's body language so you can block more effectively. Not because he thinks you're too messed up to have him brandish a knife at you.

Learning to read an opponent’s movements in a fight is not easy. You’re still reacting more than predicting, even with Frank deliberately telegraphing his strikes. You attempt a series of strikes; he blocks all of them, and then pulls you into a rear choke-hold. You throw an elbow into his ribs, and break the hold. You put space between you, and have your hands up, guarding your face; you’re ready to strike or block.

“That was good,” he says, rubbing his ribs. “It’s gonna leave a mark, even though you pulled last second.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I can tell I wouldn’t wanna be the next poor bastard who tries to grab you without your consent.”

You could swear your grin is a mile wide.

_-_-_-_-_-_

As you're packing up for the night, Frank gives you two magazines and offers up the 92. “Keep this at your place. Just in case.”

You take it, and tuck it into your bag. “In case what?”

Frank just looks at you. “Single woman, living alone in a new place...better safe than sorry.”

“I won't argue with that.”

“Good.”

Outside of the community center, Frank pauses. He says, “I got you a housewarming gift.” He pulls a bottle of red wine from his bag and hands it to you. “It’s nothin’ fancy, but it is good,” he says quietly. For a moment, he seems a million miles away. The corner of his mouth twitches slightly, and you’d swear if he were any other man, you’d think he was embarrassed.

You take the bottle from him. “You really didn’t have to,” you tell him. It was really kind. You get a better look at the label. “This is one of my favorites,” you say. How could he have possibly figured that out? Dumb luck?

“Maria’s too.”

Oh. The silence that follows lands heavy. Now you know what that million-mile gaze was about. You reply, “Good taste.” He smiles. It’s the real one again, but with sadness mixed in. With that, you can’t help but tuck the wine bottle into your over-sized purse with a bit of reverence. 

“To the station?” he says. The post-training walk to the train station has rapidly become one of the highlights of time spent with Frank.

“Yeah.”

The walk to the station is filled with the important kind of trivial conversation. Frank chuckles as he tells you about a prank he and a buddy pulled on another Marine between missions. You tell him about the time you got stranded in London with forty dollars in your pocket after the airline lost your suitcase. You leave space to let him lead the conversation. You try to match him, and it almost feels like a dance.

_-_-_-_-_-_

Once you’re behind the locked door of your new home, you complete the last part of what has become your training routine: you text Frank. Made it home safe.

His one-word reply, Good.

You stare at that one word for a moment, and then draft another message. You can come see the place sometime, if you want, you type, once I’m unpacked. You’re always welcome. Especially if you bring those imperials. You add your new address, and send it before you can overthink it.

Chapter Text

After the move and Frank's housewarming gift, the days fall into a familiar-but irregular pattern. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at the gym; Tuesdays and Thursdays at the range, and meetings with Frank. A couple nights in a row, once in a week; whenever he texts. You make the time. You avoid making plans with friends, though you at least make an active effort to text with them regularly.

Despite your life being nothing like it was before that night in the alley, you feel normal. Not fixed, not “over it,” but normal. You're not afraid of shadows, loud drunks, or walking home from work at night. You have friends. You haven't isolated yourself. You're not depressed; in fact, you're more hopeful and more excited for every new day than you've been in awhile. 

Even Frank notices. “You seem less on edge these past few weeks,” he says during one of your training breaks. 

“Yeah, I guess I am,” you smile. “Doing all this,” you say, referring to the target practice and the training, “Has been good for me, I think.” The part you don't say out loud is that you have other forms of stress relief on some evenings, and he's part of those, too. A little sprig of shame tries to sprout up inside you, not because you've been touching yourself, but because you've been objectifying your friend. You mentally pluck the shame out at the root. 

The weeks turn into months, and one Saturday night as the weather is growing cold, Frank texts you. In the neighborhood. You at home?

Your pulse quickens. It's been doing that more and more these last couple months. When he messages you, when he's close to you, when he makes you laugh. Yes, you reply, Wanna drop by?

You get out of your pajamas and into a pair of tight but comfy jeans and a snug t-shirt. You don't bother adjusting your makeup, but you straighten your hair.

You open your door to Frank's knock, and the first thing you notice is the bloodied white rag he is holding under his nose. Then the scrapes and smeared blood across the knuckles of the hand holding it in place.

You're used to seeing this, but only days after, when the bruises have gone red and black and green. You force yourself to keep a neutral expression. “Hi,” is all you can manage to say. It comes out weirdly breathy.

“Hey,” he says past the cloth. “Mind if I get cleaned up real quick?”

“Sure,” you open the door wide, and step clear. You point straight ahead from the front door. The door is open and it's in plain sight, so instead of directions, you say flatly, “It's the one with the toilet,” and you're pretty sure you hear him give a low chuckle behind the cloth. “First Aid kit's under the sink,” you add.

He shuts the door behind him, and you hear running water. You stand in your living room, trying to figure out if you should sit down on the couch, or at your dining table; you try to calculate how weird it will be if you're still standing in the same place when he comes out. Ultimately, you decide to get a bottle of water out of the fridge. 

You lean against your dining table when you hear the door open, hoping you look relaxed. Frank's nose is swollen, but it looks like he got the bleeding to stop. His lip is split and swollen, and you push down the thought of kissing him. You offer the water bottle.

“Rough night?” you ask.

“I've had worse,” he replies, taking the bottle from you and cracking it open. You've bought yourself a proper ice pack, and actually have ice cubes this time, so you put one together for him. 

“For your nose,” you tell him.

“Thanks.” He holds the pack in place. “I didn't just come here to bleed in your sink, you know,” he assures you. “Had a thing to deal with. Didn't expect it to...run long.” He gestures.

You start trying to calculate the time between his message and his arrival. Maybe he’d finished up, still bleeding, and decided he didn’t want to go home yet. Maybe that’s when he texted. You can’t tell if the nosebleed was just an excuse he let himself use, or if showing up like this was the only way he knew how to say he wanted to see you.

“Nature of the job, I suppose,” you say quietly. “Even if it was just to bleed in my sink, I'm glad you came by,” you try to sound warm, but not too warm. You want him to know you're here for him, not that you desperately want to be here for him. Your mind drifts; would the pressure of a kiss cause his nose to start bleeding again?

“It's a nice place,” he says. “How are the neighbors?”

“Quiet.”

“Lucky.”

“Definitely,” you agree. “So,” you say hesitantly. “I still have that housewarming gift. Seems appropriate to share it with you,” then you add, “If you're up for it.”

He shifts the ice pack on his face, and you can't read his expression. “Sure.” As you get up to retrieve the wine, corkscrew, and two glasses, you catch a glimpse of one corner of his mouth upturned.

You open the bottle and pour for you both. “I'm gonna let that breathe a minute,” you say. You want to ask him about the fight. What he's investigating. You even wonder, darkly, if he just killed someone, and who it might have been. You give voice to none of those curiosities.

He picks up his glass and swirls the wine. “Good call,” he says. 

“I'm still keeping the Beretta loaded and in my nightstand,” you tell him. “Just in case.” You debate telling him about how you passed your background checks, completed your coursework, and are just waiting for the NYPD to schedule your interview, and make the decision on your concealed carry permit. You decide you want to surprise him with the news once it's a done deal.

Frank picks up the wine glass, and raises a toast. “To you, sweetheart. Your dedication, your confidence, and your new home.”

The heat spreads up your neck and across your cheeks like wildfire. You're blushing and trying to keep the rampant grin on your face from growing Cheshire-wide. “Thank you, Frank.” You raise your own glass, and try to think of the right thing to say. “To having someone in my life who believes in me that much.” There is a light click of glass on glass, and when Frank lowers the ice pack to drink the wine, you think he might be blushing too. The red is creeping too far onto his cheeks to be the emerging bruises around his nose and mouth. He doesn't look up right away, instead, swirling the wine in the glass. You'd think he's just checking the legs on it, if it weren't for the fact that you could see the slight clenching of the muscle in his jaw.

The moment passes, and you two fall into what has become your normal rhythm of chatter. Over the past several weeks, he has shared stories about Maria and the kids. How he had started encouraging Frank Jr.’s budding interest in art, and telling Lisa what to do the next time a boy at school pulled her hair. The stories, when he shares them, are brief, and always end with a distant look in his eyes, and his general demeanor going cold. He also has a habit of pulling back in the aftermath. One step forward, two steps back. One time, he ghosted you for a week and a half, and popped up at the end of it like nothing about it was unusual. And given the pattern, you suppose it isn't. Frank Castle is the goddamn king of submarining.

But he always comes back.

Knowing that doesn't make you any less afraid to tell him that this thing between you feels like something more than friendship. The lunches together, sometimes drinking a couple beers in the park, and most of all: all those walks to the train station. The touches and looks that last a beat too long, and the paper-thin pretenses for being physically nearer to one another that seemed to multiply over the last several weeks. The shape and weight of it all sure feels like more.

But you know damn well if you asked him to stay tonight, even just to hold you, if you said it out loud, he'd disappear for weeks. Maybe longer. And you can't bear the thought of it. 

So you brace under the emotional strain between what you want, and what you can have because it's better than nothing at all. Even though sometimes you are almost sure he wants it too. You worry that he only stays silent because you've gotten too good at hiding how you feel. Then you worry that you really stay quiet because you're terrified that he will reject you.

So you say nothing about the feelings, and try to pretend they don't exist, even as they cause a heat to bloom in your chest as Frank sips his wine, smiles and tells a joke that makes you laugh so hard your sides ache.

_-_-_-_-_-_

The weeks pass, and you and Frank continue your strange routine. Between the range and the abandoned warehouses Frank finds for you to shoot in together (he deemed your first one ‘compromised’ six weeks ago), your grouping has gotten really good. It's only with Frank that you try out your Hollywood pose. Partly because you like the way he laughs and teases you, and partly because you like the way he hides his respect underneath it; he can see that your groupings one-handed are all in the A-zone now, even standing further back. You don’t know if he knows how much time you’ve spent at the range to get to that point, but whether he does or not, he’s obviously proud of you. When he stands behind you, and doesn’t ask if it’s okay to touch you, your heart stutters. He closes his hand around yours, keeping his index finger straight along the frame as he tells you how to better control the recoil only with your right hand. You follow his lead, and pull the trigger. The ghost of his touch is still on your skin as you land an excellent grouping. “Fuck yeah, Jason Bourne!” you point at Frank with your left hand. “I got this now,” you tell him. “Watch this!” and you. Fucking. Crush a double-tap.

“Hell yeah, sweetheart! Well done,” he laughs like he almost can’t believe it. The look of pride on his face makes your heart absolutely soar. It comes with an emphatic “Attagirl!” and a clap on the back that almost knocks the wind out of you. That session was followed by beers at a nearby dive bar, until you weren’t quite walking straight. Frank was ‘very concerned’ about you getting home safely, so the two of you walked the long way back to your place. If you squinted really hard, that entire day was the most perfect date you’d ever had. Minus the fact that the man didn’t come inside and follow you to your bedroom.

When you spar, he doesn't telegraph anything anymore. You suspect that he’s actually been obfuscating his strikes lately. He tells you the only place he's still going easy on you is force. You want to complain about equity or feminism or something, but you know if Frank swung his hardest and landed a blow to your torso, he'd probably break your ribs. While you're not afraid of the injury, you don't want to be laid up instead of training.

He told you weeks ago not to pull your punches with him unless you're doing head strikes. Not that he wouldn’t be able to block you anyway. With winter having a strangle-hold on New York City, opportunities for seeing Frank without a shirt are basically non-existent. Instead, he favors his long-sleeved henleys, which you figure he owns in at least half a dozen colors. He rolls them up to his elbows, and the sight of his forearms makes your knees weak.

The thing you’ve looked forward to most once it got started, though? Grappling. It started with Frank teaching you submission and control holds. Proper chokeholds; how to get someone unconscious fast, especially when you’re at a disadvantage. Incorporating those grappling maneuvers into your usual sparring meant a not-insignificant portion of time with Frank’s weight pressed against you, a muscled thigh between your legs as you squirmed against him for leverage to get yourself unpinned.

The days and weeks could have gone like that forever, but that proverbial ‘rock and a hard place,’ that you’ve been emotionally trembling between for weeks? It has been shrinking while the strain has been growing.

And one night, you finally hit your breaking point.

Chapter Text

It’s still February and very cold, but you and Frank have spent most of the winter running drills in the community center. It’s been weeks, and you really do believe Frank now; he isn’t going easy on you, other than pulling his punches. So you’ve spent a lot of the last several sessions being knocked to the ground. You have bruises on your hips, tailbone, and elbows that just won’t quite heal. It’s been weeks since you and Frank stayed up all night talking after getting wine-drunk at your kitchen table. 

You no longer believe you’re imagining Frank’s long looks, or the places they linger, or the way his fingers always brush yours when he hands you something. The reticence of his touch when he rubbed that charley horse out of your calf? That was real. His concern when he accidentally split your lip while you were sparring? Real. And the careful way he tended it, and the way he let his thumb graze your lip, and his fingertips touch your face? There was no mistaking it.

So tonight, you’re together in the community center. You exchange a series of strikes and counter-strikes, then Frank grabs you in a rear choke. You break the hold, and practice the maneuver that would put a more equal-sized opponent on the ground. He makes you work for it, but he lets you. You’re on top of him, with an arm across his neck, and then in a blink, he has you on your back, pinned beneath his weight. His forearm is pressed across your sternum, and when you start to twist to wriggle free, he moves that arm and plants his hand next to your head. His thigh is between your legs, and his hip is pressing down against you to rob you of your leverage. You’re both breathing heavily with the effort of it.

And in that moment, it’s like time slows down. You both pause. His face is just above yours. And you just can’t stand the weight of the silence that’s been sitting between you both for months. You tilt your head up without thinking, and you press your lips to his. He freezes. He’s not kissing you back. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What have you done?

Frank pulls away, but doesn’t make a move to get up. Your breath is shaking, but you don’t break eye contact. His eyes flick once to your lips, and back to your eyes. His expression is unreadable. Then he closes the small distance between you, his lips on yours. You feel the slight rasp of his stubble, and suddenly, every inch of you feels hot. Your heart rate skyrockets, and you can feel the throbbing from your ears to your chest, and into your core. Your lips part, and Frank dips his tongue between them. You bring one hand up from the mat and rest it at his side. His shirt has ridden up just enough that two of your fingers are curling against his warm skin, and in this moment, you realize that your emotions have been a spinning compass for months. And everything has stopped at True North.

Suddenly, Frank breaks away and puts space between you. “I shouldn’t do this to you,” he says. His face is flushed, same as yours. “You’re in a vulnerable situation and it’s not right to take advantage,” he says, getting to his feet.

You’re sitting on the floor. “I’m not broken, Frank. You’re not doing anything ‘to’ me. I kissed you because I wanted to. Have for a while,” you admit. You get to your feet as well. You should be on equal footing for this.

“You shouldn’t want to kiss me. You only want to kiss me because I put those guys down. It’s not about me. It’s about feeling safe,” he says. “And you’re not safe anywhere near me.”

You look at him, stunned. “I want to kiss you because you’re sexy. You’re funny. You always remember the little things,” you retort. “You dropped those bastards in the alley that night, and yeah, maybe months ago the attraction was about that,” you admit, “But it hasn’t been about that for a long time. And this isn’t hero worship just because you’re my hero, Frank.”

“Do not fucking call me that,” he says dangerously. It’s almost a growl. “I’m not a hero. Not yours or anyone else’s. Don’t you ever fucking say that.”  His voice is as sharp as glass, and it cuts deep. Rather than breaking down into tears, you get angry. You can almost hear the blood coursing past your ears.

"You don't get to decide what people think of you, Frank. Hero, monster, psycho; the whole city's divided on it. You know that. If you never want me to say it out loud again, I won't. But you saved me, whether that was your main objective or not. Whether you cared about it at the time or not! You don't get to decide what anyone thinks about you, not even me."

The only thing that fills the silence that follows is the hum of the overhead lights.

Suddenly, you feel like you’re breaking open. The silence stretches between you as Frank stares you down. You let out a heavy sigh. "And I don't get to decide what you think of me,” you say, looking down, shame on your face. “You did all this for me because you thought I was brave when that creep put a gun to my head and I told him to shoot me. And I let you think that. I shouldn’t have. It wasn't bravery, Frank. I was terrified. I knew what they were going to do to me. I mocked him and called him a coward because I wanted him to kill me. I can't survive something like that again. I'm not a badass. I'm weak."

You expect the way he looks at you to fundamentally shift with that admission. It doesn’t, but the silence swells between you, and Frank's words burst it. “Sweetheart, you are brave. You faced down death on your terms, not his. You took a shitload of battlefield sutures with no painkillers, no anesthetic, to protect the life and stability you'd built for yourself. You got out of bed every day. You embraced a purpose. You pushed through pain to keep standing here. You are an incredibly strong woman, and you don’t even realize it.”

“If I’m so strong, then why are you acting like you’re hurting me, because I kissed you?”

“I don’t want you kissing me. And I can’t be kissing you.” He says flatly. He clenches his jaw, and you can see the muscle working. His usual warmth shuts down so fast it’s like it never existed, and you can see it in every line of his body. The words are a gut punch of the worst kind. “Anyone who gets close to me is in danger, sweetheart; I never should have been doing any of this.” Frank moves swiftly to pack his things into his gym bag.

“Is that why you sent me home with the 92 after I closed on the condo? You think I’m in danger?”

He doesn’t answer. “We can’t do this again,” he says flatly. He shoulders his bag. “Lock the door behind you on the way out.”

“Frank, wait!” You call after him, but he’s out the door with a slam. “Frank...” you say softly to the empty room.

Fuck. Why did you kiss him? You ruined everything. You sit down heavily on the bench. You feel adrift as the numbness starts to overtake you. You’re not sure what is worse; the scathing rejection, or the fact that he kissed you back. 

Your gut fills with hollow dread as you recall what he said: ‘We can’t do this again,’ and when you realize that you don’t know if he meant kissing or meeting up altogether, you burst into tears. The thought of losing what you’ve had with him all these months is crushing you right where you sit. You could have left well enough alone, and just let your internal compass keep spinning indefinitely.

But no. You made a move. And it blew up in your face. You can still taste him on your lips, and now you know that your True North is the undeniable fact that you love Frank Castle. And you’re pretty sure he never wants to see you again. Goddamn it.