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ultrablackwidower · 2 years

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If Walls Could Talk

Frank Castle x reader Warnings: Explicit Language, Angst, Mentions of violence, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Physical Injuries Length: 2k Words

But all because it felt like old times, it didn’t mean it was. Two years was a long time, and if the apartment walls could talk they would have been telling him all the ways she, too, had changed.

There was very little left of the soldier he had met. Now, half heaved over herself, was just a woman made of chaos. She was a closed discussion with no beginning or middle. Instead of the meat, she had somehow become the maggot. Went from soldier to hitman. From hitman to…this.

It had been three days since she had been home.

Home was the shittiest one bedroom, one bathroom apartment in the darkest part of New York City. It was a kitchen tap that never stopped dripping, a living room with one leather couch that was half bleached from the sun that pushed itself through the dirty windows. Windows that were covered in newspapers. But at least it was somewhere for her to rest her bones.

And how her bones ached.

Fighting a few gangsters wasn’t anything new to her. Yet when she stalked her way into that garage, she found she had miscalculated the number of friends they’d have during his recon phase. Two weeks of searching, of waiting, of watching— down the fucking drain. And she was surprised a few of her teeth didn’t go down with it.

Big guns, lots of ammo, and a huge space to cover. The disadvantage was all hers from the moment she made herself known, and the rest of them followed suit. But she thought she had things handled until the weight of a heavy chain swung around her throat and yanked her off of her feet. Landed on her back with bone-breaking force before her attacker began to drag her around like an abused cat.

The only reason she got out alive was because a bullet went through his head. A sniper shot from somewhere far enough away that she didn’t even hear it. Barely noticed a window in the garage shatter while she strangled out her breath, clawed at her neck and prayed her windpipe wasn’t crushed.

A ghost had saved her. Another jackass she now had to be weary of— they had obviously seen her there at the crime scene, had watched long enough and waited. Which meant they had an agenda of their own, and she needed to know if it would put them in her way or not.

It was all she could think about as she tossed her apartment keys into the bowl by the front door and staggered to her sink. The stink of blood was all over her. Clinging to her skin, clothes and hair. It wasn’t all her own, but she knew how much red she coughed up when the chain went slack around her throat. Could feel the break of the rib rattle at her side every time she inhaled and exhaled.

As much as she hated to admit mission failure, she knew most of the blood was her own.

She fucked this one up.

It felt like she was four minutes from a heart attack as she pressed a warm washcloth to her face and began to scrub at her skin. She knew a layer would be missing before she could see her own colour again. Everything tingled with agony. There was so much pain running through her body that it all blurred together, ran her on autopilot.

That instinct was the only thing that moved her when she heard the floorboard creak in her living room. Her limbs moved on their own to drop the cloth onto the old hardwood as she spun, kitchen knife flinging from her hand.

It flew through the air with the quietest whistle, only to be swiftly sidestepped by a massive figure dressed in all black. Combat boots lazily tied, laces stretched and well-loved. A hood pulled low over a face that glowered at her from its shadow.

“Still ain’t fast enough,” a familiar gruff voice huffed, hands in his pockets.

She felt herself let out a laugh. It was a crazed sound, one that was borderline delirious and made up of only amused disbelief. Leaning back against the counter, her body began to relax. Adrenaline was sweating itself out of her and she knew it was only a matter of time before she crashed. So, while it was lasting, she wanted to use it.

Needed to keep herself on her two feet if she was gonna greet an old friend.

“Frank fucking Castle. You look pretty alive for a dead man.”

He pulled his hood back, ran his hand over his head. She stared at him, wondering what she must look like from his point of view if he looked this different after two years. His clean military buzz-cut was replaced with soft waves that brushed against his neck, nose was a big more crooked too. Broken a few more times. Those soft eyes of his were now hardened and watchful, moons beneath them as though he wouldn’t be able to remember when he last had a good night of sleep if she dared to ask.

The only thing familiar about him was his imposing beauty. Dark and wonderful.

“And you look like shit,” Frank said to her in reply, dropping the duffel bag from his shoulder onto her couch. “Serves you right, getting into situations you can’t always get yourself out of.”

With a roll of her eyes, she pressed her lips together. Of course. “And do I have you to thank for that expert shot?”

She remembered the gasp of relief that squeaked out of her when that chain went slack. Being dragged against a concrete floor by a garrote had felt like she was going to be ripped apart. Head at one end of the garage, body twitching on the other. But she didn’t feel entirely grateful; if he had been watching her, it would’ve been nice if he had stepped in a bit earlier. Maybe even given her a helping hand through the whole fight.

But he wouldn’t be her Frank if he didn’t see a lesson in it that needed teaching the hard way. There was nothing better than a bit of tough love. They learned that together on the battle field back in Iraq.

“You don’t have to thank me. Because now you owe me,” he answered with a chuckle, finding her annoyance amusing.

“Will a beer suffice?” she asked, stumbling toward her scratched up refrigerator, barely being able to open it when she began to feel the pain making itself known again.

Somehow, he ended up behind her. His strong arm snaked under hers and plucked the first dark bottle he could reach, and popped the cap off the edge of the countertop. Just like old times— like there wasn’t a thing wrong in the world, and this was just a pit stop for them to enjoy. A beer, a bit of takeout, and maybe a cigarette smoked out an open window.

But all because it felt like old times, it didn’t mean it was. Two years was a long time, and if the apartment walls could talk they would have been telling him all the ways she, too, had changed.

A woman who looked death in the eye and laughed, daring for it to take her. Sometimes, she even wished it did. Especially now, as she declined to take a beer for herself knowing that it would do nothing to her but burn. And she didn’t want any more pain.

Didn’t know if she could take it right now.

“Glad you’re still so easily satisfied—” she began, suddenly feeling something catch in her throat.

She sputtered and coughed, feeling like she was choking on her own oxygen. She fell with the impact of the shudder, crashing to her knees and elbows, desperately trying to push something up. The taste in her mouth was vile. Sour and coppery, mixed with salty sweat as it rolled down her face. She was suffocating.

Until she felt something hot on her tongue and spat it out.

A huge black and red blob that showed her reflection as she stared at it, completely dumbfounded. It had been a while since she had so much internal damage.

“Shit, sweetheart,” Frank hissed, nearly spilling his beer as he set it on the counter and knelt next to her. Brushed her hair back from her face as she took one deep breath in. Then out. Then rolled onto her back like a dying animal.

She could feel the blood from her mouth drip down her jaw and toward her ears as she laid there, ready to never move from this spot ever again. “This? It’s nothing,” she said hoarsely. “I’d rather look like this than a hipster.”

He chuckled at her, the sound filled with little amusement as he hooked one arm under her knees and the other to cradle behind her shoulders. She heard herself whimper as he lifted her off of the floor. Like she weighed no more than a bag of feathers to him.

“Shut your mouth before I decided to drop you,” he said, a softness to his face as he carried her across the apartment and into her bedroom.

It was small. Had only a side table, a rack of clothes against the wall, and a mattress on the floor with a lamp in the corner. But it was comfortable enough. She had hid herself away here enough days, hiding from her own demons, and had grown to love its bare necessities.

Frank set her down gently, having to kneel in order to set her down. He had pulled back her blankets to make sure she could be covered up again, taking off her boots before he did so. Tucking her in like precious cargo being secured in the back of a plane.

It made her wonder where he had gone for two years. Made her wonder why she hadn’t been good enough for him to stay. They had fought alongside each other both on the battlefield, and in this concrete jungle of a city. And just when she looked at him and felt brave enough to tell him how beautiful he looked even when covered in someone else’s blood, or sat on the floor with tears in his eyes and no hope in his hands….he left her.

Just like everyone else.

And when he brushed her hair back from her forehead and began to stand, starting for the bedroom door, she felt like he was doing it again. Was leaving before she could ask him how he was, and what he had been doing living as a ghost, and why he was here if he was happy enough being dead instead of here. With her.

It was worse than any physical pain that could’ve been inflicted.

She shot her hand out, gripping a spot of loose fabric on the back of his black jeans. She didn’t know why she did it, her eyes fluttering shut against her will. There was a terrible fear bubbling in her chest saying if she fell asleep, she’d wake up and realize he was just a dream. Just another ghost coming and going.

“I’m glad you came back,” she whispered.

The fabric slipped out of her grasp and she could feel nothing but weight overcome her. Exhaustion and pain were drugging her, and she didn’t care about the dried blood in her bedsheets, or the agony she would be in when morning came. Maybe she was dead already and didn’t know it yet. Maybe she was here, alone, just like she always was.

And it was why she wasn’t sure if she imagined the edge of the mattress dipping next to her. She wasn’t sure if the softness of something pressing against her cheek was real; if the warm breath she felt was really there or not.

All she knew for certain as she fell into sleep was that if it was real, she may not remember in the morning.

Maybe Frank knew that too, because when he spoke he did so after unconsciousness took over her. “It’s good to be home.”

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