The first time Frank saw you his thoughts were anything but friendly.
This place is a shit hole. Frank had been in some real dumps, sites that both time and man had forgotten, but this inconspicuous looking building had to take the cake. As a fresh assortment of god awful stenches washed over him, he had to fight the nearly overwhelming urge to gag, pondering for the hundredth time in recent memory what exactly had transformed this city he used to be proud of into a putrid stinking pit of filth. It was times like this that he almost wanted to call it quits- he'd smelled one too many flavors of excrement tonight for his own liking- but then he'd remind himself that this mission he was on wasn't about him, not really. It was about them. Russian mobsters, truly evil men. They were significantly less active in Hell's Kitchen these days, but they still skulked in the shadows. And boy did they love their human trafficking.
Red had actually tipped him off to this site, apparently the Devil of Hell's Kitchen was too preoccupied to squish this particularly nasty bug, but Frank also suspected that on some level, conscious or not, he recognized that these men needed The Punishers specific brand of justice, the one where he knocks 'em down, and they stay down. With his large gun ready by his side, raised and fully loaded, Frank strode through the darkened hallway, his footsteps echoing loudly off of the damp cement walls. He didn't even try to mask his approach- it wasn't as if he particularly cared whether his targets knew he was coming or not, he'd kill them all regardless. Even if he ran out of ammo he'd use the knives tucked into his belt and beneath his socks, and if those failed him, his bare hands too.
He was keyed up, his trigger finger itching to flex, to fire, but there were no assailants in sight. Where the hell were they? Had they been alerted to their impending doom and fled? Running wouldn't save them; he'd track them down anyway. Frank reached a stairwell and, after a quick glance around him, he descended it, having already cleared the floors above him.
The sight that greeted him as he peered into the expanse just around the corner had him sucking in a low, shocked breath. There was only one large room, the adjoining walls having been knocked down long ago. In the center of the room there was a large mattress, the only semi-clean thing he'd seen in this whole building, and, to his immense surprise, curled onto that mattress was a battered looking, but beautiful young woman. You were dressed in what could've been pajamas, a tank top and a tiny pair of shorts, which left a large portion of your form exposed to his gaze. He eagerly took in sight of you, your lovely form so stunningly out of place in this dank room. With a healthy measure of chagrin and a dash of anger he realized that your body was covered in bruises, all in different stages of healing. Some were days old and just starting to bloom, others were already a healing shade of purple, standing out starkly against the skin of your legs, arms and what he could see of your stomach. But the thing that made Frank stop in his tracks, the thing that had his lips parting and his breath huffing in surprise, was your gaze. No bruises or cuts marred the delicate, pretty features of your face; in fact it was as if it'd been left intentionally free of injuries. But your glinting, steely eyes were alert, darting around you, studying the men that sat in chairs and on couches around the mattress, guns propped casually by their sides as if they were guarding you, with a keen interest. There was no apprehension in those molten eyes of yours, not even a hint of that hallmark blankness that so often spread in the catatonic gazes of unlucky victims when they went through ordeals that their fractured minds refused to process any further.
You weren't afraid, though judging by the marks on your skin you probably should've been. Really though, Frank thought you just seemed angry.
A strange urge wracked his body, making him pause for an extra second before he shook himself hard and refocused. He was on a mission. The mobsters didn't know he was here yet, you hadn't even noticed him, so Frank took a deep breath, aiming carefully before letting loose a hailstorm of bullets.
He'd caught them by surprise, so finishing them off was easy enough. Their sharp yells of alarm as they were gunned down fell on deaf ears, nothing they uttered could save them now. He took pains not to let the gun fire get near you, you weren't his intended target tonight, it wouldn't do for you to be hit by a stray bullet. A red haze covered his vision as he killed them mercilessly, his heart pumping steadily as he worked. His ears rang for long moments once every one of the mobsters lay in puddles of their own rapidly-cooling blood, each in various stages of dying. He was only broken from his scarlet-tinged daze when you shifted on the mattress, rising slowly to your feet, abruptly reminding him of your presence, and your impending judgement. For some reason he fervently wished that you hadn't just seen him in bloodlust like that. Suddenly he was almost hesitant to look at you; he didn't want to see the disgust and fear he knew would be in your eyes.
And yet when he finally dragged his dark gaze to meet yours, the only thing he saw there was a stony determination, and dare he say a tinge of approval. Sure enough, after a moment your lips slowly curved into a small, sincere smile as you moved closer to him, your movements careful and intentional, as if you were approaching a skittish animal. As his chest heaved in heavy breaths and his heart sped up under your intense scrutiny, Frank supposed he did seem rather like a tiger trapped in a cage, keyed up and filled with adrenaline.
Your eyes were locked on his as you shuffled forward, your brow drawn and your bottom lip trembling. Confusion flashed through him as he took in the quaking of your mouth, and he noted with displeasure the wet sheen to your eyes. You were about to cry? Had he frightened you? His brows suddenly drew together and he backed away a step, angry at himself for scaring you when he hadn't meant to. But you followed him, reaching out a shaking hand to him as you rasped, "Thank you."
Your sincere voice was husky, from either disuse or screaming he wasn't sure, perhaps he didn't want to know, but your words were earnest, and he found he liked the sound of your voice. Your small hand closed around his forearm, your palm not even able to close fully around his appendage, so delicate against the stark weave of his tactical jacket.
That alien urge reared up in him again, biting and focused this time, stunning him with its ferocity. He was so floored that for a moment he didn't have a name for it, but when understanding came he nearly shuddered.
The need to protect…
A sudden noise across the room had both of you whipping to alertness, Frank raising his gun and you raising your fists. So you were a fighter then; Frank felt a sudden pride surge through him that despite your battered state you still had a fire raging in you. Another wet, racking cough coming from a prone body a few paces away split the heavy, silent air, altering you to a survivor. Frank stalked over and you padded close behind. He didn't miss the way you stood slightly behind him, as if you liked how his large body shielded you. Another strange surge of pride flooded his veins, making him stand just a bit taller and walk with more purpose.
The need to protect; stronger than anything else…
A balding Russian with a nasty looking stomach wound lay bleeding on the floor, his grubby hands clutching desperately at his rotund abdomen, as if he could keep his guts inside him by sheer will power. Frank flicked his gaze to your face and was momentarily floored to see fiery disdain he saw settled in your features. You knew this man, and you hated him.
The fact that he was a mobster was enough for Frank to want him dead, but knowing that you regarded him with disgust, with loathing, made Frank want this man to suffer for whatever crimes he'd committed against you.
"Who is he?" Frank asked quietly, his question for your ears only.
"He's their leader. He's the one who gave me most of these bruises," You answered in a quiet voice that was thrumming with hatred, "He's pure filth."
"You want him dead?" Frank asked, peering down at the man, judging if a heart or headshot would be best.
"Yes," You hissed through gritted teeth, not even a moment's hesitation in your answer, your husky voice fierce.
Obediently Frank aimed, about to finish the man off as per your wishes when your small, slim fingers curled around the hand that held the pistol. The skin-on-skin contact surprised him, making delicious, warm tingles radiate through him from the simple touch. Distracted, he jerked his eyes to the side to survey you. Shit, you seemed so small, your head not even reaching his shoulder, and yet there was a courage set in the shape of your shoulders, a flinty tinge to your eyes that made a lump form in his throat and his breath quicken.
"This one's mine," You rasped, your eyes never leaving the Russian curled on the floor. Frank recognized the icy determination set in your gaze, he'd seen it reflected in his own, and he also recognized that you wanted this bad. If half the things he suspected happened to you in this dank room actually did occur, you needed this desperately. Though he itched to finish it himself, that urge, that need fired to life within him again.
The need to protect;stronger than the need to kill…
After a moment of stunned silence as that realization sunk in, he grunted and handed his weapon over to you, adjusting the scope and the mag, letting his fingers linger on your hand for just a moment longer than necessary as you expertly lined up the gun.
"Watch out, she kicks like a son of a bitch," He grated, suppressing the urge to wrap a hand around your shoulder to steady you. You simply nodded and took a deep breath, closing your eyes for a brief moment, a look of utter peace coloring your features. When you snapped open your eyes they were confident and steady, trained on your target. You placed a bare foot on the man's neck, bearing down until he was wheezing and sputtering.
"Do svidanya motherfucker," You grated in that gravely voice as you aimed the gun, ignoring the man's feeble protests. That sentiment almost made Frank's lips quirk, almost. If this had been another, less serious situation he might've even full on smiled. He was beginning to like you.
The creep under your foot didn't even get a chance to utter the beg that was beginning to form on his lips when you pulled the trigger without a warning. Just one shot, a clean hit between the eyes. Well at least you knew what you were doing.
The kickback Frank had warned about came not even a moment later, and it sent you flying back into his arms at an alarming speed. The gun was dropped, clattering forgotten to the floor at your feet. Frank caught you easily, one of his arms clasping around your waist, the other carefully placed at your shoulders, steadying you with the solid mass of his body. Your head fit so nicely into the curve if his chest, almost as if it was made to rest there.
"Better?" Frank asked at your ear, noting that way you shivered in his arms. You arched into his steadying embrace, almost as if you liked being there, and Frank suddenly wondered if his attraction was mutual.
"No," You answered, your fingers curling around the wrist he had positioned around your waist, "But at least he won't hurt anyone else." You gave a throaty laugh as you continued, "Shit, I basically just did the whole city a solid. I doubt I'll get free drinks for that though."
Amusement bubbled in Franks chest, somewhat loosening his apprehension at letting you go, his hands sliding reluctantly from your quaking form as you gently drew away from him.
"Yeah, no free drinks," Frank replied as you turned to face him, "But they will give you an all-expenses paid trip to the slammer for your efforts." Frank really wasn't that bitter about his prison stint…well maybe he was.
Your keen eyes regarded him, your full lips curving slightly as you replied, "Oh yeah, sounds great." You shared a smile together before you continued, "But prison couldn't hold you, could it."
Frank stiffened just a hint as your words sunk in, "You know who I am?"
"Of course," You replied, cocking your head to study him, your admittedly unkempt, but still comely hair tumbling over an exposed shoulder in a way that had Frank holding his breath, "Everyone in New York knows about the Punisher. And everyone has an opinion," Frank shuddered almost imperceptibly at hearing that damned nickname come from your lips; he wanted his real name tumbling from your pretty mouth, maybe in the form of a shaky moan or a needy invocation. Perhaps both.
"And what's your opinion," He asked, his voice low and thrumming with something hot and fierce. He took a step forward, his body moving closer to you of its own accord. You took an answering stride towards him, your gaze meeting his unflinchingly.
"I think that he just saved me from some really bad men who had intentions even worse than their poorly executed neck tattoos, so I'm the last one to cast judgement." You answered in that throaty voice, setting his blood afire. His fervent reply died with the laughter bubbling in his throat as your eyelids fluttered and your body wobbled. Frank suddenly realized that you were in bad shape; who knows when the last time you'd eaten or slept was. You needed rest and food.
"You alright?" He asked, reaching out to steady you again as you staggered.
"I'm fine," You muttered, seeming annoyed by your delicate state, those steely eyes of yours pinning him with their intensity even as you swayed dangerously in place. As you leaned ominously you fell gently into his open arms, both of your hands coming to rest on his broad chest. You bit your lip, drawing his eyes to your mouth, so damned close to his own. "Okay, I'm not fine," You muttered, your brow drawing.
Again Frank had to fight the urge to grin at your sentiment, though he was steadily losing that battle.
"You need to rest," He muttered, studying the room for something to cover you with. He couldn't transport you like this, half naked and nearly delirious, through the streets of Hell's Kitchen without people asking questions.
"Do you have somewhere safe that we can stay?" You asked, your voice becoming drowsy as fatigue and stress caught up with you.
We. That simple word touched Frank in a way that he couldn't describe, his gaze softening as he looked down as you. "You trust me to keep you safe?" He asked, watching with amazement as you smiled up at him softly.
"Of course," Was your easy reply, the look in your eyes confirming this, as if he were silly for even questioning such an obvious fact. He tightened his hold on your, briefly squeezing you tight before he swept you into his arms, cradling you against him as easy as if you were made of paper.
"I'll take care of you," He husked, his voice laden with emotion. He watched spellbound as you smiled and sighed gently, flexing in his arms like a cat before closing your eyes and drifting off. As he gently removed his jacket and draped it over your sleeping form, he became aware of a tugging sensation in his chest, a gentle pull that hadn't been there before. His heart was pounding, somehow heavier now, as if it wanted to burst straight out of his chest. Shaking himself hard, but to no avail, he straightened and grabbed his gun, slinging it over his shoulder and starting back the way he came.
He'd vowed to take you somewhere safe, to take care of you, and that was a promise he intended to keep. As he strode away from that dark room it felt as if a weight was being lifted form his shoulders. No more unfulfilled oaths, no more broken promises. He cast a long gaze down at you, slumbering so peacefully against his chest, your lips nearly pressed right over his heart. Starting now, he'd keep you safe; you were his fresh start, his new chance at life.
The need to protect; stronger than the need to kill….
This is the first chapter of what may become an ongoing Frank Castle/Reader story, please let me know what you guys think and if you want more! As always, please enjoy!
