The first time Steve Rogers saw Frank Castle, the man was staggering backwards at the edge of a rooftop in Queens, covered in someone else's blood and heedless of the fall just inches behind him.
He had killed a whole gang today. They had come for him. Come and come and come and he had filled them with bullets.
Tony, ever too lackadaisical, had texted Steve.
So. This dude in Queens. Should we do something about him?
Steve had frowned and asked Nat to clarify, and she'd briefed him—former Marine, damn good shot, responsible for the death of too many assholes to count.
She'd sounded like she admired him.
But now, standing on the rooftop across from the man, it was not admiration Steve felt for the man, but pity. He was as broken as they came, this one, and Steve knew broken.
Steve heard the others call out to him, but he held up his hand, fist closed.
Castle's eyes focused on him, the M-16 hanging from one bleeding hand. It was a heavy rifle to be holding with one hand, but strength was not something this man lacked, that much Steve knew. "I recognize a soldier when I see one." Castle almost smiled at Steve.
"Stay back," Steve said softly, and he did not have to look at Sam and Nat to know they would listen. He did shoot Wanda a glance, and the red threaded through her fingers, waiting.
Waiting.
Castle's lips twisted, and he waved the rifle vaguely. "You afraid of me?" his voice was the growl, the rasp that was so familiar to Steve.
He had led a hundred men like these.
Lost as many, over the years.
Steve stepped forward, palms towards the man before him. "Should I be, son?"
Castle's grin was crooked, as broken as his staggering body. The gun inched higher. "You come to take me in?" he asked. It sounded like a plea. "Or to take me down?"
Steve shook his head. "Here to take you home." The man was steel-nerved and stone, but Steve caught the tremor, faint as a shadow, that flicked through the man's body at the word home.
Frank Castle raised the gun, a tired movement he had done a thousand times before. "They tell me you're just like a god, captain," he said. "Tell me." He swayed on his feet. "Can gods bleed?"
"Yes." Steve was inches from the barrel now. "But only if the gun is loaded." He bent the barrel, metal groaning as Steve twisted it towards the concrete beneath them.
Castle faltered. "I remember men like you," he said. He grinned, and blood leaked over his teeth and down his chin. "Soldiers. Marines. The dead. I remember"—
And Steve caught him when he fell.