Words: Guess who just finished the second season of The Punisher? If you guessed me, you're absolutely right! The season was amazing, beautiful and destructive in equal turns, and I swear nothing gets to me the way Jon Bernthal's Punisher does. Marvel has a strong record of making me cry, I have no shame in theaters, but the Marvel Netflix series are really good at hooking me. I actually did cry when I heard about all of the cancellations, and I'm not sure about The Punisher or Jessica Jones but I'll be more surprised if they don't get cancelled at this point. Still, that didn't stop me from watching season two and absolutely loving it.

(I know I say I cry a lot, but it's mostly just me getting misty-eyed. The Punisher has made me actually sob on a few occasions, and I don't do that. Not with movies, TV shows, or even in my personal life. So, me crying hard enough that breathing becomes slightly difficult is a huge compliment to everything about this series.)

Moving on! It's been a year since my last update, which is unforgivable but I won't drone on with explanations. I will say that knowing that this interpretation of The Punisher is at an end, most likely, is a bit inspirational. Now that I know how it ends, I know what I want to happen before that ending. Which means that, when it comes to this story, I've been busy.

When I posted the last chapter, I had an outline for where I wanted this story to go. That outline has been extended, given more details, and I have written the last chapter of this story. I plan endings, but I don't usually write them. I know what I want from this story so well though that I wrote the ending I pictured, and I know what I want to happen in this story. I can't give a chapter count, because I'm sure that I'll add things as I write, but this story is going to be contained to pre-season one. If you want more notes, I'll ramble some more after the chapter!

Small Warning: There's a lot of dialogue, short sentences, too many descriptions, and no action. It's a very important chapter though and kind of ushers in the next stage of the story.

Chapter Seven
Not Now Not Yet

DAY 7

There's a throat under his hand. Straining windpipe pushing up against his palm, pulse steady against the hard press of his fingers, sharp angles being pressed down by his bulk. There's a gun in his hand. Fully loaded, round in the chamber, no safety so that he can pull the trigger and get a result.

"Fr-nk."

Fingers are brushing down the back of his neck, from his hairline to the tops of his shoulders. His name is being said in a strangled voice, quiet and guttural. The body under his is tensed up, until the posture eases. Torso and legs relax under him, softens. Thumbs rub circles behind his ears, calming.

"S'kay."

He can't see. It's dark but his eyes aren't adjusting, and the body under his is unfamiliar. Small, but not childlike. There's a curve to the hips pinned under his, small breasts through thin fabric moving against the wall of his chest. Slightly bent legs have inner thighs sliding under his ribcage as her breathing slows while his accelerates.

"Yrr…" A tight breath as his hand flexes, adding more pressure, and a nail scratches the tip of his right ear. "Kay. Yrr…kay."

Everything under him is dark, his eyes can't make sense of the dark shapes, but there is light. Faint. He uses the hold on the throat to push himself up, feels the sharp point of knees digging into his ribs, and sees white. White around pale eyes. Pale blue. Wide with no fear. There should be fear.

"Fr-nk. Eez."

The body tenses, her body tenses, instinctually. He knows it's there. Self-preservation. He's preventing breathing, not enough to cause unconsciousness yet, but it's getting close. There should be a fight. Bucking and anger and fear. Not this. Not some little girl lying still like one of those goddamn princesses in a fairytale bo-

"Princess?"

The sound that comes from underneath him is amused. He's choking out life and that's amusing? It's amusing…because that's not enough to kill her. Not her. Not the girl that shrugs off taking bullets and smiles before falling from buildings. Not the girl who held onto a sink while he dug out a bullet in her back meant for him.

"Fuck!"

The room comes into painful clarity as he pulls back, first to his knees and then farther back, and he doesn't feel it when he falls off the bed onto his ass. He keeps pushing himself until his back hits the wall, and he immediately stretches a hand out when he sees pale feet against the dirty floor. There's slight hesitation, the ball of just one foot solidly touching the floor, before the rest of her follows. He sees the white frazzle of her hair first as she crawls towards him, then the wet marks on her cheeks as she stops in the vee of his legs, and finally the red lines showing around her pale eyes. He'd squeezed until her eyes watered and blood vessels popped, but she's looking at him with so much concern that his stomach burns.

"It's okay, Frank. You're okay." She's looking at him like he's the one that's hurt, but he can see an angry red ring around her throat. She must notice where he's looking too, because she reaches up with both hands to touch her throat like she's trying to hide the marks. "This is nothing. Less than nothing. Give it five minutes and it'll be forgotten."

"You gonna forget me doin' that to you?" Too small. She's too fucking small in her sleep shorts and oversized tee shirt. It doesn't matter that getting shot doesn't faze her. Doesn't matter that her pain fades in seconds and minutes, because she hasn't done anything to him. Hasn't tried to hurt him or anyone else, and he…he must have pulled her under him and held her down with a hand wrapped around her throat.

"Forget you doing what?" The smile she gives him is small as her hands lower, and he can see a clear imprint of his palm over her windpipe. When he reaches out, she leans up on her knees a little and sways forwards. Keeps her eyes on his as he grips her chin and turns her head to the side to see the marks he left over her pulse, and she doesn't speak again until their eyes disconnect. "I heard you, from the living room. You weren't screaming, like I'm sure I was doing the other night, but you weren't keeping it down either. If we didn't have neighbors, I wouldn't have tried waking you at all."

She's rambling. Words tripping over her tongue and from her lips, and he watches as the marks fade. From raw red, to a light pink blushing against her skin, and finally back into a smooth white. Like nothing happened. Nothing at all. Only problem is, he still remembers. Her small body under his, her strangled voice saying his name, and even her steady fingers trying to goddamn calm him while he pressed a gun to her temple.

"That's a small lie." She huffs out a quiet laugh as he lets her chin go, and she tucks her face down before peeking upwards to meet his eyes. "Even if we were in that cabin with no neighbors for miles, I still would have woken you up. You sounded like you were dying, but you felt like you had already died and were in hell. I couldn't leave you like that. You're not mad, right? Because we just agreed, like barely even two hours ago, to take care of each other. I think this qualifies."

"I tried to strangle you." She leans back a little, settles her ass a little more firmly on her feet, and meets his eyes head-on.

"Well, yeah, but you tried it one-handed."

"The other hand had a gun on you."

"We both know how much that affects me."

"Goddamn it!" She jumps at the yell, surprise in her eyes instead of fear, and she doesn't back down as he suddenly leans forward into her space. "Do you have any idea what I could have done to you?! Huh?!"

"I know you wouldn't-" The words cut off as strong knocks echo in the apartment, and she moves to her feet in one easy movement. With her hair sticking up and her clothes wrinkled, she looks like she just rolled out of bed. Not like he strangled her after she woke him from a nightmare he can't even remember now. "I'll take care of this. Be right back."

She leaves the bedroom door cracked open, enough that he can hear her footsteps cross the living room but blocks his view of the front door. Blocks whoever is at the door from seeing him, back tight against the wall with a gun still clenched in his hand. There's a quiet intake of air before the locks turn on the front door, she's steadying herself, and the length of the groan of the old hinges lets him know that the door is barely opened. He can hear the quiet sound of her voice, a mixture of confusion and apprehension, and it's nothing like the tone she used with him. Not flippant or easy-going. Not anymore.

"Sorry to bother you." A woman had knocked on the door. The strength of the knock had been strong, but the voice is quiet. Near whispering. "We just…I just, wanted to make sure. That everything was okay."

"Did you hear…his…nightmare?" Her voice is so gentle, so unlike the sharp edges of her body, and he wants to hate her. Wants to hate her for being calm, for playing the part of an explaining wife, for covering for him at all.

"Nightmare?" The other woman, probably a neighbor, sounds confused.

"He doesn't like to talk about it, so I'd appreciate it if this stays between us girls." There's a pause, he doesn't want to imagine why, before she continues her explanation. "It hasn't been easy, since he came home. I am sorry if the noise bothered you but-"

"No, no, no. Please, don't apologize, I completely understand. If you need anything, either of you, I'm just down the hall."

The two women exchange quiet goodbyes, and he hears the sound of the front door closing. There's a quiet relieved sigh, followed by the sound of locks turnings, and then her quiet steps are hurrying across the living room. One hand pushes the bedroom door open, and she easily slides back onto the floor and between the part of his legs again. Like she's trying to get as close as she can without actually touching him, and he watches her hands reach up to tuck her messy hair behind her ears.

"Sorry if I overstepped, but it was the only thing that came to me in the moment. She seemed really nice and very concerned, so I didn't want to be rude but I obviously couldn't tell the truth. I think it was an even compromise, but I'll totally understand if you're angry or…Hey, you still in there?" When her fingers snap in his face, he reaches up on instinct and grabs her wrist.

"This ain't gonna work. You need to go." Her face does something complicated, twists and draws up, and her hand curls into a fist over where he's still holding onto her wrist. He sees her other hand raise, sees the steadiness of her fingers, and then feels warmth move up his jawline.

"Are you saying that because of what just happened? Because that? That wasn't your fault. Not yours, not mine, not anybody's. You were having a bad dream, I tried to shake you awake, and you happened to react violently. Just like most people would have, so you can stop feeling guilty right now. Do you hear me?"

Frank moves quickly. Gets his hand locked around her throat again, presses her back flat against the floor, and looks into her eyes as he slowly raises the gun and presses it tight against her temple. His knees are on either side of her hips, but the only part of him holding her down is the hand on her throat. While he's looking, she raises her chin and bares even more of her throat. Enough for him to see the steady pulse beating from between his spread fingers.

"You don't scare me, Frank. You know what does?" She presses up into his hand, and when he tries to pull back she grabs both of his wrists to hold him in place. "You telling me to leave and meaning it. That scares me, because I don't know if I'll ever get to have this again."

"You that selfish?" The words are bitter in his throat but, damn it, he means every word.

"I really am. Tell me to leave and mean it, and you'll never see me again. So the next time you say it."

Her body tenses and then bucks, one sharp movement, and he loses his balance and his hold on her loosens. His hand flexes as he drops the gun, and his palm slaps the floor next to her head as he works to hold himself up. Then the world blurs around him and there's the sound of a muted thud as his back hits the floor. One hand is still wrapped around her throat, but she has the upper hand now. He barely even registered her moving, but she's got his other hand pinned under a knee while the other one digs into his stomach. Her ankles are locked over his thighs, and there's no give when he strains upwards. She's stronger than him, and they both know it.

"You'd better mean it."

.xXx.

Frank goes back to sleep. She says her piece, gets off of him, and then closes the bedroom door behind her when she leaves. So he pulls himself off the floor, falls back onto the bed, and returns his gun to its spot under the pillow before falling back asleep. There are no other sounds in the apartment as he drifts off, which means that she isn't leaving and probably went back to sleep as well, and he doesn't wake up again until late afternoon sunlight is slanting through the blinds. The apartment is still quiet when he wakes up, and he remembers everything that happened in crystal clear quality.

He can remember standing in the morgue, men dead all around him, with her leaning in the doorway. Sees the proud smile on her face as red dripped all over her. Feels the tackiness of drying blood against her skin as he dug a bullet out of her. Hears her quiet voice as she looked at him, saw old scars and more recent injuries, and her telling him that they'll take care of one another. Then only a couple of hours later he attacked her. Doesn't matter that she can heal. He knows that she feels pain, and he knows he was only a split second away from putting one of his bullets through her.

"Wake up, sleepyhead! I got pizza!" Her voice rings out right before the front door closes, and he hears rustling bags as shoes shuffle across the wooden floor.

He gets himself to the edge of the bed, stands himself up, and moves over to the dresser. Yanks on jeans without even checking to see if they're clean, doesn't bother with socks or shoes, and is still pulling on a shirt as he opens the bedroom door and walks out. He can hear her in the kitchen so that's where he turns, and he looks up to see her putting down plates on the small kitchen table. She looks up as he gets closer, and she looks completely normal. Jeans and a thin tee shirt, hair clean and brushed, and a little bit of color in her pale cheeks as she quickly looks him over.

"Don't take this personally, Frank, but you look like shit." She smiles a little as she says it, and she walks around the kitchen table to stand in front of him.

"What do you feel?" he asks her. She's standing in front of him, head tipped back so she can keep looking at him, and she smells like the cheap shampoo they bought.

"There's your usual, which is this really weird balance of calm and anger. It's impressive, if I'm being honest. Smaller stuff, let's see…frustration, annoyance, guilt. How'm I doin'?"

"Not me, you. What do you feel?" he clarifies. Her pale eyes widen, just a little, and her arms raise to cross over her stomach.

"Hunger, for one. I stopped feeling hunger after I stopped feeling everything else. A little nostalgic, because the pizza place was playing oldies that made me think of my grandmother. Embarrassed, about this morning. I shouldn't have pinned you like that, not even to make a point. Anxious, curious, worried, little bit thirsty, concerned. I can keep going, if you want?"

He shakes his head and then steps around her, and he ignores the weight of her eyes on him as he moves to the other side of the table and sits down. There's a thin box on the center of the table, two plates in front of their usual seats, and he takes in a breath. The pizza smells good, thick grease in the air and cheese dripping over the sides, and there's so much meat packed on top that he can barely see the crust. While he's looking into the opened pizza box, she moves around and places an assortment of sodas on the table. After she sits down, she gestures for him to pick a drink first and doesn't grab a slice of pizza until he's already eating.

They finish off the pizza in silence, matched slice for slice, and it's the quietest they've been at the table yet. There's no rambling from her, no lost filter between her brain and mouth. No questions, about future plans or anything else. She doesn't hum or tap her feet, and he's starting to remember how she was able to hide in the back of his truck for several hours. It's been almost easy for him to forget, considering how much noise she usually makes. To be so small, she seems to occupy a lot of space. Except for now. Right now, it's like sharing a table with a ghost.

"Are you sending me away, Frank?" Calm and even tone, strong voice, straight spine. The pizza box is empty and closed, two drink bottles out of six are empty, and their plates are clean of both leftover grease and crumbs.

"Day's not over yet." He sees her nod, registers it, and pushes up to his feet. "I'm going out. Won't be gone long."

.xXx.

"Be safe, Frank."

Dani hadn't said it until he was out of the apartment, so there hadn't been any real reason to say it. The words had needed to be said though, out loud and into the universe, so she'd sat at the small table and said them as she looked at the closed front door. It was probably better that she hadn't said the words while he was still in their pretend-home. He'd still been on edge, wound tight, and those two little words could have possibly been his breaking point.

It's just so damn frustrating! She understands what has him all torn up inside, since she'd been there too, but she hadn't been in any kind of danger. Not just because of her ability to heal either. She knows Frank, and she knows that he would never hurt her. Not if he's in his right mind and completely aware. He'd been dreaming, having a nightmare just like anyone else would after everything he's been through, and she'd wanted to help him. She told herself to stay out of it, at first, but then it got worse. He'd sounded like a wounded animal, making quiet drawn-out grunts in his sleep, but the way he felt? That kind of pain had choked her more effectively than a hand ever could have, and she couldn't leave him like that. Even if he does send her away because of what happened afterwards, she won't regret it.

She takes care of the kitchen, first, because it's getting easier to hear her grandmother's lessons after being able to feel so clearly again. So she tidies up like her grandmother taught her. Washes the plates, throws away the trash, and then puts the untouched drinks in the fridge for later. Next she cleans the bathroom, makes sure there's no blood anywhere and even scrubs the bathtub. After that, she moves into the bedroom and stretches out the time by slowly making the bed. Moves to her side of the dresser and refolds her clothes to Edie Montgomery's strict standards. Before long though, there isn't anything left to do. The apartment is as clean as it's going to get, and there's nothing else she can do to kill time.

With a sigh, she drops down onto the couch on her back and hugs her bright yellow pillow to her chest. Habit causes her to start humming the first melody to pop into her head, and her fingers tap against the pillow in rhythm to her humming. She can feel Frank, that steady base of muted fury, up above her. He might have went out but certainly didn't go far. If she's guessing right, he's on the roof. Maybe he was feeling trapped and needed the open air. Maybe he just wanted to be somewhere that people wouldn't bother him. His reasons are his own. She's not going to bother him. She's going to lay on this sagging couch, with her eyes tightly closed, and hum quietly until Frank comes back.

"Stayed in bed all morning just to pass the time. There's something wrong here, there can be no denying," she sings as she tries not to think about being alone again.

.xXx.

For someone who demands so much attention and fills up silences, she's nearly invisible when she sleeps. He's sitting on the arm of the couch, and she's curled up at the other end. Knees pulled tight to her body, like she's only trying to occupy one cushion. Her arms are wrapped around her sides, chin tucked down against her chest, and hair is hiding her face. He knows she's asleep though. Knew it as soon as he walked inside the apartment and realized all the lights were off. She must have fallen asleep not long after he left, before the sun set. He'd turned on the bathroom light to take a shower after coming back, and he'd left the light on and the door open when he was done. Now he's sitting at the far end of the couch, listening to her snore, and trying to talk himself out of the decision he's made.

"Staring at a lady while she sleeps is creepy, in case you were wondering." Her voice is sleepy, slightly slurred and raspy, and hair slides off her cheek as she turns to look down the length of the couch at him.

"Trying to figure out where you stashed the bear." Confusion blanks her features for a moment and then she tries to kick at him. Only tries, because she's too short for her legs to actually reach him.

"Ladies don't snore," she says as she struggles to sit up. Her clothes are twisted up and her hair is a mess, but neither seems to bother her as she sits up on the couch and then looks pointedly at all of the open space next to her.

"Princesses do," he tells her as he gets to his feet. Instead of sitting down, he walks the few steps to the kitchen and pulls the fridge open. He ignores the sodas, doesn't want the fizz and caffeine, and grabs a couple bottles of water in one hand. Before coming inside, he'd walked to a small all-night convenience store and bought a few deli sandwiches. They're pressed flat and feel uneven in the tight plastic wrap, but they'll do. He balances it all in two hands as he crosses back to the couch, and she looks up as he stops in front of her.

"Last meal?" There's a small twist to her lips that he thinks is supposed to be a smile, and he doesn't say anything as she reaches out to grab her piss-poor dinner. "Not appropriate humor for this moment, got it. Thanks for this."

"Being numb. It really that bad?" He waits until he's sitting on the couch next to her to ask it, and they both keep looking forwards as they unwrap their sandwiches.

"Not at first, which I'm only admitting because of Rule Number Two." No lies. "I couldn't feel grief anymore. For the people I killed, the grandparents who raised me, or even myself. That was nice, in the beginning. Like someone had finally lifted a boulder off my chest."

No more grief. No aching loneliness or the guilt that came with still surviving. All of it, gone. Without that, would he even still be who he is? Is she the same person when she isn't carrying that weight around?

"So the crying stopped and everything looked brighter, but it didn't last long. When I lost the negatives, I lost the positives too. Nothing made me happy or made me smile, not content or even bored. I could laugh with the person walking behind me and feel completely empty inside. I think, I don't know, that maybe being able to feel is what makes us human. Love, hatred…that part doesn't matter. All emotions are caused by humanity. With that gone, people aren't human anymore."

She's only eaten half of her sandwich, and he can see her fingers shaking as she wraps the remainder back in the plastic. She washes down what little she did eat with a mouthful of water before she drops that into her lap too, and she keeps looking at the wall in front of the couch as she holds her hand out. She doesn't ask him for anything, doesn't even look at him, but he knows what she wants. So he puts his sandwich on his thigh and brushes his palms across his knees, and his hand is steady when it grabs hers. Palms sliding, fingers slotted through his, and the muscles in her arm are rigid as she sags back against the couch.

"I think I was dying, Frank. I couldn't feel anything, which means I didn't care about anything. I couldn't even care enough to kill myself, so I just kept going." Her fingers press harder, bruising pressure against the back of his hand, but he holds on. "I stopped eating and drinking. There was no satisfaction in it, and not doing it didn't affect me either. I stopped taking care of myself at all, and my body was on the verge of shutting down. The healing kept me on my feet, but there was nothing left in me. I sat in crowds hoping to feel something, anything, but nothing got through. I could feel them, but it wouldn't sink in. I was in the graveyard that night because I wanted to be with people like me. With people who were empty and felt nothing anymore."

She isn't crying. She still isn't looking at him and he hasn't looked at her, but he can see her face from the corner of his eye. Can see how it looks like she's melted against the couch, entire body lax except for the arm she's holding up, and he feels the jagged edge of a nail break his skin.

"I think I was dying. Maybe not in the next decade, I don't know how long it'd take before my body finally just stopped, but I was dying. I couldn't feel, and I couldn't touch."

Until him. Neither of them understand it, he sure as hell doesn't, but he doesn't think she can fake this. Maybe she isn't looking at him, but that doesn't matter. He doesn't need to see her face to tell if she's being honest. It's in her voice. Strong and broken. It's in her grip. Secure and desperate.

"I know it's possible now, for me to feel and to touch. So you can ask me to leave, if that's what you want, and I'll go. Because I know it's possible, and I'm grateful for that. I will always be grateful for that, no matter what comes next."

"We shouldn't be here." It's the first thing he's said since he first sat down, and he hears the back of her head against the scratchy material of the couch as she turns to look at him. His eyes narrow at the wall for a moment but then he turns to look at her. Looks her in the eye as he says when he really means. "Shouldn't be alive."

"I should have died in that basement lab. You should have died in that park with your family."

Their hands finally lower to rest on the couch, in the open space between where they're sitting, and there's a dark line streaking across the back of his hand. Slips over the side and stains the sheet that's stretching across the bottom cushions. There's an apology in her eyes, but she doesn't say anything. He doesn't ask for an apology, because it barely even registers as a scratch and he isn't mad anyway.

"I'm not asking you to leave. Not now, not yet."

Tears don't fall until she's smiling fully, a few get caught on the upturn of her lips and the shadows of dimples in her cheeks, and she's crying because she's happy. She's holding onto his hand so strong that she's leaving bruises and crying because he isn't kicking her out, and he knows what she's feeling is all hers because he ain't happy. He can tell that this, whatever the hell this is, will end badly. For both of them. He knows that because there's no way for them or this situation to have a happy ending, and he knows that sending her away would be the right thing. He doesn't want her caught up in his shit, but he can't ignore everything she's said and done either. So she's going to stay. For now.

"Does this mean we can be normal? I'll be cheerful fun-loving Dani, you'll be grumpy gun-toting Frank, and we'll save all the deep shit for when we're super drunk?" She's still smiling, wiping away old and new tears with her free hand, and her fingers are loosely holding onto him now.

"Can you even get drunk?" Her head shakes, and the tip of her tongue catches the last tear before it can touch the corner of her mouth.

"Not the normal way. I think if we buy pure ethanol though and I chug it really fast, I'll be able to get tipsy though." It makes him laugh, so quiet that they're the only ones that can hear, and her own amusement is a little louder but not by much. It's enough. For right now, it's enough.

.xXx.

They fall asleep on the couch. Mostly full water bottles and half-eaten sandwiches in their laps, fully dressed in jeans with their feet jammed into shoes, sitting upright against the cushions, but still slumped down in sleepy slouches. Their heads are leaning back against the cushions, turned towards each other, and their hands are still locked in the open space between them. She doesn't snore, he doesn't dream, and they don't talk about it the next morning.

Finis: Frank needs a hug. Dani needs a hug. Why can't they just hug it out?! Oh, wait, that's my call to make. Maybe next time.

This chapter is important because it shows acceptance, from both of them. Frank is accepting Dani's presence in his life for the time being, and I'm not sure if I was clear enough but Dani is accepting that one day Frank will ask her to leave. They both realize that, and they're going to stick together anyway. So not every chapter will be as drawn out emotionally as this one, but you should expect to see conversations like this from time to time.

Future stuff! This story is going to cover everything that Frank does before season one starts. I've already decided to write two sequels to this story. The next story will cover everything that happens in seasons one and two, so that story will contain ALL of the spoilers. The story after that, Frank and Dani Part 3, will pick up after the end of season two and follow their lives moving forward. Plot for that story is being slowly developed, but my main focus is on this story right now.

I know the things that I want to happen, but I am completely open to new ideas! Is there anyone that you would like to see Dani meet? Like maybe The Defenders or anyone else in the extended Marvel Netflix Universe? (Dani already loves Foggy, for anyone that's curious, and she respects the hell out of Matt. Jessica? Would most likely try to make them besties and sneak her vegetables. Luke? Wouldn't resist holding him on her shoulder and shouting hurrah. Danny? She's making cooing noises and occasionally pinching his cheek like an old grandma.)

Are there any other characters that you would like to see in the sequels? Canon or otherwise? For example, I think Dani meeting Karen or Frank's other friends would be interesting to explore. On the other hand, I loved Ghost Rider's interpretation on Agents of Shield, and I think Robbie Reyes and Frank Castle would make fun badass brooding bros. The stories will always be about Frank and Dani, but they can share the spotlight on occasion. (Also, I think Dani would benefit from a friend who isn't Frank but I can't decide on who that friend should be.) If you actually read all of this, kudos to you! You can have whatever you ask for, within the realm of fanfiction.

Kaylamr: Thank you so much for the review! I'm not sure how many Punisher/OC stories there are, I hope a lot because Frank deserves the love, but thank you for the compliment! I hope you continue to read and enjoy the story.

deathb4beauty: This might be a strange way to write these characters, but I love the idea of them having calm discussions over the really big things (like Dani getting shot) and then getting really dramatic during conversations that should be simple (like discussing being in a mutually beneficial partnership). It's definitely more fun to write. As I'm sure you could tell from all the rambling, I absolutely love the show and I can't watch it without hearing Dani's commentary so I'm definitely writing her in. Thank you so much for reading and for leaving a review!