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There’s more blood that you really want to be dealing with. To be fair, in a perfect world, there would be no blood. None at all. In a marginally better world than this one, there would be less blood. But you’re in in this one. The real one. In this shitty, shitty, god awful real world, you’re watching far more blood than you know how to deal with pool on the floor as you try and clean Frank up so you can assess the damage. He’s sitting on the floor of your shower, eyes half closed as he leans back against the wall and you grab a bottle of rubbing alcohol and kiss his forehead apologetically before dumping half the bottle down his chest. His jaw clenches and you can feel the low growl in his throat as he suppresses a roar of fresh pain. His body tenses and you flinch slightly even as you press down hard on the wounds, putting as much pressure as you can, as much as you dare on the gauze keeping his blood in his body. You can feel his heartbeat under your palms and somehow, it’s almost steady.
“Hold this” you say, not even waiting for him to respond as you grab his hand and press it against the already red gauze, reaching for the small box you know holds the suture kit. Frank’s breathing is shallow and fast, and you feel your heartbeat match its rhythm and it’s some kind of miracle that your hands aren’t shaking as you carefully pull his hand and the gauze away from his skin. Fresh blood is still welling there and your stomach clenches and all you can think for a split second is ‘my first aid courses never prepared me for this’.
But they did, and you know they did because when you first realised you were in love with Frank, you signed yourself up for every different kind of civilian first aid qualification you could afford and the one on suturing open wounds was only seven or eight months ago, so you grit your teeth and push the needle through his skin. His breath hitches and then evens out again as you work fast, pulling the stitches as tight as you dare before tying off the suture and moving onto the next wound.
You lose track of how long you kneel in your shower with Frank, stitching his wounds, checking his pulse, making sure he’s still breathing. The bleeding has stopped, mostly. The stitches are bandaged. His probably broken wrist is set, despite his feeble protestations. He’s half asleep, half delirious on the painkillers and sleeping pills you all but shoved down his throat. He doesn’t take care of himself. He won’t. He tries not to let you do it either but right now he barely has the energy to keep his eyes open so there’s nothing he can do but let you take care of him. You’re sure he isn’t strong enough to stand on his own and you know he’s too big for you to lift him on your own, so you wash as much of the blood in the shower down the drain as you can without drenching the both of you. You’re not sure if Frank is awake or not as you stand up to find the blankets you bought specifically for nights like this and you wrap them around him and settle against his mostly uninjured side. He doesn’t try and tell you to go sleep in the bed instead of sitting with him, and that almost worries you more than the injuries he limped in with. His skin is cooler than normal, and you reach reflexively for his hands, tucking them under the edges of the blankets, but when you go to pull away, he catches yours in both of his. His voice is barely more than a hoarse whisper as he murmurs, “m’keepin’ this.”
A small smile tugs at your lips as you lean your head gingerly on his shoulder and you carefully lace your fingers with his and you say softly, “you should be asleep.”
Frank barely moves-doesn’t have the energy to do much more than breathe and speak right now-but you feel the faintest twitch of his muscles in an imitation of a shrug and he says, “so should you.”
Your nose brushes his jaw lightly as you tilt your head towards him and you say, “I’ll sleep when I know you’re not about to die on me,” the faintest note of reproach, of frustration entering your voice. You know he’s not going to die tonight-or at least, you’re about as sure as you can be-and now that you’re sure, you’re allowed to be upset about all the reckless things he does to himself. You knew this was part of the deal with him. You’d have to be okay with this if you wanted to keep him in your life, and you are okay with it. Mostly. But it’s hard to keep the fear of losing him at bay especially on nights like this.
His breath comes out in a rush as he sighs and says, “not gonna die. I’m fine. S’fine. You should rest.”
You watch his chest rise and fall and your own chest feels tight as you whisper “you know I’m not going anywhere till I know you’re okay. Try and sleep, Frank.” You try not to make any grand, impromptu declarations of love or affection or concern in this relationship, especially when it’s hardest for you to keep them in. He doesn’t respond well to admissions of that sort. You know he doesn’t think he deserves the kind of softness you want to give him. You know it can shut him down and make him close himself off from you, so you try and keep it to yourself. The feelings are still there, though. Burning strong, and warm, and constant, even if you rarely verbalise them.
Frank sighs again, still holding your hand in both of his, thumb stroking idly over your knuckle. He doesn’t say anything, so you settle against him and just sit as you listen to his breathing. The shower tile is cold against your back despite the blanket and you can feel the water and blood on the tiles soaking through your sweatpants and even though the bed would be far more comfortable than this, you’d never even think of leaving his side.
Hours pass, and you drift in and out of a dreamless, restless sleep as Frank sags against you, his head falling against your shoulder, hands still intertwined with yours, tucked under the blankets you wrapped around him. His skin is warmer now, his breathing more even, and you brush a soft kiss against the crown of his head before letting your eyes slip shut, feeling sleep start to overtake you.
You’re drifting halfway between dreams and waking when you hear Frank’s low rough whisper, scarcely louder than the sound of his breathing. “Should’ve found another man, baby.” His voice is heartbreakingly tender, and you know the sadness in his voice is for you-for the nights like this when you keep him alive and then sit with him for hours, when all he can think when you look at him for the next week is that you should never have had to learn what your hands looked like covered in blood.
Lifting your head from his shoulder, you feel his hands tense slightly around yours as you tilt your head to look at him, your free hand going to cup his cheek gently, forcing him to look back at you as you say softly, “don’t talk like that, Frank. Don’t want anyone but you.”
He arches an eyebrow and his shoulders shift slightly in an approximation of a shrug as he says “m’no good for you. You shouldn’t have to do-to do all this shit. Should be with someone normal.”
Part of you observes that he’s clearly not going to die if he has enough energy to start this tired argument with you, but you can’t even catch the relief that remark carries. Your heart is too heavy, too weighed down with the years of self-sacrifice you can see in Frank’s eyes. Your thumb strokes lightly along his cheekbone, your touch feather light over the bruises and you whisper “don’t. Please. Don’t talk like that. I don’t want anyone else. I’ll be yours until all the stars fall out of the sky, Frank Castle. What do I have to do to make you see that.”
His forehead falls against yours and he sighs and murmurs, “go to bed, baby” and you almost laugh because the man really never gives up. Tilting your head to brush your lips against his, you squeeze his hand gently.
“You think you can stand?”
Frank huffs out what might almost be considered a laugh and says, “does it matter?”
You roll your eyes and rise to your feet, careful not to jostle his injuries as you say, “take my hands,” ignoring his question. The corner of his mouth can’t help but quirk up in a tired, lopsided smile as he holds his hands out to you, using a combination of your grip and the shower wall and sheer determination to rise unsteadily to his feet. You drape his arm over your shoulders, letting him lean most of his weight on you.
He lets out that soft almost laugh again and his voice is fond as he says, “I can look after myself” and that almost makes you laugh because since when has Frank ever taken care of himself.
Limping him to the bed makes your knees feel like they’re about to give way because he’s built like a tank and weighs about as much but he lets you help him sit down on the edge of the mattress. You find him some dry sweatpants and a hoodie, and he just watches as you get him a glass of water and he’s too tired to do anything but let you look after him. He was too close to death too recently to try not to be grateful for this tenderness because even if he doesn’t deserve it, it feels good to be taken care of. To be touched like he matters to someone.
You leave him to put on the dry, clean clothes as you find the biggest bottle in the apartment and fill it with water for him to drink and when you go back to the bedroom, he’s lying down against the pillows, half asleep already, watching you through hazy eyes. You set the bottle down on the nightstand and find your own dry sweatpants to pull on and the weight of his gaze on you is warm and familiar and comfortable.
He lets out a soft hum of contentment as you settle down in the bed beside him and he extends an arm, mumbling “come closer.”
A soft smile tugs at your lips as you move in close to him, careful not to put pressure on his injuries as you lean your head on his shoulder and he wraps his arm around you. His skin is warm against yours, his heartbeat steady and his breathing even. The bandages are still white where they cover his torso and sharing space with him like this feels like home. His lips press against your forehead and your eyes shut slowly as you melt into him.
He can smell your shampoo and your hand is flattened on his chest, resting over his heart, and he wants to tell you that he loves you, wants to say thank you for all the nights you’ve done this for him, wants to tell you what you mean to him. But the words stick in his throat, and he can tell you’re already asleep, and he’s spent so long cutting any kind of warmth out of his life that he thinks if he tried to say ‘I love you’ all that would come out would be ‘I’m sorry’ and he knows that isn’t a good enough sentiment to wake you with, so he keeps his words to himself, just kissing your forehead again and letting his own eyes close as he falls asleep to the sound of your breathing and the passing of cars in the street below.