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He knew this was a bad idea. That was why he hesitated on the sidewalk. The Punisher looked up from beneath his dark hoodie, ignored by any stragglers passing by on the cold winter’s night thanks to the anonymity the shadows of midnight provided. His lips quirked upwards slightly as he located the apartment window, noting the flashing multicolored lights that framed it from the inside and allowed a short view beyond a half-closed curtain. It was just enough to see the petite Christmas tree that its occupant had placed where, as Frank knew firsthand, was the only area of the apartment it would possibly fit.
His eyes dart from the tree to a glimpse of a shadow that moves across the curtain, alerting him to what he already knew: you were home. Of course you were; it was midnight on Christmas Eve— officially Christmas Day by now, technically— and there he was standing out in the cold, debating whether or not to even make his presence known.
Hell, would you even want to see him after how things left off between the two of you? Not to mention the amount of danger he knew any involvement with him brought.
The fact he was standing here at all was a testament to how selfish he was being, he figured. The truth was, he knew you were spending Christmas alone, but this was just as much for his own sake as it was for yours.
“Damn it,” Frank curses under his breath, a puff of hot air forming visibly in the night air and catching the light of a nearby street light before his boots push against the cement beneath him, moving forwards towards the building as he makes up his mind. The usual certainty he did everything with abandoned him now, though it always seemed to do that where you were involved. You had a way of making his judgement weak, and he wasn’t too sure whether he enjoyed that feeling or not.
Frank finds himself at your door just as familiarly quick as the last time he’d been there, despite the fact that that had been nearly two months ago by now. He wasn’t one for knocking, usually, but this time he felt he needed to. As if what happened when he’d seen you last had changed your dynamic in a way that he wasn’t certain if he was still allowed to barge in or not. Not that you’d ever given him permission in the first place. Still, for the first time, he knocks. Three quick ones that have him glancing either way down the hallway afterwards to be sure he hadn’t attracted the attention of any other tenants.
Then, for the first time, he waits outside your door.
Frank is more tense than he’d expected when he hears your small gasp beyond the thin door, no doubt at seeing him through the peephole. That feeling only intensifies as the door cracks open, revealing a wide-eyed you, hair pulled up in a way that screamed you hadn’t expected company, as if the flannel pajamas you wore didn’t already announce that fact.
“Frank, I—” you begin, guilt flashing across your face, but he interrupts.
“Can I come in?” he asks and you step to the side. Of course you’d let him in. When he walks past, he notices the fuzzy red socks that clung to your feet, white stripes across them in a way that reminded him of candy canes, which was possibly the initial intent. His smile returns at that and, for a moment, he forgets the tense air surrounding his surprise appearance, teasing you, “Nice socks.”
You shoot him a slightly defensive look as you shut and lock the door after him, but the quirk at your lips proves you know he’s teasing, “Hey, they’re comfy. Don’t knock ‘em ‘til you try ‘em.” He stands not far from the doorway, letting the heat of your apartment soak through his heavy clothes and into his bones. You give him a quick glance-over, relieved at the relative lack of injuries as compared to the last time you’d seen him, though you notice that he looks immensely awkward standing there, his hands shoved into his pockets as if he had no clue what to do with them otherwise. You decide to get to the point. “Frank, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to see you— really glad— but I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again after…” trailing off, you glance past the side of his head, focusing on the Christmas tree near your window in an effort to avoid direct eye-contact when your face flushes at the remembrance of the events two months prior.
His boots are heavy against your floor as he takes the three-steps distance towards you, forcing your eyes back to his as he pushes his hood back. Your breath catches in your throat at the intensity in them. Frank was always intense, but this— this was intense in a way he’d never looked at you before. An apology in them, just as guilty as yours, and the slightest bit of hope that what he’d said to you last time could be forgotten.
“I was an asshole before,” it comes out gruff, and you realize that’s just about as close to an apology as you’re going to get from him in this moment, but it’s not insincere. The opposite, actually.
“If you were an asshole, I was one, too,” you manage your own apology, eyes flicking instinctively to his lips that seemed to grow ever closer, causing you to ramble, “We’re a couple of assholes, it would seem.”
He lets out a chuckle, lips quirking into a crooked smile as he catches himself from kissing you, pressing his forehead against yours instead, “I guess so.”
“I’m glad you came back,” you sigh, eyes closing reflexively as relief washes through you that he was actually standing here right now. That he wasn’t mad at you. That you hadn’t messed up whatever this was between you. When he’d walked out your door after the things you’d both said, the things you’d confessed to him, the things he told you he couldn’t do… Well, you’d thought that was the last you’d ever see of him.
You were glad you were wrong.
“I should’ve stayed away from you,” Frank murmurs. “When you said you loved me, I just… I couldn’t say it back. It’s dangerous for you to say that, (Y/N). Everyone I love ends up dead.”
“Did you come here to tell me you can’t love me, again? You got that point across pretty clearly last time,” you open your eyes, finding his conflicted ones as his brow furrows against yours.
Frank grunts in annoyance, “I spent two months trying to convince myself I didn’t love you.”
“And did you?” you prompt, quickly clarifying, “Convince yourself of that?”
“No.”
It’s a whisper against your lips. Almost pained, disappearing as soon as it’s formed when he closes the gap between you. Guilt-ridden and full of the regret of whatever this would mean in the future— whatever inevitability would come with the fact of what had just been confessed between the two of you.
Your fingertips reach upwards, brushing against the prick of the stubble at his jaw as you smooth your hand along the side of his face while his own does nearly the same on the opposite side of your kiss. The kiss is slow, deep, and leaves you spiraling into an abyss where nothing else existed except for this moment, right here, right now. His hand cups your jaw, calloused, but far more gentle than a name like The Punisher would announce him to be. When his thumb rubs a circle on your flushed cheek, you reach for his hand, holding him to you as if you were afraid of the possibility of his letting go.
Frank leads the kiss, firm against you until the very moment that you wrap an arm around his neck and hum into his lips. That’s when he breaks, hand slipping from your face to your waist where he pulls you flush against him, gentleness giving way to pure need and want. Your hands find their grips in his hoodie as he pushes you against the door to your apartment in the heat of the moment. Before things can go further, he pulls away, returning to the position he was in before with his forehead pressed against yours. Frank seems to need to catch his breath in much the same way you caught yours, before he leans back entirely.
“How long are you staying?” you find yourself asking in an attempt to ignore the pounding of your heart against your chest and the heat in your cheeks, moving past him until you find yourself falling into your couch. He follows, sitting beside you and pulling your legs into his lap as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. You can’t help your smile as you joke, “Can The Punisher take a break for Christmas, or are you going to leave again?”
Frank shakes his head, gaze slipping to meet yours out of the corner of his eye when he smiles, “I’m all yours for Christmas.”
“That’s the best present I could ask for,” you begin, leaning forwards to place a kiss against his jaw, only for him to turn his head and catch your lips with his own the second go-round. When the quick kiss ends, you chuckle, “Merry Christmas, Frank.”
“Merry Christmas, (Y/N).”
This Christmas, neither of you were going to be alone.