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“Uh…Frank?” Micro says- slow and hesitant.
Too preoccupied with cleaning one of the many guns that he may or may not have stolen, Frank doesn’t pick up on how odd Micro’s voice sounds or how the steady click-clack of fingers against a keyboard slowly comes to a pause.
“What?” Frank gruffly replies, slightly irked that Micro’s distracting him from his current task at hand.
Frank may tolerate the guy now, but their partnership is tentative at best. He drags the bristles of a utility brush he found lying around over the slide of the gun, cleaning out any debris that’s gathered there. Frank was surprised that Micro even owned a utility brush, considering the man doesn’t have much in his hideout besides the bare necessities and a fuckton of tech stuff.
“You might want to see this.”
Frank heavily sighs and sets the handgun to the side. Frank has learned that Micro won’t leave him alone until he gets up to look at whatever it is that Micro wants to show him. He places his hands on his thighs and pushes himself up from his sitting position, lazily walking over to where Micro’s seated behind his whole setup of computer monitors and tv screens.
“What is it?” Frank makes sure that the irritation he feels is heard loud and clear in his voice. Micro doesn’t tear his attention from one of the numerous screens he has spread out around the room, which only serves to further piss off Frank. “Lieberman, what—”
“Frank, look at the screen.”
Frank wants to protest- to put up a fight- but something about Micro’s serious tone makes him swallow down his complaints. That doesn’t stop him from rolling his eyes and scoffing before finally listening to Micro. Frank’s gaze lazily drifts from Micro to the television screen that the man is so adamant that Frank looks at.
At first, Frank doesn’t understand what the big deal is.
The tv is airing a breaking news report. Some building in Hell’s Kitchen has collapsed. From what? Nobody knows quite yet, according to the report. That’s real unfortunate for the people who live in that building, but Frank doesn’t understand why Micro was pestering him so damn much to get up and watch this.
That is until Frank looks at the screen for a bit longer and realizes that he recognizes the building.
“Doesn’t your kid live there?” Micro quietly asks.
No. That can’t be your place, Frank tries to convince himself. He goes through all of the reasons why that can’t possibly be your building- yours is a different shade of tan, yours isn’t that many stories, etcetera, etcetera- but when the location of the building pops in the headline at the bottom of the screen, and it’s your address, Frank can’t deny it any longer.
He immediately turns away from the screen and stalks toward the exit of the hideout.
“Woah, Frank, where are you going?” Micro scrambles out of his seat and rushes to catch up with Frank, who doesn’t even pause for a moment. Internally, Micro curses Frank’s long, unfaltering strides.
“Where do you think?” Frank snaps, scoffing. His dark eyes dart around the area near the exit before he locates the set of keys to the black stolen van they have in their possession lying on a dusty surface. He quickly walks over and snatches them before turning around to give Micro a hard look. “You going to try and stop me?”
Micro puts his hands up in a placating manner. “I’m not going to try and stop you, but I’m not going to let you drive.” The shaggy-haired brunet puts one of his hands out, palm facing up. “Give me the keys.”
Frank wants to argue, but he can’t waste precious time bickering with Micro over who’s going to drive when you could very well be in danger.
“Fine,” Frank grits out through clenched teeth, dropping the car keys into Micro’s hand and walking right on past him. “You drive.”
“Come on….Come on…Pick up…” Frank mutters, fingers tightening around the black burner phone with each ring that goes unanswered. If Frank grips the cellular device any harder, he’s going to break that phone in two.
Hey, you’ve reached…
Frank loudly curses as your voicemail plays for what feels like the hundredth time. In a burst of anger and frustration, he hurls the phone at the dashboard with his full strength. Micro flinches when the device ricochets off of the hard plastic and flies somewhere over their shoulders into the back of the van.
“Easy there, Frank.”
Micro’s eyes leave the road ahead of him for a split second as he sends a wary glance Frank’s way.
Although Micro hasn’t known Frank for that long, he’s never seen the man like this before. He’s witnessed the man lose his temper, more than once, but Frank looks like he’s ready to lose his cool completely. Not only that, but there’s an edge of desperation to Frank- one that Micro’s unfamiliar seeing on the man’s face, but it’s something that Micro recognizes. He’s seen it in the reflection of his computer monitors, when he’s stationed right in front of the screens watching Zach and Leo fight and argue, knowing that there’s nothing he can do to alleviate the situation.
It’s the image of a father worried out of his mind for his child.
Seeing Frank like this, it makes him more human, Micro thinks. He’s not the Punisher right now. He’s not this murderous vigilante, hellbent on exacting revenge. Right now, all Frank is a father, a father concerned and scared for his kid, his only kid left alive at that.
For Frank’s sake, Micro hopes that you’re okay.
“They’re not picking up,” Frank gruffly says. He drags a heavy hand through his closely-cropped hair, tugging at the short strands. His breathing’s grown agitated: he can hear the raggedness of his breaths, but it all sounds so far away to Frank. He can’t control it.
Against his wishes, the memory of the carousel surfaces in Frank’s mind. Unconsciously, his breathing quickens as he sees the bloodied faces and crumpled bodies of Lisa, Frank Junior, and Maria flash behind his eyes. Frank can’t lose you, too. He can’t.
“Hey, Frank…Frank…Frank!”
The loud shout of Frank’s name breaks through the endless cycle of his worst memory playing on repeat in his brain. He jolts in his spot, quickly turning his head to look Micro in the face.
“What?” Frank harshly spits out, voice rough. Micro doesn’t take it personally. Frank’s stress due to the given circumstances is understandable.
With an upward tilt of his chin, Micro motions ahead of the van.
“We’re here.”
You wake up dizzy and disoriented. Prying your eyes open, you blink slowly, almost lazily, as you attempt to clear the stars that immediately flood your blurry vision. God, your head is killing you, you absentmindedly note.
You attempt to sit up from where you’re lying on the floor- wait. When did you end up on the ground? What are you doing lying on your living room floor?
With a loud groan, you try to push yourself up into a sitting position only for your arms to give out. Your back hits the floor with a hard smack, and a pained exhale forces its way out of your mouth.
Your thoughts are disorganized and muddled, but one thing strikes through the fogginess in your brain.
The pain.
Everything hurts.
Why does everything hurt so much?
Lying flat on your back, you look straight up at the ceiling, but the longer you stare up at it, the more… wrong it looks. You don’t live in the nicest apartment building, but you don’t recall pieces of your ceiling being missing.
Your eyes widen. There weren’t portions of your ceiling missing before.
More stars appear in your vision as your eyes frantically dart all over your apartment. Your eyelids rapidly flutter as you try to blink the dark spots away so you can see clearly. Panic rises in your throat as you take in your surroundings.
Your living room is an utter mess. All of your little keepsakes and framed photos that were neatly displayed onto wooden shelves are missing from their place, strewn across your living room floor, and hidden between chunks of rubble. Your shelves themselves are broken into jagged pieces of splintered wood and the television that you got for a deal online hangs precariously from its mount. Everything in the room is coated in a thick layer of dust and debris.
Something happened.
There must have been an accident of some sort. You try to search your brain for the potential cause of all this chaos, but your head pangs painfully, interrupting your thought process. A groan leaves your mouth and your eyes screw shut as you raise your arm to clutch at your head. Fuck, everything hurts so much.
When you pry your eyes open again and lower your arm back down, a flash of red in your peripheral vision catches your eye. Oh, fuck.
Immediately, you attempt to scramble into an upright sitting position, forgetting the fact that your arms are too weak at the moment to support your weight. The rough impact your back makes when it connects with the floor rattles throughout your body, forcing a choked breath right out of your lungs.
You squeeze your eyes shut at the overwhelming painful sensation. Unconsciously, a whimper slips past your lips. Your breathing doesn’t feel right. When you breathe too deeply, sharp pains erupt in your rib area and spread out to the rest of your body. Despite your rising panic, you try to shallow your breaths to minimize the bursts of pain in your chest.
Remembering the flash of red you saw earlier, you take as deep a breath as you can, trying to calm yourself before you slowly lift your hand up in front of your face. A layer of dark crimson coats the entirety of your palm. Oh, god, you’re bleeding.
Unconsciously, your breathing quickens, and the piercing pain of your ribs resumes. You try to get your breathing regulated, but it’s so hard when everything hurts so much, and you can’t stop freaking out because you can’t even manage to sit up right now.
You have to calm down, you mentally tell yourself. You repeat the phrase “Calm down” over and over until you’re able to shallow your breathing again.
Okay, okay, now you have to figure out where you’re bleeding from and how badly.
Carefully, you touch your head before placing your hand back into view. The sight of fresh blood on your fingertips makes your stomach drop. A head injury is really not good.
Looking away from your bloodied hand, your gaze drifts onto the rest of your body. A lump forms in your throat when your eyes land on the piece of large debris pinning the lower half of your left leg to the ground. The pain didn’t really register before, but now, looking at the giant slab of concrete weighing down one of your limbs with your own two eyes, it’s like your brain suddenly realizes how much your leg hurts.
You thought everything hurt before, but it was an all-over sort of dull ache besides the sharp pain of your ribs when you breathe. Now, the pain level is excruciating with the majority of it concentrated around your leg and ribs.
Almost as if you’re in a daze, you lower your hand back to the ground and blankly stare up at the ceiling. Tears swell at the corners of your eyes as you’re overcome by a feeling of helplessness.
All you want right now is your dad.
A loud beeping suddenly fills the air and makes you flinch. You hiss from the pain caused by your sudden movement. Carefully, you turn your head to the side, pressing the side of your face into the dusty flooring to locate the origin of the buzzing noise. Your eyes light up when you realize it’s your phone.
You move your arm along the ground to grab it, but the tips of your fingers barely reach the edge of it. Your cellular device lies just out of your reach. No, no, no. You need your phone. Straining, you extend your arm as far as you can. Your body protests, but you push its wishes aside. It takes you a few tries to take hold of it, your fingers are slippery with blood, but you manage to gain a good grasp on your phone and draw it closer to you.
When you bring the device to your face, you think you could cry from relief that the person calling you is the person you need the most right now. You hit the answer button and click to enable speaker mode and let your phone rest by your ear. You don’t think you’d have enough energy to hold it up for too long.
“Sweetheart, you there?”
Unconsciously, a whimper falls from your lips once the sound of your dad’s voice reaches your ears. He sounds frantic, worry laced in every one of his words, but just hearing his voice is a comfort to you.
“Hey, hey, hey, what’s wrong, baby?”
Your eyes scan over your body, taking in all of your various injuries. It’s funny. You think a better question would be what isn’t wrong.
“Everything hurts so much, dad,” you say while staring up at the ceiling. Tears collect at the corners of your eyes. Slowly, they fall in rivulets down the side of your face onto the dusty ground as you release a shuddery exhale that burns your chest. “It hurts so much,” your voice cracks, and the pain in your voice breaks Frank’s heart into two. What he wouldn’t give to take your pain away.
He presses his burner phone tighter to his ear, not wanting to miss anything you say. From his place across the street, Frank surveys the scene before him with calculating eyes. Swarms of people surround the base of your apartment building, a chaotic mess of police officers, first responders, news reporters, and civilians all gathered around the plastic tape that secures the perimeter of the crumbling structure. Loud sirens from ambulances and cop cars mingle with the wails of grievously injured people to create a cacophony of sound.
Frank pushes all of that to the back of his mind as he mentally maps out the best route he can take to get to your apartment. He has no clue how bad the situation is inside of your building, but none of that matters because Frank’s not going to let anything stop him from getting to you.
Once Frank spots an opening, he takes a large step off of the sidewalk and crosses the street, pulling his hood low over his head and becoming a faceless member of the crowd.
As he smoothly weaves through the bustling bodies of people, Frank keeps the phone as close as he can to his ear. “Tell me what hurts, sweetheart,” Frank instructs as gently as he can. He doesn’t want to cause you any distress, or any further distress at least, but he knows that he needs to keep you talking. As long as you’re talking to him, Frank knows that you’re awake and alive.
Frank lifts the bright, plastic line of tape wrapped around the perimeter of the building with his free hand and ducks his head underneath it. He does a quick glance around the area. Everybody’s too preoccupied to pay any attention to him. As soon as he confirms the coast is clear, he slips into one of the building’s empty entrances.
“Um,” you shift a little and close your eyes to focus on what parts of your body pain you the most. “My ribs hurt real bad. I think they’re broken or cracked because it hurts when I breathe too deeply. And uh, my left leg really, really hurts. I can’t move it.” Your head pangs at that exact moment, causing you to wince. “My head’s also bleeding.”
Frank exhales sharply at your admission. Fuck. None of that sounds good at all. From what you’ve told him, you need medical assistance immediately. As he carefully climbs over bits of broken rubble and large debris, Frank wishes that Curtis was with him right now. He’d be able to give you the help you need.
“Okay, sweetheart, I’m coming for you right now. Don’t move and keep on talking.”
Your brain feels like it’s shrouded with a thick fog, so it takes a moment for the meaning of your dad’s words to really register in your mind. You turn your head to the side, pressing your cheek to the floor, and look at your lit-up phone screen. “What do you mean you’re coming?” you ask- confused.
Frank grunts as he hauls himself over a large jagged piece of concrete. Looking around at his surroundings, Frank thinks that he should be relatively close to where your apartment is located. “I’m in your building.”
Your eyes widen in alarm. “What? Dad, you can’t be here. You could get caught or hurt or—”
“You gotta slow down, baby,” Frank says, cutting you off. Without your notice, your breathing’s grown frantic, furthering the ache of your ribs. You attempt to listen to what your dad has said and try to slow your breathing, taking shallow inhales and releasing short exhales. “And none of that matters. I came as soon as I saw the news.”
Frank knows that he took a risk coming. With so many people crowding around your building, there’s a chance that someone could recognize Frank as the Punisher, but he was willing to take that chance. He’d come running every single time you were in trouble.
He pauses when he reaches your apartment. Despite everything that’s occurred, the metal numbers of your apartment unit still remain steadfastly screwed in place to your door. Although, your door now hangs precariously off of its hinges.
Frank lowers the phone from his ear.
“Baby, you there?”
You could sob from relief at the clear, non-staticky sound of your dad’s voice.
“I’m here, dad,” you reply as loud as you can without straining yourself.
Frank carefully steps over debris and rubble, sucking in a sharp breath when he sees you splayed out on the ground. Fuck. He knew you were injured, but it’s different seeing your injuries with his eyes. It’s worse than he imagined.
Frank makes his way to you, immediately kneeling down on the ground beside you. He places a calloused palm onto the side of your face. You lean into the feeling of your dad’s comforting touch as much as you can.
“Hey, sweetheart. Dad’s here. I got you now,” Frank says, rubbing the back of your head with his fingers. He grimaces when he feels the sticky sensation of blood coat them.
“It’s not safe here, dad. You have to go,” you urge him to leave despite being grateful that he came for you. Your eyelids, all of a sudden, feel heavy as you’re overcome with a wave of tiredness. It wouldn’t kill you to rest your eyes, would it? You’re safe now, after all. You know you are because your dad’s here. “You gotta go, dad,” you slur as your eyelids flutter. “I’m tired.”
“Don’t close your eyes,” Frank sternly demands, lightly tapping his fingers against your cheek. If you close your eyes, Frank worries that you’ll never open them again.
“Just for a moment, dad,” you mumble, furrowing your brows as you turn your cheek away from the fingers prodding the side of your face. Your eyes drift shut, and the world goes dark. Nothing hurts any longer.
Fear takes hold of Frank the moment your eyes close and don’t open again. It’s like nothing he’s ever experienced before. The feeling flooding his veins is pure terror, and he chokes on the overwhelming emotion to the point where he can’t think straight.
“I need help here,” he shouts from the top of his lungs, veins bulging on his neck from the strain of yelling so loudly. The thought of his identity being discovered is the last thing on his mind right now. You need help, and you need it now. “Someone help! My baby’s unconscious,” he yells, his voice thick with emotion. Tears cloud Frank’s vision as he comfortingly rubs your cheek with the rough pad of his thumb, wiping away the dried tear stains on your skin.
In the hazy expanse of his brain, Frank distantly recognizes the sound of muffled footsteps approaching him. Everything happens in a blur.
A group of firefighters enter the room and immediately spring into action when they see you lying on the floor, unmoving. He hears them shout orders to each other and feels them move around his knelt body. Frank’s eyes stay on your face the entire time.
“Sir, you need to step aside,” one of the firefighters says, placing a gloved hand on Frank’s shoulder. He tenses. He keeps his head low as he focuses only on you.
“I ain’t going nowhere,” he roughly replies. His hand by his side tightens into a fist, and he clenches his jaw, resolute in his decision.
“Please, sir. We can’t give them the medical assistance they need if you don’t step back.”
Frank wrestles with his mind, his desire to be by your side warring with his need for you to receive the help you so desperately require. In the end, it’s clear what decision Frank will make, even if it pains him to do so. He leans his head low to brush his lips against your forehead, and reluctantly, he drops his hand from your face and pushes himself off the ground to take a step back, granting the firefighters the room they need to operate.
Frank knows that he has to leave now, despite every fiber of his being wanting to stay with you. It’s the best time for him to take his leave: the firefighters gathered in the room are distracted, too busy assessing your situation and current status to pay any attention to him. Frank doesn’t want to go, but he knows he must. If he stays any longer, he could be recognized, and Frank still has scores to settle.
Through the cluster of moving bodies, Frank catches one last glimpse of your face before he recedes into the background and disappears from your apartment like he was never there in the first place. As he carefully navigates his way out of your building, Frank prays for the first time in a long, long time. He prays to a God that he no longer believes in for you to be okay.
The first thing you see when you wake up is white. It’s blinding, and you make a noise in discomfort at how harsh it feels on your eyes. You squeeze your eyes shut for a reprieve from its intensity.
“Good morning.”
You flinch at the sudden sound of someone’s voice, eyes flying open as you instinctively attempt to sit up, only to instantly regret that choice when a deep ache forms in your ribs. You hear the screech of a chair’s legs drag against the floor and shuffling before you feel a strong but gentle hand on your shoulder guide you back to lying down.
“Relax, it’s me, Castle.”
You have to blink a few times before things in your vision start to come into focus. Your brows draw together in confusion when you realize who’s in front of you.
“Uncle Curtis?”
The man in question takes a seat back in the uncomfortable-looking, plastic chair by your bedside once he’s sure that you don’t plan on trying to sit back up.
“Hey, kid,” he replies, leaning back in the chair and placing his hands on its sad excuse of armrests. “How are you feeling?”
Your mouth opens and closes as a flurry of questions flies through your brain. As if he can tell you’re feeling overwhelmed, Curtis shifts his weight forward, moving his hands from the armrests of the chair to rest on top of the hospital bed’s thin mattress. He places a hand over the back of yours and gently squeezes.
“I know you have questions, and I’ll answer them. Or I’ll try to, at least. Ask them one at a time.”
The clear instruction helps to order the disorganized mess of your mind. Your brows furrow as you try to think of what you want to ask first. Your gaze drifts onto Curtis’ hand over yours, and it’s only at this moment that you notice the IV you’re hooked up to. Looking around, you realize that you’re in a hospital room. The blinding white you saw when you first woke up was from the LED lights overhead.
“Why am I in the hospital?”
Racking your brain for the answer yourself, you come up with nothing. It’s all… blurry. You can make out bits and pieces but nothing concrete, and the more you try to search for the answer, the more your head hurts.
“Your apartment building collapsed. Deterioration due to age, the news said. You were in your apartment when it happened and got injured,” Curtis calmly tells you.
“How badly was I hurt?”
You can’t feel much besides a dull all-over sort of ache, so you tuck your chin into your neck to glance over the rest of your body. A thin sheet lies over you, so you’re unable to see the extent of your injuries.
“You suffered from blunt force trauma to the head, which resulted in a mild concussion. Three of your ribs are broken, and your left tibia and fibula are also broken. Besides that, you sustained minor cuts and abrasions to your skin,” Curtis informs you, shifting into the mindset of a Navy SARC. He doesn’t mince his words or beat around the bush, which you appreciate. You’d rather know the hard truth than a palatable lie.
You exhale deeply as the information sinks in. You’re lucky to be alive.
“How come you’re here?” You wince at your poor phrasing. Curtis chuckles at the face you pull.
“You have me listed as your emergency contact. The hospital notified me of your situation, and I came as soon as possible.” Curtis lowers his head, placing his lips near your ear. “I was also asked by a certain somebody to deliver those.”
He points to the windowsill, and your breathing stops when you see the vase of flowers resting there. They’re your favorite. Only a few people know your favorite type of flowers, and most of them are dead. All but one.
Curtis lifts his head and straightens back up in the chair as you turn your head against the pillow to face him. Your eyes have gone glassy, and Curtis squeezes your hand that lies beneath his.
“He came for me,” you say, no louder than a whisper. You remember now. You remember how terrified and panic-stricken you were until your dad appeared in the wreckage of your apartment like he was the answer to all of your prayers. He came for you.
The corner of Curtis’ lips curls up, and a huff of soft laughter slips past them. The idea that you could think that there was even a chance that your dad wouldn’t be there for you when you needed him is amusing. Curtis knows that Frank would go to the end of the earth for you.
Curtis’ eyes fall onto the bouquet of flowers that stand on the windowsill.
“He’ll always come for you.”