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"Will you quit moving around already?"
Frank grunts, tightening his arm around her waist.
Amy isn't bothered by his grumpiness — has never been and is starting to believe she never will, either. Instead of a response, she settles for elbowing Frank on the ribs, right over a spot she knows is still tender from his last night out. He stifles a groan, barely, but his wince gives the girl enough room to roll like she was trying to, settling her head over his chest.
"So the big bad Punisher is a cuddler. Who would've thought?"
Frank dismisses her with another grunt — he's a softie and Amy has known it since the very first time they met; not with many, sure, but whatever effect she has on the man seems to turn his resolve into butter. The arm that comes around her back to press her even closer to the warmth of his body doesn't come as a surprise, then — this is just Frank being a doting father.
She lets herself be dragged closer, if that's even possible; rubs her cheek against the hair of her chest and breathes out a little lovesick sigh Amy is denying until the day she dies — he just smells so good!
Once she risks a peek at his face, Amy finds Frank's eyes are already closed. He seems to be trying to go back to sleep, despite her best bratty-daughter efforts.
Now that just won't stand.
Amy scoots up, stretches her neck the best she can in this position — even when they're laying down, Frank is still fucking huge. She kisses his chin, first — a lovesick, sugared peck over his beard, pausing to hear the pleased hum Frank lets out at it. The girl swears he's just like a big, old, grumpy dog.
She continues up his jaw, around his cheek, relishes in the scratch of his beard over the soft skin of her lips, doesn't bother skipping over her stand-in — or, more accurately, new and improved — father's cuts and bruises. Amy knows well enough just how smitten a daughter's butterfly kisses over his wounds get Frank.
He's practically melting against the bed, offering Amy his face for her to kiss, absolutely blissed out in the morning light — and then she gets up on an elbow and bites the very tip of his nose.
The outraged, appalled look on Frank's face once he opens his eyes is enough to turn Amy's choked laughter into a loud cackle. He rolls his eyes at her but she's too busy going red in the face with laughter to notice — and, truth be told, he needs to fight to keep in a smile at just how happy riling him up gets her.
He may be a father again, but that doesn't mean he's given up on his ego.
"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, kid," Frank turns on his back, making sure to tug the blanket with him. "You keep that shit up, I'm kicking you down the bed."
Unfazed, Amy drapes herself over him, brings her forearms to his chest to rest her face upon. They've done this a thousand times. She knows that's just how Frank tells her he loves her.
"Shouldn't it be 'off' the bed?"
"You heard me."
Frank drags her nearer, tugs her close by the shoulders, close enough for him to press a kiss into her waiting, open mouth. Amy melts against him, same as she always does; lets go of any bravado and any attitude she insists on keeping up. It nearly makes him laugh — god, teenage girls and their fathers.
Once she's pulled away, Amy settles against his body once again. She can't help but stare, face going red, butterflies taking flight in her stomach. Frank's hand comes up to cup her head, fingers threading through the silk of his girl's hair. It's all tangled, tender, both from how much he tugged at it last night and how Amy herself moved around in her sleep, so he gets to carefully, deftly undoing every single knot.
It doesn't take Amy long to protest, to resist being taken care of.
"It's late," she complains.
"So? You got somewhere you need to be?"
"No," Amy mumbles, looking more and more flustered by how easy, how expertly Frank picks her apart.
"Then I suggest you get some sleep."
"Dad—"
They both freeze.
It's not like Frank doesn't know about it. He knows he's Amy's father, somewhat, just as she knows she's his daughter, as fucked up and weird it might be.
They just don't talk about it. The kid calls him "dad" when they fuck, sometimes even "daddy"; but other than that, they're not supposed to mention it. They've never mentioned it.
Except now Amy is looking at him like she just fucked up — the moment, their relationship; god, by the helpless look in her eyes, Frank wouldn't be surprised if she'd just dropped a goddamn atomic bomb somewhere around the world — and Frank can't stand seeing his kid like that.
So he wraps his arms around her middle, tugs her to him and turns, tucks his girl right next to him, cuddled up in his arms. Amy shivers, trembles like she can feel her ghosts raking their fingers up her spine and then settles, sighing. Burrows her face in Frank's chest — safest place in the whole world.
He pets over her hair, paw of a hand cupping the girl's nape, turns her head up to look at him.
"We'll just get some sleep. Okay?"
Amy nods, wordless — still scared she might fuck this up somehow if she opens her mouth again — and grabs at her dad. Frank ducks down to kiss her forehead; gentle, painfully devoted, and Amy's heart beats so full of love for him she's scared it might burst.