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He gets the call in the middle of the chaos.
He's in some abandoned store in Queens, dealing with a human trafficking gang he doesn't bother remembering the name of anymore. He shot two so far, quick and ready to finish off the rest when the guy in front of him, a scrawny kid in a coyote mask, starts screaming in terror.
But not because of Frank.
The kid's looking at his hands, which are all of a sudden turning into fucking dust.
And Frank doesn't understand. Brain going a hundred miles a minute, he wonders what kind of weapon can do this and how they got it — only it doesn't make any fucking sense because then another masked asshole is turning to dust to his right, another one screams somewhere behind him, and one by one the gang members start disappearing and Frank doesn't know why.
He hears screams outside and runs out to check. With horror, he realizes it's not just the gang. Everyone is turning to dust. Women, children. Random people on the sidewalk on the other side of the street. People inside the buildings around. Poof, gone. Just like that. At random.
And he doesn't understand.
His phone buzzes in his pocket; he fishes it out without looking. Hopes it's Karen but expects Curtis, maybe Madani. Thinks of the list of questions to ask, the ones he may have an answer to. Only it's none of them. The caller ID is the one he didn't think of, he didn't want to think of, and when he sees it, he feels as if the world came to a screeching halt around him.
Florida.
He picks up with his heart in his throat. Hears only two words. Doesn't need more. The phone falls from his hand and shatters on the pavement, but he doesn't care.
The world has indeed stopped.
Somehow, he finds his way to Curtis's apartment. Doesn't remember how, doesn't give a shit. He just started walking. Like a zombie in those old-timey movies, dragging one foot after the other. Not really looking.
Curtis opens the door before he even has the chance to knock. Briefly, Frank registers a flash of relief on his best friend's face, a sigh that escapes as he drags a hand over his face and mutters something like “Thank God you're alive.”
Frank doesn't want to thank God. He's pretty sure the fucker is responsible for all of this. And Curtis must be reading it from his face because his own expression grows cautious, gaze alert and worried as he looks Frank in the eyes and braces himself for impact.
“What happened?” He asks. “Who—”
“She's gone, Curt.” Frank rasps out, doesn't recognize his own voice. Curtis’s face goes slack like he already knows.
“Amy, she's...”
He doesn't have it in him to say it. Doesn't need to anyway. Frank watches blankly as the man in front of him sucks in a sharp breath and brings a hand to his mouth in shock. Curtis leans against the doorframe like he's been hit with a bullet but gathers himself quickly and steps through the threshold, his hand immediately reaching for Frank's shoulder.
“Fuck, Frank, I—”
“Don’t.” He warns. Quick. Sharp. Deadly.
Curtis nods.
“Okay.”
And pulls him into a hug.
Frank goes limply. A ragdoll cut off strings. Drops his head against his brother’s shoulder, eyes staring aimlessly at one spot.
He doesn't feel anything when a tear starts slowly rolling down his cheek. Except cold.
He just feels cold.
Later, Madani gives him clinical details.
Half of Earth’s population is gone. Hell broke loose somewhere in Africa — some Avengers business. Something about a cosmic being and magic stones and shit that used to only happen in movies.
“Many lives were lost that day,” she says as her voice breaks, eyes growing distant and teary when she closes her fingers around the golden necklace hanging from her neck.
Frank can't find it in himself to spare her any sympathy.
His kid is gone.
He doesn't give a fuck about the rest of the world.
A package arrives at Curt’s door one day. It sits between them on the kitchen table and Frank can't help but stare at it like it's a fucking bomb. There's a note attached to it, an average-sized envelope with an F. scribbled on it in thin but shaky handwriting. Curtis rips it off and unfolds the letter, only sparing Frank one careful look before reading aloud.
“Some of Amy’s belongings from her room. Felt wrong to throw them away. I thought you should have it.” Curtis glances at him again before finishing. “I’m truly sorry. Josh.”
Frank feels sick. The detonator is ticking in his ears, the bomb now strapped to his heart, and he knows with a terrifying certainty that it will go off the second he opens that box. It will rip him apart, topple him into a pile of rubble. He won't be able to put himself back together, he knows.
His hands twitch at his sides but he doesn't move.
“I can take care of it if you don't want to,” Curtis offers, laying a hand on top of the box. “I can stash it somewhere, or— or donate it—”
“No,” is all Frank says. Quickly, before he has the chance to talk himself out of it, he grabs the box, tucks it against him with the kind of gentleness he reserved only for the girl whose life is packed inside, and leaves the apartment without closing the door behind him.
He takes it to the trailer. Slams the door shut and drops it on the couch, then starts pacing back and forth, a wild animal in the cage, fingers running through his hair hastily. His heart hammers in his chest, ears ringing, breaths coming out are short and sharp. He wants to hide. He wants to run. Grab his gun and go deal with some piece of shit that somehow still gets to walk the Earth because it would be fucking easier than this.
Finally, he stops. Scowls at the box. It's like it's making fun of him. Calling him a coward. The words ring out in his skull in her voice, that teasing tone that forced face-splitting smiles out of him no matter how hard he resisted, and it's worse than a white-hot knife to the gut.
He dives to the fridge. Reaches for a beer but then decides he's going to need something stronger to get through this so he grabs a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet instead. Chugs almost half of it by the time he makes it back to the couch and tears the damn box open. Like ripping off a band-aid, he tells himself.
It's not.
It's the worst kind of torture; they don't teach this shit in the military. And yet, he can't make himself stop. Tries to convince himself that it doesn't matter; he's been through this once before. But his hands start to shake when the faint smell of Amy's perfume lingering on her clothes hits him the moment he opens the box. Lavender, he remembers. Can even picture the bottle.
He puts the stack of clothes away on the couch next to himself. Tees, jeans, dresses — he doesn't have any use for these, maybe aside from cutting them up for rags and makeshift bandages. Sure, he's in need of those, but it feels wrong, wasting her clothes like that. Maybe he'll take Curt up on his offer and let him donate it. The only thing he thinks of keeping is the jacket — the one he remembers Amy wearing when she was with him. Thin, army green. The one she had here.
For now, he puts it away too.
Under the clothes, he finds more stuff. Notebooks from school. Frank flips through a few, sees notes on marine biology, geography, and math. Scoffs at the doodles covering the margins, bubbles, starfish, and mermaid tails — and an occasional Punisher skull here and there.
He washes the bitter taste it leaves in his mouth with whiskey.
Next he finds a jar tucked in the corner, labeled hidden treasure. Inside, Frank sees a bunch of seashells, rocks, and beach glass, as well as some old coins, rusted jewelry, and other shit the kid found while scavenging the ocean, all sitting now in a layer of soft beach sand. Frank turns the jar around, watching the contents tumble from one side to the other. Brushes his thumb over the kid's neat handwriting on the glass and remembers the soft shade of pink flooding her cheeks when he mentioned it at the bus station. It made his heart flutter in the same way Lisa's smile used to.
He puts the jar away like it burns.
There's a picture in the frame. Amy with some friends, two boys and two girls. They're at the beach, huddled together on a blanket while the camera is placed on the ground in front of them to capture them all. The girls sit together, flanked by the boys, Amy right in the middle. She's making a stupid duck face and showing a peace sign, completely for shits and giggles, he can tell. She's mocking the others, but she's having fun with it.
And as much as it hurts, seeing it now, it also makes him smile. Because this, this kind of stupid shit, this is what he wanted for her. This is why he put her on that bus back then. So she could start over. Have a normal life. A life that consists of doodling mermaid tails when bored in class and making dumb faces with friends on the beach, not guns and blood, and removing bullets in some shitty motel bathroom. He told himself he'd cut off contact completely to keep her safe and away from the danger that surrounds him, but he broke after the first week, his paternal instincts betraying him by putting worries in his head and having him pace the length of the trailer back and forth with the burner phone pressed to his mouth for an hour before he finally dialed her number. And the kid tried to cover it with jokes and jabs but he could hear the relief in her voice at hearing his; he knew it meant more than she was letting on. So he kept calling. Got her a burner of her own so no one could trace her and kept in touch. Two calls a month, that's how they did it. To keep it safe.
She was going to call him next Saturday. Supposed to have a big exam on Friday, he wanted to know how it went. She studied like hell for it.
Now he finds two phones in the box. The burner and the sparkly new iPhone, the one she got herself with the money he sent her. Frank ignores the flip phone and grabs that one instead, unlocking it easily. Can't even remember how he knows. He just does.
He finds his way to the gallery. And it's like falling down a well, seeing the colorful puzzle pieces that created her life. Pictures of school notes. Scuba diving equipment. Countless sunsets and sunrises captured on the beach. Ice cream, seafood, roller coasters, and ferris wheels.
And her.
Grinning at him from every picture or making some sort of stupid face. Posing with a bunch of girls at the mall. Holding thumbs up with her training group as they drift in the water, dressed head to toe in gear. A trip to a museum or some shit, where she's standing in front of a skeleton of a giant shark, a shit-eating grin on her face as she points at the sign with the name “Frank”.
It makes him snort. It makes him smile. He can't stop fucking smiling.
Soon he's laughing out loud at the silly videos she made with her friends, goofing off in their dorm rooms and being silly on the school hallways. Fist pressed to his mouth, his shoulders shake as he watches her act like a stupid teenager with stupid ideas. Doing stupid dances, telling stupid jokes.
And then he cries.
He cries because all this stupid shit made her happy. Because this is precisely what he wanted for her. Because the best he could do was send her away so she could find it on her own since he wasn't able to give it to her, no matter how much he wanted to.
And she had it. Damn it, she had it all.
And now…
Now her big, sparkling eyes stare at him from the phone screen. It's a nice picture, the kind he'd gladly carry in his chest pocket in another life, like he used to do before. A soft smile gracing her face, chin propped on the heel of her palm, curly blonde hair framing her like curtains. She's beautiful.
Was.
And that's how he's going to remember her.
The grins and the sarcasm and the flicker in her eye. The gentleness and the bravery. The recklessness too, no matter how much it infuriated him at times. He'll remember the card tricks and pizza and flustercluck. The softness of her hair under his rough fingertips, the way it felt to have her tucked against his chest.
He doesn't remember when he grabs the jacket. The next thing he knows, his face is buried in it, his tears soaking into the fabric as he sobs. And it's a cruel fucking déjà vu, doing it again when he still remembers his cold and empty house and sitting on Lisa’s empty bed and clutching her favorite dress in his hands. He had just come back from the morgue. Stumbled into the house like he was drunk, still drenched in their blood.
Lisa would have loved Amy. Hell, they all would have. Just like he did.
In a split-second decision, Frank gets up. Grabs the car keys, the jacket and that stupid jar of seashells. The drive to the cemetery is short; he knows it by heart. Only when he reaches his family's gravesite do his knees give out and he drops to the ground like he's unable to keep himself upright anymore.
And he starts digging. Right under Maria's headstone, he gathers dirt with his hands until he makes a hole big enough to fit the jar. He places it in, makes sure it sits straight, and covers it up. Pats the ground for good measure before leaning back.
“I, uh… I don't know if she's out there,” he rasps out, looking at his wife's name carved in stone. “If any of you are. But…” Tears gather in his eyes and a lump forms in his throat but he pushes through. “Just take care of her for me, okay? Amy’s a special kid, Maria. She's my… she's family. Yeah. So watch out for her out there, huh? Just… just watch out for her.”
No one answers him, not that he expects it. The place is always silent; even the sounds of the city are muffled here. Still, Frank sits there, Amy's jacket in his lap, staring down at the dirt covering his hands and wishing, more than anything, that he could turn to dust too.
At least it would have hurt less than opening that fucking box.
Days, months, years pass, and he doesn't count them. There's no point, so he doesn't bother. His life is just one single stream of firing rounds of bullets and washing blood off his hands; rinse and repeat. He stops shaving. Rarely cuts his hair. The kid would've called him a caveman or some shit, he can hear it every time he looks in the mirror.
People cut him off, or he cuts them off; he doesn't remember which happens first. Curtis kept calling until he didn't anymore. Madani threatened to arrest him on multiple occasions but never did.
Only Karen visits him.
How she found him, Frank doesn't know. Wouldn't be surprised if she got the trailer's location from Dinah; Karen is nosy like that. Part of being a journalist and a lawyer. He respects that.
She's standing over him now, a mix of fury and sadness in her beautiful eyes. He can't even look in those eyes anymore. Tries to ignore her, hoping it will make her leave, but when he doesn't move from the couch after she asks him and brings the fresh bottle of whiskey to his lips, instead of taking the fucking hint, she just grabs it and puts it on the table with enough force for the liquor to slosh onto her hand.
“That's enough,” she says. Wants to scream, clearly, but all that comes out is a whisper. “You can't keep doing this, Frank.”
“Yeah? Watch me.”
Murder and alcohol. Two things that keep the nightmares at bay these days. Watching his family die on that carousel over and over again, that he was used to. What he wasn't prepared for was visions of Amy disintegrating in his arms, dust settling on him and everywhere around him. He might not have been there when it happened to her, but he'd seen it enough times for his brain to paint a vivid picture. Now he wakes up every night still feeling the dust on his skin, scrubs his arms under boiling water until they're red and raw.
Not that it helps.
The dust is still there.
Amy's jacket sits draped over the couch's cushions. Thrown in there like the girl might come in any minute and grab it. Karen sits down next to Frank, runs her hand over the army green fabric and sighs.
“I know,” she says, then takes his hand in both of hers. “I know how important she was to you—”
“No,” Frank cuts in, acknowledging her presence for the very first time. Karen startles, clearly not expecting any kind of reaction from him.
He makes sure to look her in the eye when he opens his mouth again.
“She was everything to me.”
A goddamn miracle. A second chance at life, at happiness, at parenthood. The universe granted him a chance to be a father again, a do-over of sorts, only to snatch it from his hands like it's some kind of a cruel fucking joke. Leaving him stranded, purposeless, and empty.
With Maria and the kids, at least he had a goal. A vengeance to keep him on the path. Now, there's no one around that he can blame. No one to point his gun at, no one to bash their head in. All he can do is drink himself to death.
Karen doesn't argue. She simply scoots closer and curls herself against his side, her head landing on his shoulder. She stays there for a long time, holding his hand and not saying anything.
And Frank lets her.
It's better than scrubbing imaginary ashes from his skin.
He gets the call in the middle of the chaos.
He's somewhere in Manhattan, dealing with a street gang in broad daylight because apparently the Avengers having a full-on war battlefield in their backyard made every motherfucker in the city more brave and, consequently, more stupid. And soon he's dragged into the middle of a full-blown mass panic, with NYPD and Homeland and CIA on the streets, Madani and Curtis flanking him from both sides as it starts happening again, only in reverse.
People are appearing out of nowhere.
His phone buzzes in his pocket, and both Dinah and Curt notice it before he does. He doesn't look at the caller ID. Just presses the button blind and slams the phone against his ear.
“Yeah?”
His eyes go wide. He didn't dare to think. Even with all the evidence around him, he didn't want to give himself any false hope. But he hears Josh loud and clear.
She's back.
“Go,” is all Curtis says to him when they lock eyes. Madani stays silent but gives him a nod and squeezes his shoulder.
Frank turns on his heel and races to his car.
Only when he's outside the city does he grab the phone and call back.
“Tell me she's okay,” he demands before Josh even has the chance to speak.
A sigh comes from the other side.
“Yeah, she's okay. Shaken and confused, like everyone else, but doesn't seem hurt.”
Relief crashes into him. He allows himself one deep breath before speaking again.
“Is she with you?”
“She's at my house, with a few others.”
“Can you put her on the phone?”
Sixteen seconds of silence. Only some muffled footsteps, creaking floorboards, and the sound of opening doors. And then—
“Frank?”
He almost starts to cry. Nearly crushes the phone in his fist when he presses his knuckles to his mouth, trying to hold back a sob.
“Yeah, kiddo. It's me,” he finally chokes out, his voice shaking.
Amy draws in a trembling breath.
“I don't know what's going on. They're saying I was… dead? That it's been five years? I don't understand, I mean, I don't feel dead but everything is so different and— and there are other people like me, and— I just, I'm scared, I don't—”
Fuck, it kills him. It kills him to hear her so scared, to hear her cry like that. As happy as her voice in his ear makes him, he wants nothing more than to finally be there, to gather her in his arms and never let go. To dry those tears, get rid of the fear.
Do what he should have done almost six years ago, instead of putting her on that goddamn bus.
“Hey, hey, shh. You're okay. I know it's confusing, but you're okay, that's all that matters right now. I'll explain everything when I get there, okay?”
A sniffle. “You're coming?”
“I'm coming, sweetheart,” he tells her, and feels himself smile at the loving nickname. “I’m already on my way. Just sit tight, okay? Try to get some sleep. I'll be there in the morning.”
“Promise?”
God, this kid. This wonderful, incredible, amazing kid.
“Yeah, I promise.”
“Okay. Just hurry.”
“You know it, kid.”
He hangs up before he can crash the car. As he tightens his grip on the steering wheel and accelerates, pushing the truck beyond its limits, his knuckles turn white.
Nothing else matters right now.
He'll be with his daughter before the sun is up.
He's there at 5am, on the dot. The sun isn't fully up yet, but it's already painting both the sky and the ocean in shades of purple and orange. He bangs his fist on the door of a small beach house three times before Josh, groggy and disheveled, finally opens the door.
“She’s in the living room,” his friend says by way of greeting. “Wanted to wait for you but passed out after an hour.”
Frank only acknowledges it with a barely noticeable nod and moves past him inside the house. His steps are quiet, careful as he makes his way to the living room. Amy isn't the only scared and confused kid in this house, isn't the only one who just came back from the dead after five years without remembering a thing. He doesn't want to scare anyone.
When he spots the top of her head peeking over the couch’s armrest, his heart stops beating. Suddenly, he's scared to move, scared to even breathe in her direction because what if this is just another nightmare? What if she falls apart the second he reaches for her? But no, it's real, she's real, he can hear her soft breathing across the room.
So he inches closer. Gets a look at her face, pale and covered in dry tear tracks but peaceful in her sleep. She's wearing the sky blue hoodie with the emblem of her school, clutching the thin blanket that's been thrown over her in her fists. Tears prickle in Frank's eyes. Five years have gone by and she still looks the same. Not a day older.
He kneels down in front of her, reaches with a shaking hand to tuck her hair behind her ear and strokes her cheek. Her blonde waves are still as soft as he remembers them. Her face still as round and beautiful as it was the last time he saw her. Prettier than in pictures. More real and tangible than in any of his nightmares.
“Amy,” he whispers softly, but it's his touch that pulls her from her slumber. Eyelashes fluttering, Amy peels her eyes open and looks up at Frank, confused.
Right. She might look the same, but he definitely doesn't.
“Hey, kid,” he whispers, smiling. “Told you I'll be here in the morning.”
That's all it takes. Eyes wide and full of tears, Amy scrambles to sit up, his name flying from her lips in a sob as she pushes the blanket away and throws herself into his arms. And Frank catches her, takes the impact, and gathers her to his chest, crushing her to him with enough force to break bones. And it makes him dizzy. It makes him lightheaded. Because she's here. She's here, in his arms, alive and real and not a figment of his imagination inflicting torture on him every night. Not a layer of dust on his hands. No, she's warm, and she's soft, and she's burying her face in the crook of his neck, sobbing his name over and over again like she too has trouble believing this is real.
“Frank… Frank…”
“Shh, I’m here, baby,” he whispers in her hair. “I’m right here. It's okay. You're okay.”
His voice cracks, breaks, shatters, and he lets it happen. He lets his tears stream down his face, lets them soak into her clothes. He's not the person he's been for the last five years. He's not even the person he was when he met her. No, he came alive again, brought back from the dead like he was a pile of dust as well, the version of Frank Castle he thought he'd never see again.
He's a father again, and his child has just come home.
“I got you, I got you,” he keeps whispering in Amy's ear, his hand cupping the back of her head as he rocks her back and forth. They're sitting on the floor now, with Amy in his lap, and he wants nothing more than to bring her closer, closer, closer, make her a permanent part of himself so he never has to lose her again. He wouldn't survive it. He wouldn't.
“I was so scared. I— I didn't know what's happening. I was studying in my room when… Frank, I thought— I wanted to call you…”
“Shh, I know.” He presses a loving kiss to her temple. “I know, baby. But it's over now. Okay? It's over now. I’m taking you home. Hey, look at me. Amy, look at me.”
He pulls away, cradles her face in his hands. And fuck, those eyes, those beautiful, gray-blue eyes, stare into him like he has all the answers, and he doesn't; he doesn't know shit, but if there's one thing he's absolutely sure of, it's that he is never losing her again if he can help it.
“I'm taking you home,” he promises her. “Alright? Back to New York. No more of this separation bullshit. Never again.”
A lone tear escapes her left eye and he catches it with his thumb.
“Was I really gone for five years?” She asks. Her voice sounds so small and he fucking hates it.
He has to swallow down a lump in his throat before he can answer. “Yeah. You were.”
“But you weren't.”
“No.”
He sees it then, in her gaze. The realization dawning on her. He sees the grief, the pain, absolute devastation. Guilt even, which he immediately wants to erase. She understands what it did to him. What it meant that she was gone. And she's blaming herself for it.
“Frank, I am so—”
“No, don't.” He stops her right away. Curls his right arm more snugly around her to bring her closer. “There ain't nothing you should be sorry for, kid. It wasn't your fault. None of it was, okay? None of it.”
“Then what happened?”
Ah, shit. He thought about it all the way down here, but he came up with nothing. How is he supposed to explain it to her without freaking her out?
“It's complicated,” is what he lands on. “Really fucking complicated. I don't understand a lot of it myself. Yes, you were gone, same as many others, but now you're back. You're back, and you're okay, and that's all that matters to me.”
It probably isn't what she wants to hear, but Amy takes a deep, wobbly breath and nods, accepting it for now. For a moment, she looks at him in silence, eyes studying his face through tears, and briefly, Frank wonders what she thinks of him now. After all, the man she used to know is gone. All that's left is a broken shell of a broken shell.
But when she brings her hand to his face and runs her fingers over his beard, her eyes sparkle again in that special way they used to.
“I like the new look,” she says with a soft, a little sheepish smile. “Very caveman-like.”
Frank chuckles. With fresh tears in his eyes, he covers her small hand with his and leaves a kiss on the inside of her palm.
“Yeah, I thought you'd say that,” he laughs. And then Amy laughs too. And goddamnit, if it isn't the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.
He pulls her back to him and closes his arms around her. Her head falls against his shoulder and he feels her body relax, a long, slow breath escaping her lips as she snuggles in under his chin. And Frank thinks, no way. If this is all a dream, just let him disintegrate along with the rest of the world. He'd rather stay here than go anywhere where his kid can't follow.
“I’ve missed you,” Amy murmurs against his neck. Her body is going slack; she's seconds away from falling asleep again.
Frank presses his lips to her forehead.
“I’ve missed you too, kid,” he whispers. “I’ve missed you too.”
Soft sunshine beams sneak into the room and flood the space in a golden glow. Frank looks out the window and sees the sun climbing high over the horizon.
Holding Amy closer, he lets out a long, deep sigh.
If this is another chance at a fresh start, the universe is going to have to pry it out of his cold, dead hands.