Work Text:
Frank Castle hadn’t planned on stopping.
The night had already stretched on too long—measured footsteps, tight muscles, the city breathing violence beneath every streetlight.
His body knew exhaustion the way it knew pain: the dull ache in his knuckles, the sticky pull of dried blood under his nails.
All he wanted was to get back to the apartment, strip off the weapons, take a cold shower, and sit in silence until his pulse slowed.
Then he heard it.
A small sound, nearly swallowed by distant traffic. A sharp, desperate mewl—too thin, too fragile to last long out here.
Frank stopped.
He exhaled through his nose, irritated, like the universe had tossed him a stupid, unnecessary test.
He scanned the street until he spotted an old car parked crookedly at the curb, oil staining the pavement, trash piled in the shadows.
The sound came again.
“Dammit,” Frank muttered.
He crouched, ignoring the stab in his knee, and looked beneath the car.
Two bright eyes stared back at him from the dark.
The kitten was filthy, fur matted and uneven, irregular patches of black and white like they’d been painted on carelessly.
One ear bent awkwardly, whiskers crooked, its small body trembling.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Frank whispered.
The kitten answered with a louder cry and stumbled forward.
Frank dragged a hand down his face. This wasn’t the time.
This wasn’t smart. He didn’t have anything on him, didn’t know where he’d take it, and he definitely hadn’t planned on showing up at Matt’s place with an animal in his arms.
The kitten crawled fully out from under the car and sat in front of him, staring up.
Like it had already decided.
Frank reached out slowly.
The kitten sniffed his fingers, then pressed its head against them without hesitation.
“Great,” Frank murmured. “Just great.”
He scooped it up, awkward and careful. It was light—too light.
The warm little body settled against his chest as if it had been waiting for this exact moment all night.
Frank looked down at it.
“Patches,” he said without thinking.
The name came out on its own.
The kitten purred.
Frank closed his eyes for a second.
Hell.
⸻
Matt was on the couch when Frank got back, rewrapping the bandage on his left hand with slow, practiced movements.
The apartment sat in low light, just a single lamp glowing in the corner. Matt’s cane rested against the wall, a quiet marker of stillness.
Frank shut the door softly.
“You okay?” Matt asked, voice calm.
“Yeah,” Frank said. “Nothing unusual.”
He took two steps—
—and the kitten meowed.
Matt’s head turned instantly.
His breathing shifted. Frank caught it right away.
“Frank,” Matt said gently. “What is that?”
“It’s nothing,” Frank answered too quickly. “Just… something I found.”
“That doesn’t sound like ‘something,’” Matt replied, already standing. “It sounds small. And scared.”
Frank frowned but didn’t move as Matt approached.
The kitten cried again, louder this time, squirming in his arms.
“I hear a fast heartbeat,” Matt continued. “Tiny claws. And—oh.”
He reached out carefully.
“May I?”
Frank hesitated, then nodded.
The moment Matt touched the kitten, his expression changed completely. He smiled—open, real, the kind of smile that didn’t come often after rough nights.
“Hey there, little one,” Matt murmured. “Hey…”
Patches, as if he’d been waiting for him, clambered clumsily up Matt’s chest and curled against his collarbone, purring like a tiny engine.
Matt laughed softly.
“Oh. Yeah. He’s decided you’re home.”
Frank watched in silence.
He hadn’t planned to bring it. Hadn’t planned on Matt holding it like that.
Hadn’t planned on standing there, watching Matt’s chest rise and fall while his fingers moved with a tenderness that always undid him.
“His name’s Patches,” Frank said finally.
Matt smiled wider.
“Fits him perfectly,” he said. “He’s patched together from every color.”
The kitten yawned and tucked himself closer.
“He’s exhausted,” Matt added. “And hungry.”
Frank snorted.
“Fantastic.”
⸻
The night settled into something quieter after that.
Frank threw together some makeshift food while Matt wrapped Patches in a clean towel.
Warm water, gentle hands, absolute care.
“Don’t overdo it,” Matt said. “He’s weak.”
“I know,” Frank replied.
The softness in his voice surprised him.
Later, Matt sank back onto the couch, worn down.
The day had been brutal. Frank knew by the uneven rhythm of his breathing, by the way his shoulders slumped just a little more than usual.
Frank lingered, unsure.
“You don’t have to stand there,” Matt said. “Sit.”
Frank did, leaving space between them out of habit.
Patches disagreed.
The kitten wriggled free of the towel and toddled straight into the gap between them.
He turned in a small, uncertain circle—once, twice—then flopped down right in the middle, pressed firmly against both of their legs.
Frank let out a short, incredulous laugh.
“He’s got attitude.”
“He’s got judgment,” Matt corrected, stroking him gently. “And he thinks you both need to share space.”
Frank didn’t move when the warm little body leaned into his thigh.
Matt started talking softly, almost to the kitten.
Simple things. Where he was. That he was safe. That no one was going to hurt him.
Frank closed his eyes.
With a sudden, aching clarity, he realized he was listening just to hear Matt breathe—slow, steady, calm.
Patches didn’t fix their lives.
But there, on that couch, he gave them a place to start.