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Sometimes you catch Frank staring at his hands. Not thinking of what he uses them for, but what they’ve done, and the responsibility in them now.
Family brings a different kind of weight to them, heavier, given it’s his second chance.
Now Frank takes his practicality and shapes it into unconditional love, even when handling obligatory matters, his actions are rooted in love.
Eight years ago and Frank Castle damn near fainted when the technician reported not one, but two heartbeats. You said it meant more to love. Frank said it felt like the world was mocking him for trying again. The world took two, then gave him two. What the fuck does that mean? Frank would ask himself, never you, because that wasn’t your burden to carry. But you saw the way it haunted him. Two, two, two. Two bodies he buried, two brought to life. In the ultrasound room, the probe still on your jellied belly, you watched Frank just… stare at his hands until your heart fluttered. Maybe fascinated he helped make them, maybe petrified he forgot how to be gentle with something so fragile. You’ll never forget that look. And you’ve never seen it since.
The same night eight years ago, you watched Frank start to build. Literally, figuratively… mainly literally. He demolished the bathroom to fix up a Jack and Jill “for when they’re older”. He kicked the rotten fence down around the yard, raising instead a privacy barrier. “Ain’t no stray dogs gonna poke their heads in here, no way,” he’d said. And at night, after work, after his self-appointed renovations, the two of you would lay in bed in the lamplight, his hand draped over the entire swell of your belly, his face level with it. His eyes would track your breath, crinkle when the twins kicked at his voice, and he was simply… mesmerized.
Plain and simple…
Frank Castle was in love.
Eight years later, you still can’t believe the life that’s been built for the four of you. Frank sees his past in his palms. You see everything he’s built with them.
Hands that once splintered bone now console and smooth on bandaids to “make it all better, Daddy”. He does. The girls say so, both of them. You say so. He takes your word for it.
Shoulders that once carried soldiers—his brothers—now serve as airborne timeout for the twins. Squeaked laughter erupts from the two girls when Frank throws them over a shoulder, their little legs kicking, their demands to be put down, or thrown into the air, or spun around eventually lost in a giddy fit of pure delight.
Fingers once steady on the trigger now hold your shoulder instead, where Frank stands behind you in parent-teacher conferences like the unshakable wall of a man he is. One word, any word that’s said that he doesn’t agree with—it’s known. Leveled and firm, and… usually without the promise of bloodshed.
Body weight thumps of your children throwing themselves around land overhead. From where you sit at the table, glass of wine in hand, you raise a skeptical brow at the sound.
“For not eating their lunches, they’re full of energy,” you mumble.
“Ain’t energy. S’piss and vinegar, sweetheart,” Frank says in a contented sigh from the counter, lunch materials laid out in front of him like a battle plan. Lunch meat, bread, grapes, cheese, crackers— you name it, he’s got it.
“Sugar, spice, everything…” You blink, looking for the right words. “…somewhat nice.”
The chair creaks as you sit back, eyes following your husband. The dexterity of his big hands as he brings together ham and cheese sandwiches. Crusts off, of course, and absolutely cut into triangles. No triangles? No consideration.
His hair falls thick over his forehead, dampness curling the ends. You love the long hair. Plenty to run your fingers through, plenty to admire when he’s mowing the lawn and a total sweaty mess. His beard shifts with his expressions, full and long. And slowly, you’ve noticed, greying. Lots of silvery streaks, deepening wrinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smirks. Age… looks good on Frank. Happiness looks better.
Frank shoves a thick slice of banana bread in each baggie, licking his fingers clean before he seals them up.
Face flat, brows up, ignoring the stutter in your stomach, you ask, “…You’re bribing our children with banana bread? You’re supposed to be bad cop.”
He looks over with the twitch of his mouth, stuffing the contents into pink and purple lunchboxes. “‘M still bad cop, baby. You better believe it.”
“And you’re confident that banana bread is gonna get them to eat their lunches?”
“You bet your ass they’ll eat it. Just you wait ‘n see, sweetheart, you leave it t’me,” he waves a hand, scribbling something on… something. You’ve got no idea what, and the wine says you don’t currently care. He’s confident, nodding along, voice all deep and raspy. “Your man’s got this, yeah, yeah. I got this. Don’t you worry that pretty little head’a yours.”
“Say less,” you murmur, mouth sliding into an easy smirk. You paw your wine glass back, peering over Frank’s shoulder. “Sooo, uhhhh… we got any more of that banana bread left?”
“Banana bread’s my last defense. Only thing they seem t’eat.” Frank shimmies the lunchboxes as he turns to stow them away in the fridge. “Goddamn kids, takin’ the good snacks.”
“Piss and vinegar,” you recount his earlier words, slinking from the table to come behind him, wrapping your arms around his broad midsection. “They get that from you.”
He chuckles, chest vibrating against your flat, possessive palms. “Preachin’ to the choir, Ma.”
Frank has given you everything.
And you’ve given Frank everything he never thought he could have.
☠︎
Serious question.
Why does banana bread taste better after midnight? Why is the forbidden fruit always sweeter?
You’re not proud of it. But, really, if you think about it… your family left you with no choice.
Okay. Maybe you’re being a little dramatic. But in the holy beam of the refrigerator light, the banana bread crammed into your face, left in the blissful solitude of night…?
You moan and swear you’ve met God.
What started out as a benign itch… escalated.
You… needed to make sure Frank put fruit in the girls’ lunches. Aaaaand… goldfish. Yup, that’s exactly what you went down here to do.
But the banana bread rang… and you answered.
And none of it tastes like shame. You drop the last of one slice into your mouth, lashes fluttering closed to fully indulge in the quiet, the night, the snack…
“Mmm… mhm, mhm…” you hum, your shoulders sinking with the weight of pleasure.
Eyes still shut, you pull open the second baggie with a snap of plastic, turn on a heel to ease the fridge shut with your foot, and— freeze.
“Sweetheart…?” Hushed, urgent.
Frank.
You lock up.
Oh. Oh, god.
“Baby, are you…?”
His voice. He’s not… chastising.
He’s… amused?
You crack open an eye, mouth squished shut as you swallow the last crumb, which… now tastes like shame. “This is… not what it looks like,” you say, waving your hands no, even with the last piece of dessert in it.
Dense arms crossed over his burly bare chest, Frank smirks. Loudly. “Ain’t what it looks like, huh? Humor me. Explain. Wanna see you try.”
“Okay, well I was—”
Goddamn it, he’s walking over. A slow, lumbering saunter, grey sweatpants emphasizing the muscular line of his hips. You try again.
“Well I needed to make sure—”
Hair mussed, beard flat on one side, he still looks godly after all of these years.
“…vegetables?” you squeak. “…you forgot… veg…gie…tables…?”
Frank waltzes up right-in-front of you, sleep-heat radiating off his skin, smelling exactly of clean sheets and hot skin and him.
“Okay Jesus Christ this is exactly what it looks like!” you hiss out, scoffing at yourself, turning your nose away from the bread like it’s to blame for your disgust.
“Sh, sh, sh,” Frank shushes through a low rumbling chuckle, gesturing a hand to quiet. “Our little secret, yeah?”
You loosen up some, eyes wary as they dart to and from him in the thin shafts of moonlight from the window. “…Yeah. Okay. I like that idea.”
Eyes dead locked on yours, Frank makes an order: “Gimme a bite.”
“Wait…” you murmur, shuffling your bare feet until your toes nudge his. “You’re not… mad?”
“Mad? Pffft,” Frank cranes his head down to whisper, more discreet than necessary, grazing his bearded chin against your cheek. “Those little shits’re grounded startin’ tomorrow.”
Your cheeks go taut with a grin, chuckling softly at the scratch of his hair. “Grounded?Why?”
“Found the rest of the fuckin’ banana bread smashed in a coloring book.”
“Oh my god. My fucking banana bread.”
You both collapse into each other, laughing. Quiet, private, like it’s the funniest disclosure, because… uh, it is.
You end up sitting on the ground together, legs pressed. Frank safe guards the fridge, his arm draped over your shoulders to keep you close. You hold down the freezer.
You pass chunks of bread to him between your bites, your head lolling onto his shoulder as time goes on and the treat disappears.
“So did we really just devour our bribe?” you ask.
“Part of it,” Frank hums. “Ain’t the effective part, though.”
You perk up as a request for answers, scanning the not-so-subtle pride Frank wears as he bites back a smirk, shrugs. “…Left a note.”
“…A note.”
“A threat.”
You bust out laughing, met with immediate hushing from Frank through his own chuckle.
“You wrote a threatening note for the girls to find at lunch time?”
“They’re gonna eat, one way or another. If the note don’t work, I’m gettin’ the fuckin’ funnel.”
“Frank—” your laughter fans his chest, legs weak as you roll over and give up, cherishing every split second with your husband, the deranged father of your children. “What’s the note say?”
Frank settles back though he can’t go any further, drawing it out for comedic effect.
“Just… y’know… what I need ‘em to think.”
“And that is…?”
“Every time they don’t finish their fuckin’ food, a unicorn dies.”
“FRANK!”
Laughter stifles both of you.
You’re on the floor holding your stomach.
Frank’s got his head tipped back, mouth split open in a cheek-aching smile.
You laugh to tears.
Frank wipes his own away.
Time ticks on, indifferent as it eats away the night.
You take Frank’s hand and plant it over your heart, exactly where it belongs, so he can feel what he’s built there, too.
And you thank the universe—you thank Frank—for the best thing to ever happen to you…
This family.
Your family.
The Castles.