Pairing: Frank Castle x Reader
Warning: Dark Themes Ahead! self harm, cutting, angst, depression
They’re only a block from home when Red freezes, tilting his head and sniffing the air like a damn beagle. They’d been working together on this drug ring for a few weeks, and while Frank still doesn’t get the full extent of the Devil’s abilities, he’s been around the man enough to know when shits about to hit the fan.
“What now?” Frank gruffs. It was a shit night but he managed to end it with only a few shallow cuts and he’s plenty happy to keep it that way.
“Shut up for a second,” Matt whispers, straining his senses. “There’s blood. I think it’s coming from your apartment.”
It’s enough to light a fire under Frank’s ass and send both men running across the rooftops.
You don’t know what broke the dam.
It’s been weeks, but you also feel like it’s been your whole damn life. Hasn’t it, though? There’s always been something wrong with you, something broken. It’s always been there, as much a part of you as the broken skin and split muscle beneath. It’s just you. You’re what’s wrong, the voice in your head whispers.
Another pull of the razor across your arm and you hear the gentle tip tap of blood droplets in the sink.
It turns out it was easier than you thought to hide it from Frank. He’d been too busy with his work to notice, sleeping during the day and not returning home until the early hours of the morning.
You thought you’d feel lonely. But really you just felt relieved. It left you more than enough time to clean up the evidence, and it gave you a break from the constant worry that he’d find out. A break from the shame.
Another cut. Not too shallow, it scolds. Not too deep.
You fucking hate that word. Shame. You’d spent years of your life suffocating under it. So fucking what if you needed an outlet, if this is how you chose to cope? Who the fuck had the right to judge you?
A simple glance in the mirror and you saw the pathetic truth in your own eyes. That all that shame you fucking hated wasn’t coming from everyone else, no. Wouldn’t it be easier that way? Fuck them all.
No, you knew the truth. That the shame is coming from you. Warmth is dripping down your wrists and you watch the way it tangles through your fingers before merging into a trickle as it sinks down the drain.
God, what would Frank think of you? It’s easy, you scoff. He’d hate you.
You start slicing recklessly, harder and deeper than before. It doesn’t matter, it’s not enough. Not ever enough, you think as the blade slips through your slippery fingers and you sink down to the floor. Your head is pounding, its slamming, that hateful voice screaming as you sink to the floor in exhaustion.
The tile is nice and cold on your cheek, and it’s a small and soothing comfort from the bleeding warmth from your arm.
Rest, you think. God, just for a moment, please. Let me rest.
Frank screams your name as he throws his shoulder into the door again, the old wood finally splintering under his weight. Through the cracks he can see a bit of blood, a flash of your hair. Another shove and the door flies open.
He freezes at the sight of your open wrist. Freezes. He’ll never forgive himself for that. But the sight of you laying in a pool of your own blood has Frank rooted to the spot, his worst nightmare flashing in front of his eyes over and over. Maria. Frankie. Lisa.
“Frank!” Red shouts from the other room, breaking the spell that has Frank just standing there watching you bleed out on the linoleum. “Bring her in here!”
Franks moving, wrapping you in his arms, your wrist dripping a trail of blood from the bathroom. Red’s got his kit open on the coffee table, needle in his hand as Frank lays you down on the sofa.
“Red,” Frank pleads, though he’s not sure for what.
“Shut up and let me work, Frank!” Red snaps. “Hold her.” Frank doesn’t need to be told twice, the marine in him ever grateful for an order to follow. He can’t think, can’t breathe. All he feels is your blood on his hands and the pounding of fear in his chest. He kneels by your head, burying his face in your neck as Red starts on the stitches. He can’t watch.
“Cmon baby, c’mon” Frank whispers, lips pressed into your forehead as his hands stroke your hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Hang in there for me, please.”
Frank sits by your bedside, trying to memorize the way the soft skin of your hand moves under his thumb.
He doesn’t feel anything. Not a goddamn thing. He just sits, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the next order. Good soldier.
Red left a few hours ago. giving you what little privacy he could, though Frank suspects he hasn’t gone far. How could he? You lit up his life almost as much as you did Franks, as much as everyone you touched. To know you was to love you.
And in return, this is what you got. He’d let you end up here.
How the hell had he not seen it? He knew you’d struggled in the past, he wasn’t an idiot. He saw the scars that freckled your arms, your thighs. But who the hell was he to judge? His skin was covered with them, a testament to his own right to cope however he damn well pleased. And you’d never shied from it, not once. He shared it all with you. Every nightmare, every bruise. He lost track of how many nights you’d stitched his skin shut and put his soul back together with nothing but gauze and tape. How many times you’d pressed soft kisses to the rough skin of his hands, soaked in so much blood and death.
You’d even shared some of yourself in return, about the pain you carried from the room you grew up in. But not– Christ, not this.
You stir in your sleep, and for a moment, Frank thinks this is it. His chest aches with the breath he’s holding. But in the end, you just murmur his name and shift a little to the side, falling back into whatever shade was keeping you from him.
He decided then and there that he was going to fix this. Whatever it took, whoever he needed to be for you.
You were gonna be okay. He’d make sure of it.
Please feel free to lmk what you think! xoxo Peach
