Title: Write You A Letter

Paring: Frank Castle X Reader

Warnings: swearing, blood, first aid, shootings. All Frank Castle things.

Spoilers: Yes, for Daredevil Season Two.

Author's Note: based on a song from my favourite band at the moment, Cub Sport named Write You A Letter. Here's where you can find the song -  http://susiephalange.tumblr.com/post/157344077109/im-addicted-to-this-at-the-moment

________________________________________________________________________________

I'll write you a letter every day you're gone

'Cause maybe then

you'll come home

I'll write you a letter every day you're gone

'Cause maybe then

I won't feel alone

At first, your life had been ordinary. A student by day, and night. You listened to the radio, and complained when the top forty were overplayed, but not enough to be annoyed by pop songs. You had a desk in your apartment, stacked up with papers and books and textbooks and lovely things you never had time to use, like anyone would. And like an ordinary student living in Hell's Kitchen, you had a job, a waitress at Josie's bar paid the bills. It also was how you came into contact with the strange heroes that were around New York.

Down there, there used to be just people playing pool with rent money and those on the stools drinking to forget their woes that brought them to the door to poison their livers. Regulars came, sure, but it was a slow Tuesday when a man with a leather jacket and military-shaved style head came in, and ordered a double shot of whiskey, neat. The first Tuesday, he'd been gruff, sparse with words, but with the following weeks, the tips became generous, the small talk growing between the pair of you.

Just don't say

We're not running out of time

'Cause your hands

They don't move

With mine

By the time you hoped to ask him out for something more than you serving him alcohol - and knowing only each other on a first name basis, you were held up in quite a pickle. Josie's was a formidable place, and even with Josie herself being a formidable woman herself, the place became a target for a passing gang. You were so frightened, you didn't catch who was holding the place up, so scared that there would be a bullet through the lump in your throat you had for Frank with the leather jacket, who looked at you differently than everyone else.

But the bloodstain on the wall was not your own, and as soon as the first shot was fired, you tore your grip from the person holding you, and fled behind the bar in the alcove where there was room for a tub as big as you. For the lucky reason that you had no idea for, the tub was missing, and you were safe from the gunfire and the shattered glass that flew every which-where. Ears ringing, you slowly looked up, and best you could without being too cut up by the powdered glass, you saw a shadow charge off into the night, a sniper rifle attached to the back, away. 

Gone.

And don't say

We're not running out of time

'Cause you're still

Filling up

My mind

It was months later you caught a glimpse of Frank, this time with his surname attached to the mugshot on the television screen.  It had taken a while for Josie to clean up the crapola the shooter had caused, and even longer for the glass to be refitted into the walls, and longer still for the patrons to feel safe enough to come back to their watering hole to drink their sorrows away. Two lawyers from nearby downtown and their secretary donated much of their time to help clean up, and offered their services in case your boss wanted to press charges. But she didn't, because Josie fought her own battles, not behind a two suits in a fancy courtroom. But you appreciated Foggy Nelson's sincerity, and Matt Murdock's persistence, and Karen Page's fierceness. 

When you caught a glimpse of him, the newsreader prattling off something adjacent to your interests, Karen caught on that you caught the picture of his face, and nudged you.

"I'm pretty sure that's what they call a long face," she mused, pushing her glass of sauvignon blanc against the tray filled with empty glasses you carried. "If I didn't know any better, it's the same face kids make in school, when their crush walks by...but sadder."

You huff, scooping the tray up, shaking your head. "It is not sad, and I do not have a crush...okay, maybe I do, but he's doing illegal things in the name of the law, and goodness, and I knew him before he was broadcasting the grey area around here, okay?" you mumble, catching another glimpse of Frank Castle, this time in live footage, being carted into a hospital, body broken and bloody on the screen. "I mean, thank whatever for superheroes and vigilanties, and thank whoever for keeping them on their feet, but...am I a bad person to like Frank Castle?" you ask Karen, trying to keep it low so not to flag the attention of the two attorneys at law from eavesdropping.  

Karen shakes her head, and downs the rest of her glass straight, and joins you to keep cleaning the place up. "Bad person? No, a bad person is someone who does things, and doesn't tell people or explain why, and leaves without notice for periods at a time. A bad person is someone who kills for needless reasons, or hurts people for pleasure." She scoffs, taking a tray, and stacking it up with empty shot glasses, "...you're not a bad person for liking him."

Unbeknown to you, and Karen at that point in time, was an attorney at law who was listening to what Josie was talking about, sure, but had mastered the art of eavesdropping across the room thanks to a freak accident as a child, and had heard every word you'd spilled to his secretary. Mr. Matthew Michael Murdock knew about the social etiquette he was breaking by taking in your words, yes, but he had good intention, and he'd also heard your heartbeat - and heard those words to be truthful. 

And I'll count the days

Yes, I'll watch that number

Grow bigger and bigger and bigger

And I'll think of you

And all the things we'd do

If only I had you closer

The next time Matthew runs into the burly man with the gun strapped to his back - as the devil of Hell's Kitchen, not the blind attorney he is by day -  they're perched atop a billboard not too far from his home, where he knows Karen is staying over that night, due to not being able to pay her rent that week, and nearby to your own apartment, where he knows you're reading up on your university books, studying to be something better than you were born to be. Frank hands him something warm, that smells of hot sauce and beans - a burrito. 

"Cheers, Red," he groaned, biting into the burrito, and by the smell of it, Matt could tell it was good food. Probably better than the two minute noodles he practically lived off at the end of the week when there were not too many people coming in to the office. "What, no thank you?" he chuckled darkly.

Matt ignored that, and catalogued in his memory to thank the Punisher later for the burrito, and that he has an appointment first thing tomorrow with a client before opening hours. Instead, he scratched at his nose, and taking a hunk out of the meal, he mentioned, mouth full of beans, "Waitress down at Josie's thinks you saved her life."

Frank grumbles. "I don't save lives, Red."

Taking another bite of the burrito, Matt disagrees, and like a good lawyer, backs up his facts, "Maybe not, but still I can tell when a girl is into another person despite their history. And by neither confirming or denying the existence of a waitress that works at the bar means you do know that you saved her life, you're only arguing a technicality."

The big, bad Punisher shook his head, a tiny smile on his face that the Daredevil could not see but sense. "Fuck you and your fancy degree, Red." he took a moment to configure his thoughts, and then, "So what if I saved one person's life? It's not like it's new for me to have to clean up my messes..." 

Matt sighs, and lowering the burrito, turned to where he thought Frank was sitting beside him. "You know that's not what I mean. If this is about the accident that happened, then drop it, Frank, because for once, there's an opportunity out there, and it's all yours to take, dammit," his fist closes tighter around the burrito, the contents squeezing out from both ends like a novelty kids toy. 

"Ease up there, Hulk," Frank jokes, slapping him on the back with a good-natured thwump. 

"...Thanks for the burrito," he raises it like a glass of champagne, and silently, eats the rest on his own terms, no more bickering on his part. But Matt can hear the slightest hitch in Frank Castle's throat, the squaring of his shoulders, smell the exhale breath from his mouth. 

He goes to leave, and gives him another pat on the back. "I'll get in touch with her." 

Just don't say

We're not running out of time

'Cause your hands

They don't move

With mine

There was a decline in hours, seeing as the regular patrons preferred not having bullet holes in their skin, and drinking alone was favoured to the latter point. So hours of work shorted, and with that, came a pay-cut, and the sad look on Josie's face that came along with it broke your broken heart and left you sitting extra hours at the local library, trying to cram for the exams that were looming ever so close with every passing day.

Sure, you saw many people come by the public library - after all, it was Hell's Kitchen, and if you knew anything about anything, it was full of the people who couldn't find a niche to fit in anywhere else in the world, or had always and forevermore be a part of the Kitchen. What you didn't expect was to glance up to see a leather jacket-wearing Frank Castle, baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, barely hiding his bruised crooked nose from sight.

"Hey," you echo, forgetting entirely what you're supposed to be studying. For a moment, he lingers, slightly swaying as he stands, but the next second, Frank Castle takes a seat beside you in the study hub desk, bending his back to fit behind the desk. "What...I didn't think I'd ever see you again," you whisper.

He shrugs. "Hell's Kitchen is my home, I'll always be around," Frank grunts, eyes grazing over the papers that are before you on the desk. He whispers, "Criminology?" in a sort of disbelief, and wipes a hand over his mouth. "Shit."

You chuckle. "Not exactly compatible with the Punisher, I know," you stack the papers, closing the textbook that says Criminal Justice on the front. "I'm sick of being some person on the outside looking in, or worse, being in and at risk. I'm going to be a negotiator. For when sick people like the Purple Man or crazies like Electro become a problem." 

Frank lowers his head. "So I'm a sick person?" you barely hear the words come from him, and realise exactly what you've said to The Punisher of all people. 

"No! No, more like," you form your hand into a hang loose sign, and whisper, "Fully sick. I wholly approve of shooting bad guys and shitty people to bits. Unlike some of the police, I'm for you." 

And don't say

We're not running out of time

'Cause you're still

Filling up

My mind

You're not sure when it starts but regularly, you're used to hearing a tap on the window, and watching the bear-like form of Frank Castle slide through the window, beaten and bruised and needing a patch-up. You suppose he usually does this, judging by the silvery slithers that cover this battered body that you find yourself stitching up. Your mother had been a nurse, and father a street fighter; a terrible consequence to grow up, watching him heal to be hurt the next day. But your skills are put to work, especially one night, where the tap on the window sounds different.

By the time you've come from the desk, in the pale streetlamp-light you see Frank Castle slumped outside on the fire escape, a faint trace of red on the window where he'd tapped. You do your best to drag the two hundred pound man inside the apartment without alerting the people downstairs, or heck, the whole building. There's a cut above his eye, his ear, and three holes in the front of his left shoulder. His black clothes are soaked, but you don't care if it's blood or rain, just that the guy who you owe your life to doesn't die on you.

"What did you do now, Castle, pick a fight with a Mack truck?" you grit, hoisting him onto your side, as to help him walk into the bathroom. If you'd learned anything from patching up Frank, it was to place him in the tub, or near it, because it was easier to bleach the bathroom than the whole freaking apartment. 

He huffs, slightly amused, but groans. If he'd punctured a lung, it was way out of your pay-grade. Why hadn't you gone into a life of medicine, not criminology? A fancy paper at the end of the term wouldn't get you hired until you went to the police academy, let alone save the man in your arms.

Sitting him on the edge of the bath, you grab the first aid kit, and give him the strongest painkillers you're able to buy over the counter, and the bottle of alcohol you save for stitching. "Close your eyes. Think of the freaking Bahamas or something, because this is going to be a bitch to patch up."

Pouring the alcohol onto a wipe, Frank grins at your profanity, gritting teeth as you swab over his face. "Didn't think you were...one for swearing," he grunts. 

You roll your eyes. "I didn't think you were one for suicidal recon missions, but perhaps that was just my understanding of you as a person," you snark back. At this, he's silent, as quiet as he can be as you stitch his eyebrow back, put a plaster by his ear, dig out three bullets and clean out the holes, stitch them up too. By the time you're all done, you pass what's left of the Bourbon to him to swig, and go to clean up what red has turned your skin from it's natural colour.

"I'm always going to come back more beaten up than the time before," he warns you, breaking the silence. Of course. He's the Punisher, and he's no saint, no Captain freaking America. He doesn't go out and think of dinner later. He goes out, and hopes to whatever forces are keeping him with two feet on the ground that he might be alive to have takeout later. 

"It's not that," you scrub at your hands, "It's not that I sit and wait up for you to wonder and hope to God that you're still alive, or that I can't tell anyone I'm seeing Frank Castle in my down time, no, it's that you don't seem to care, and you don't know when enough is enough and you don't know what it does to me, Frank," you can't help but feel a stray tear fall, and followed closely by another they splash together, hitting the basin where the facet washes the blood from you. 

He whispers your name, but you walk out of there, leaving him balanced on the tub, Bourbon in hand. You all but told him you loved him. And if you knew anything about Frank Castle, he didn't have a need for connection with people. 

Not anymore.

Don't want

To see

You cry

Don't want

To say

Goodbye

Frank sits there for too long, and he knows it's too long by the fact that the sun is coming up on the cityscape, pouring in yellow-bronze light into all the crevices of the godforsaken city. He hasn't taken a drink since you'd given him the bottle, and it isn't out of a screwed-up masochist complex, but that those words you'd spilled out had gotten to him, and gotten to him deeply. 

Ever since that day, he'd been a different man. Before, he'd been Frank Castle, family man, recovering soldier, living a normal life, with his children and the house in the suburbs and a piano downstairs. After that day, he'd been scarcely himself, something of a shadow, with no soul and no need to breathe or eat without justice for his family. He was no John Cena figurine, sure, but he sure as hell wasn't a Ken doll playing house anymore. 

He repeated those words before he took a shot, and memorised all things he'd learned as a Marine and never made a friend, especially in Red (except for when he was tired of the act, and started bringing food to stake outs with the Devil of Hell's Kitchen). But he'd met you. And he could see that there was a life in you beyond what the world could see, a fire he could remember burning, in the heart of his family, in his own chest before it had been snuffed out. 

It had begun as a mutual understanding; he'd saved your life, and you saved his in your everyday plebeian way. But he'd grown accustomed to the lingering touches after the patching up, the cup of coffee before he'd go off into the night, the shape of your couch accustoming his form on it's small surface. 

The way your lips looked when you were angry at him. 

The words you had blurted out are still hitting him, slowly, close to home, straight in the chest. Or maybe that's just the adrenaline wearing off from his gig and the soreness from being shot three times has caught up to him despite the painkiller. 

Frank was screwed up. He knew it, everyone knew it, but still, he got the job done, and saved more lives than he took. It was the whole, if a man kills a killer then does the number of killers decrease? logic, and he wanted as much as he did to stop it, and maybe for a weekend go upstate and relax. Drink. Forget. But more than he wanted that, he just wanted to come to your home whole one night, and settle on the couch with you for a movie. 

But it's not like you can have your cake, and eat it too.

Don't want

To see

You cry

Don't want

To say

Goodbye

The one person who can see through you is your boss. Perhaps also your parents, sure, but they don't see you as often as you like, and it's not like you have the time or money to catch a bus to Harlem to catch up with them. Besides, you heard there was a guy up there, like the Daredevil, protecting them all. It helped you sleep at night. 

But Josie sees straight through you like you're a glass of crystalline top-shelf vodka, and she pulls you in for a hug. She isn't the hugging type, and would sooner scalp the person who initiated the close-range exchange of familiarity, but in her arms, you feel comfort like she's the one who would protect you from the terrible things that lurked out in the streets and strayed into the sheets. 

"Tell me who made you look like that, and I'll beat them up with my own two fists," she raises her arms, making her look as formidable as she looks every night when the regulars come in and dance on the edge of trouble. "Don't tell me it was a boy who's distracting my honours student from making top of the class," she crosses her arms, staring you down.

You can't help but laugh darkly , and take up the rag and start cleaning at the bar bench. "More like a man, one who should know by now what it feels like to have his heart ripped clean from his chest."

Josie narrows her eyes. "You tell that man to fight me. I can't have my only waitress stuck in here for the rest of her godforsaken life when she could be out negotiating hostage situations." She huffs, snatching the rag from her. "Kick him out of your place, darl', because there's no room for a heart breaker in your life."

"But what if I'm the idiot as well, and I love him?" you sigh.

Josie huffs. "Well, then, we just have to listen to what time tells us." You don't ask her what happens when time runs out. You nod, and go back to preparing the bar for the night ahead. 

They'll be words for every date

The longer that I have to wait

Just don't say, we're not running out

That night, you're being extra cheery. Hell, the Kitchen was full of grumpy people who hated life and wanted out of the city but couldn't drag themselves out from her grasp. But you're smiling for them all, earning tips, thinking of what Josie filled your head with. The attorneys who come by often, and helped clean up the place, Nelson and Murdock and their secretary, Karen Page come by, wearing their day clothes to drink in the evening. While Foggy tips back a shot of brandy, but as you go to take the empty glass, Mr. Murdock touches your wrist with a feather-light graze. It's nothing like what it felt like with Frank's hand on yours - sure, Matt's hand is calloused, yes, but it doesn't cover your hand, swallowing it whole, his shadow doesn't hulk, and smother your own shadow. 

How can you miss him this much?

"I want to offer you a job," he says, words heard barely over the jukebox in the corner. "A person with your knowledge of criminology would make an excellent lawyer, sure, if you choose to come down that path, but we need someone with your skill set." 

Your mouth runs dry. "Are you sure you're not just a little drunk, Mr. Murdock?" you ask him, heart racing a little faster at the tantalising prospect of a position somewhere, even without job security. 

"I'm very sure I'm not drunk," he replies, handing you his own emptied glass. "Take time to think of it...as you have with what you've been deliberating over the man at the door." Turning, you see the entrance to the bar is ajar, the door letting in some of the cool evening breeze from the street inside. There stands a man who you had memorised everything of, from the crook of his neck to the scabs on his knuckles, from the scars on his back, to those he made every night he came back to you. "Go on, talk to him." Matt urges.

Placing the tray down, you walk, almost floating  toward him. He hasn't had a shave in a while, and neither has his hair been cut atop his head, and grows in ringlets that make you want to run your hands through them, to inhale their scent. Under the brim of his hat, you see his eyes follow you, watch as you tug him outside into the quiet street.

Outside, you look at your hands. The words you'd deliberated over have evaporated from your tongue, and you're left speechless before Frank Castle, who for once, looks like he's not covered in a litany of bright bruises, and red cuts. Instead, they are fading to yellow, slowly and quietly. Just as you go to speak, anything, whatever you could think of, Frank beats you to it.

"I didn't think of you when I went out," he murmurs, that accent of his hitting you in the chest. It's been ages since you'd last heard him speak, and it still has the same affect on you. "I didn't think of you and your life and everything you're working for. Sure, being with me...it'll get you hurt, and I can't guarantee to be always around to save you," his voice breaks, and your heart melts. You reach a hand to hold his, to be warmed by him. 

"Frank..." you whisper.

"I haven't been able to say this for a while now, but you're one hell of a lady, and I," he takes a deep breath, "I love you. I'm sorry you had to wait for it; I'm not the most stable of people, and I'll never be what you deserve -,"

You tug his hand, tug him toward you so you capture his lips with your own, inhale his scent, become closer than you'd ever been to him at once and in the moment. "Don't say that. Shit happens, Castle. And I don't care, it won't stop me from loving you right back."

They'll be words for every date

The longer that I have to wait

Just don't say, we're not running out

Inside, Karen smirks into her moscato, eyeing her boyfriend and boss, "Matt, don't withhold what's going on, I know you and your Mighty Mouse ears can hear what's going on outside."

Foggy nods, placing his hands in a steeple under his chin. "So, buddy, are they all worked out? Because I swear, she looked like a freaking train wreck. I can't stand it seeing intellectuals plagued by feelings, and if you know me, my answer is for her to just start up a little butchery -,"

Karen elbowed him. "Shut up and let Matt speak." 

Matt blushes, and busies himself with his drink, leaving his two work associates at the edge of the bar stools, waiting to hear the news. "I - they - it's all good. All patched up." 

All's well.