SUNSHINE [Frank Castle]

CHAPTER TWELVE - TOUGH AS NAILS, FRAGILE AS GLASS

Charlotte and Frank drove to her apartment, Frank in the driver's seat but Charlotte playing her music. The current song was Brown Eyed Girl by Van Morrison. Frank didn't admit it, but he did enjoy her music, and their tastes in it were nearly identical.

Charlotte's fingers tapped out the beat on the armrest while she quietly hummed along. Frank glanced over and shook his head, though he couldn't help but smile. He too eventually began tapping his fingers.

"You like this kind of music?" He asked then, looking over at her.

"Of course I do, I'm not insane."

"Debatable," he retorted, smirking.

"Asshole."

"Good one."

She rolled her eyes at him. She both liked and hated that he could carry on banter with her, sometimes better than she could. "So, what, is this you judging me about my taste in music?"

"Nah." He shook his head.

A smirk appeared on her lips. "You like it."

"So what if I do?"

"I knew it."

"You did not."

"I did." She grinned triumphantly. "The very first time I saw you, I could tell."

"That's what you were thinking about?"

"Absolutely."

"You're insane," he told her, for the second time that day.

"And yet, there's no one else you'd have as your partner."

It was true, and he knew it. He couldn't be responsible for someone else, and with her, he never was. "Maybe."

She turned her head to him and flashed a smile. "There's no one I'd rather have as my partner, either."

By the time he looked at her to reply, her eyes were on the road again, so he stayed quiet.

They got to her apartment shortly after that, and the two entered the building and Frank, leading the way, made for the elevator. Charlotte never took the elevator, not once. Never set foot in the metal box.

The small metal box that was so like the one she was trapped in when she was punished in the Red Room. Such creative ideas for punishment. Such a horrible place to put a claustrophobic girl taught to hate the sight of herself. A small, tight metal box where everywhere she looked, she would see her reflection.

But that was years ago. She could do it. Couldn't she?

She stepped into the elevator and the doors closed. Frank pushed the button with her floor number on it.

She didn't notice that she was trembling until Frank said something about it. "Charlotte? You alright?"

She shook her head no. She couldn't even pretend.

"Hey," Frank began, grabbing her hands in his, making her look at him. "Hey, you just look at me, alright? Just focus on me and breathe."

He didn't understand why this triggered her so badly, but he understood PTSD. He understood that whatever had happened to her to make her so panicked must have been terribly traumatic. And damn it, he would get her through it if it killed him.

She stared at him, her breathing uneven and ragged. "I have to get out of here."

"We're almost there."

"I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here."

"Almost, Sunshine. One floor to go."

Ding.

The doors opened, and immediately Frank lead her out of the elevator and down the hall, far enough that she couldn't see it anymore. Then he let her go, and she slumped against a wall and sunk to the ground. Frank knelt down in front of her.

Her eyes were closed, and she was trying to make her breathing return to normal. She repeated the same words inside of her head: I'm okay, I'm not there. I'm okay, I'm not there. I'm okay, I'm not there. I'm not there. I'm not there. I'm not there.

"Hey." She looked up at Frank's voice. If she had still been shaking, the steadiness of his gaze slowed it. "You're okay."

She nodded. "I'm okay."

He hated seeing her this way. This woman that was probably the strongest person he knew, reduced to this because of an elevator. He wanted to find whoever made her that way and kill them slow.

"You're stronger than them, Charlotte. You're stronger than what they did to you, you got that?"

She nodded and let him pull her up onto her feet. As they walked down the hall together, she said a quiet "thank you."

"You tell me next time, alright? Don't hesitate." He would have taken a hundred flights of stairs before he let her feel that way again, especially since he knew exactly how she felt in those moments.

"Okay."

She took the key to her apartment out of her pocket when they stopped in front of her door. She unlocked it and went inside, Frank following close behind and closing it behind him.

"The guns are in here." She gestured toward her bedroom, and without saying anything else, walked across the apartment to the bedroom.

She knelt down beside her bed and pulled a large, silver case out from underneath it. Once she felt Frank behind her, she opened it. Inside was every gun he could possibly dream of. An arsenal contained to this one case.

She glanced back at him, and could have sworn he'd just seen his one true love. The corner of her mouth curved upward and she stood. "Should I leave you two alone?" It was the only joke she could bring herself to make.

He chuckled and knelt down in front of them once she moved away. He went through them, inspecting the well cleaned and taken care of guns. Glancing up at her, he asked: "Which one do you like best?"

Instead of picking one in the case, she went around the bed to her nightstand, where she pulled two out from where they were taped to the underside. Two Glock 17's.

Frank's brows rose. "You got any more stashed?"

"Of course I do," she told him. "But these should be enough, should they not?"

He nodded, not wanting to press her. "Yeah, this is good."

"Let's go, then." He only nodded again and stood, taking the case in both hands. She gestured for him to go first, but stopped him for a moment. "And Frank?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not made of glass. I can handle my shit. That was just. . . not my best moment."

"I know." He shifted his weight, the case heavy in his hands. "You're tough, I know that. But we've all got somethin', Sunshine. Some of us more than others. I'm not gonna treat you any different, unless you need me to."

He seemed to make a point of finding and walking down the stairs.

A/N: If I've mischaracterized anything, absolutely anything in this chapter, please tell me and I'll fix it immediately. I've never written PTSD before and I want to get it right. I don't mean to hurt or offend anyone with the disease or anyone who knows someone with it.