The doors crashed together as I left in a hurry, just wanting to get home and away from that place. My apartment wasn't far, about two blocks from my work place. In my arrival, the doorman spoke, "There's a rather um... beaten man waiting for you at your doorstep, miss. He said he needed help and could only trust you." I booked it up three flights if stairs, gripping the railing at the blood stain in front of my door.
"Frank?" I whispered, stepping over him to unlock the door. He grunted as I lifted him up by the collar to drag him further into my apartment so it'd seem less suspicious to maybe my neighbours. "Oh god, Frank. What the absolute fuck?" I wearily peeled off his clothes, layer by layer until this process revealed the problem. Per se, problems. Frank was bleeding from... well, everywhere. Too many cuts to count, a few bullet wounds, no exits and cracked ribs. This would be a long night and next few days.
I threw some gloves on, preparing myself for pulling out the bullets lodged in his abdomen, leg and arm. "Hurry up. I ain't got all day, Briggs..." Frank coughed out, blood dribbling down his face. For a second or two, I stayed right where I was, too afraid to do anything. This was not something I had ever done. This is what Curtis would do but this was not a time to call Curtis. If I were to save him, save Frank, I'd have to do it with my own two hands.
"Here goes," I gulped, sticking my thumb and pointer finger into the first bullet wound, the most pressing wound if I had to assume. Even as a detective, someone who saw this normally, I had to try my damnedest to ignore the squishing sound, as well as the worry bubbling in my throat.
I couldn't even remember the last few hours as I sat on the couch, Frank's head in my lap. Everything was a blur. From finding my friend barely conscious and bleeding out on the ground to stitching and dressing his wounds. His face, most of it, was scattered with bruises not of the normal faded purple. These bruises were a deep purple, most likely ones that would get darker in the passing weeks.
I met Frank Castle five times before he decided we shouldn't be meeting in awkward conflicts with my job. I'd figure out the living situation later but no one would expect the Punisher to be living with a cop, of all people. "Hey, Briggs?" Frank called from the living room, waving an empty bowl at me. "Berry me."
"Of course, you dummy." Looking at the blueberries, noticing there was only a couple left, I gently tossed the container at him and chuckled when it knocked into his head. Frank rubbed his head at the nuisance, chalking me a simple 'hey! watch where ya throw shit, briggs!' "Sorry?" I chuckled, plating the chicken I had been prepping for the next week.
"Hey, that chicken smells delightful. Mind sharin'?" He said, kind of groaning when I denied him the right to eat my delicious but 'for meal prep, doofus' chicken and rice. "Well, if you won't share your chicken with me, at least share yourself." His head turned to face mine with a look I hadn't seen before. Sure, it was dark but not in his murderous way. It was in a sort of lustful way, tucking the innuendo in nicely to his remark.
Surprisingly, I enjoyed that look and the feelings within it to the fullest.
The next day was more stressful than the day before. A series of brutal killings, anywhere from peeling and burning to off the hook beatings, were floating around Hell's Kitchen, falling upon us police. "Hey, Briggs. Do you believe that this is the work of the Punisher?" I opened the file my partner handed me, deftly flipping through the morbid photos.
"No. I've been to enough crimes scenes of the Punisher to know how he operates. With him, his kills are rational and less brutal. He's never skinned or burned anyone, not that I know of." My partner gave me a skeptical look and a 'huh' that left nothing to the suspicious mind. I turned and left the room, making sure no one was around for this phone call.
where we meet ➳ frank castle
Start from the beginning
