A/N: Lots of stress and lots of cursing in this one. I apologize for disappearing off the face of the earth, lots of stress and cursing in my life lately lmao... :/   

Anyhoe, if anyone is still reading any of my stuff, here's this

It was... what? eight at night when he fell onto my piano and bloodied up three octaves?

I got done with my half assed, haphazard surgery at probably close to three. It took a helluvalotta whiskey, a shit ton of thread and a sketchy-assed blood transfusion I learned how to do from a friend.

I'm a universal donor, calm your ass.

I went through four full fucking bottles of whiskey -- for both me and him. If I didn't have some in my system my nerves would've been makin' me shake faster than the hula girl on the dash of my car.

In all fairness, I was still shakin' like hell but not as badly as it would'a been.

Now Frank was back on his couch, coated in a few furry four-leggers here 'n there but never having any fewer than three on or near him at all times. It was like they knew he was in rough-ass shape.

Me on the other hand? I couldn't stop pacing. My whiskey had worn off and I was shaking again, my knees close to buckling out from beneath me. I had to choke back a worried sob every time I looked at the mess on my couch, stuffing my fist in my mouth and biting to suppress a scream.

I'd had to cut off the remainder of his clothes so I could splint his right forearm and his right ankle -- so his attacker was either primarily left handed or there were more than one of the bastards and just came at him from the right because Frank was preoccupied with something on his left.

It made me sick just thinking about it.

I paced and paced a path into my flooring, my body refusing to eat or rest until I saw some semblance of life from Frank. His laboured breathing wasn't cutting it; I needed a crooked, bloodied smile and a half-hearted, 'Hey, kid.' before I knew he was going to be remotely okay.

Mainly because if he did that, he knew where he was and knew who I was and so he didn't have any brain injury.

He always twitched here and there, and when it happened every bit of me stalled. I froze in place, breathing hitched, awaiting him to open his big doe eyes, blink the confusion away and ask for some coffee.

I'd already drank four pots this morning.

My phone was ringing off the imaginary hook it would be on, should my cell actually have one. Mainly from work-people. Karen, Matt, Foggy. Texts were coming in, asking if I'd 'heard the news.' and if I could come into work to help sort out the shit that had started happening.

The only news I cared about was if the dumbass softie on my couch was going to survive another fucking hour. I...I knew I was being selfish for not taking him to a fucking hospital. If he died it was totally on me. I got him into this, I was being selfish by not taking him to professionals but I--

I couldn't. I just couldn't. I would take him in and not be able to stay with him until he was awake and taking visitors because I'm not family.

Well by the looks of it, I'm the only person he's fuckin' got but doc's dumbass rules. I never fucking liked hospitals...

I pulled about eight rounds outta Frank. Eight. Eight fucking times. That's an entire revolver clip and then some. How has this lunatic not died yet?

Whatever the reason, I'm fuckin ecstatic for it.

Back to pacing. I think my copious amounts of movement were making some of my animals uneasy. The past few days I haven't been doing too much activity, so...

Yeah...

I'd finally settled down around four, flopping on the cat-couch and forcing myself to watch TV. I'd settled on another USA marathon of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. It had just gone to a commercial break, but I was still staring at the screen, absentmindedly stuffing popcorn into my face.

I then leapt to my feet and screamed, my popcorn flying everywhere when a low grumble came from my left, "Y'gotta watch this awful show?"

Ignoring the disgusting feeling of popcorn crunching beneath my booties, I pivoted to face the offending noise, my stance coiled like I was in some type of actual danger. Frank was blinking his eyes back into focus, struggling to prop himself upright even just a fraction.

I don't believe I've ever-- ever, felt this many emotions in my entire life. Combined, or separate (I'm not a very emotional person). I had relief at Frank being at least moderately living, but then worry for what else could be wrong with him. Confusion, still, as to what the fuck had happened to him and anger that it had happened to begin with. My heart was hammering from panic from the jumpscare I'd just experienced, too.

Though, my chest physically hurt. It was getting harder for me to breathe and I was still slightly shaking.

Have you ever had that? Where your emotional stress is so great that your body thinks you've been physically injured?

It sucks. A lot. Zero out of ten would not recommend. Zero stars on Yelp. Not fun. Bad experience.

Anyway...

Frank was staring at me with a look of mixed expectancy and worry, "Kid?"

Damn those eyes... "Hmm?"

"Y'gonna answer me?"

Hell no. "What the fuck, Frank?!" I snapped, settling on anger and worry to convey first, "No note, couch empty, car gone!" but apparently I wasn't worried enough not to sneak in a Harry Potter reference, "You could've fucking died!" he opened his mouth to interject but I held up a hand and cut him off, "No--No! You do not get to talk right now!" he looked slightly taken aback and under any other circumstances I'd've felt a bit bad. But alas, I'm close to tears right now for some reason and I am not supposed to be feeling this way.

I took a deep breath to try to steady my shaking voice, "Y...You disappeared. I thought... I thought someone got you. With my line of work you c-can't do that," I held up my hand again, "Stop trying to talk, dammit!" I snapped, suddenly full of anger, "I know that I said you can leave at any time but apparently you can only leave if I'm here or I know that you left via your own free fucking will!

"I try, and try my damndest to ignore the permanent fucking bruises that scatter you, and don't think I haven't noticed all of the gunshot scarring you have, either, Frankie, cuz I got the same damn scars! It's none of my fucking business what you do or where you go, but for the love of God-- when you disappear for three fucking days an' fall with zero coordination and almost zero life through my Goddamn fire escape in the middle of the fucking night lookin' like Swiss cheese--

"I think I deserve at least a little bit of a fucking explanation--" I'd started shaking again, and so I started pacing, ignoring Frank's worried gaze following me around, "At least a little bit of one, please? Did you get jumped? I'll fuckin' hunt them down if you did--"

"I'm the Punisher."

"--and if you took care of the problem like I know you probably could? Great! Just don't fuckin' almost die while doin' it next time! Please! You're the only constant human contact in my life right now and as selfish as it sounds, I can't fuckin' lose you!"

Wow I am being so fucking selfish right now...

"Calm down, Kid. Did you hear me?"

"And if anything ever fuckin' happened to you--" I looked up at the ceiling, aggressively blinking back tears, "And if it happened to you because of me--"

I cut off that time because there was suddenly a pair of hands gently cupping my face, pulling my gaze from the ceiling, "Rebekah."

Good God, I--that's the first time he's ever said my name...

My name sounds good from his lips...

"Rebekah," he whispered again, "I'm sorry. I am so sorry," he was holding my gaze, though, in all honesty there was nowhere else to look. His worried look was the only thing I could see, "I left for a routine night out, I'm usually back before you and it went so fuckin' south."

Routine... night...

Wait.

I shook free from his gentle grip and stepped away from him, "Did you just say you're the motherfucking Punisher!?" he suddenly looked very ashamed and turned his eyes to the floor. I watched as he hung his head and slowly -- and what looked like painfully -- sat back down on his couch.

He looked like a kicked puppy...

I couldn't help the hysterical jump in my voice. I sounded angry, but I was more just... incredulous. This big softie of a man was the one who took out the Dogs of Hell? And the Kitchen Irish? And.. what was it? The Mexican Cartel? The ghost of a man I've been hearing about all over the fuckin' news and in the underground network of criminals I beat up for a living?

I'm roommates with fucking Frank Castle?!

"Why..." I breathed out, "Why... in the living fuck didn't you fucking tell me?!" my voice cracked, and I was raising it in volume a little bit.

"I didn't wanna spook you--"

"Spook me?" I stopped stock still and scowled at him, "Spook me? You didn't wanna fucking spook me?! Have you fuckin' met me, you dumbbell?! I kill people for a fuckin' living and y'think you doin' the same would fuckin' scare me off? Make you leave? I'd call the police and turn your good-lookin' ass in? That I would never wanna talk to you, the big, scary murderer, ever again?" I snorted, "The fuck is wrong with you?!"

Poor Frankie looked taken aback again, at a total loss for words. Good. He deserved it. Thinking I have a right to judge him when I've got as much blood on my hands as he does. Granted, it's not as important, well-known blood, but it's still blood.

If anything, I'm slightly offended he didn't tell me sooner because oh my fucking God I'm roommates with the fucking Punisher!

"Is that literally all you were worried about?" I went and sat on the armrest of his couch, "That I wouldn't want you here if you told me?"

"I'm a marked man--"

"Bitch, I'm ninety percent sure I'm more marked than you are," I snapped, "Lemme guess. You didn't wanna tell me cuz you're marked and didn't wanna put my scrawny ass in danger. Right?" he nodded, "Well, that's the same reason I didn't want you to pull my dumb ass outta your dumpster, but here we are.

"You're stuck with me," I stood back up, "Now lay your ass back down, cuz I ain't got enough blood in my body to give you four more pints and I won't have enough until at least tomorrow night."

"You gave me--"

"Yeah. Almost killed me cuz, y'know," I waved my hands a little bit, my voice taking on a mocking tone, "The average human can lose like... what? three or four pints before dying," his eyes went wide, like he was about to object, and I cut him off, not even bothering to turn around from digging through my cupboards, "You needed it more than I did, y'bitch."

"Kid, you can't go around givin' me that much blood--"

I rounded on him, almost knocking my head into the cupboard door in the process, "And why the fuck not? Hmm? What, was I just supposed to let you bleed out? You were fuckin' drained, Goddammit, I'm surprised you're not fuckin' brain dead right now. Good God, the hell is wrong with you..."

"You could've died tryna give me that much," he pointed out, trying to stand up again.

I spun my staff in my hand and aimed the opposite end at him, "Don't fuckin' move from that Goddamn couch, Castle!" I snapped.

He froze and gave up trying, and I can see why; my tone of voice was absolutely venomous. I've never heard myself sound like that before...

"Sorry..." I relaxed, again, "Just... please," I pleaded, "Rest. Hungry?"

"Yeah," he grunted out, "I could eat."

A/N: Comments and feedback hella appreciated but never ever mandatory 

Thank you for reading