˚₊‧꒰🕰️꒱ ‧₊˚— His neck ached under his fingers as he rubbed the taut muscles. His body was as battered as usual, but those weren't the wounds he was focused on.

Swollen eye. Open wounds. Black and blue as you lay on the couch. His chest swelled at the sight, and even more so at the fact he wasn't there when it happened. You focused on stopping the bleeding in your leg, and the panting anxiety from earlier had dimmed, although the tension in the room was still thick. The silence between you was deafening, and Frank wasn't sure if anything he could say would make a difference. You on the other hand, weren't even sure what you could say.

The name 'Pete' lingered at the tip of your tongue, but it died on your lips like a bitter lie. The syllables of anything you could muster up your throat would just be a harsh reminder that everything about the man in front of you was now questionable. The sweet man who seemed rough around the edges was far more than the 'helpful neighbor' you thought he was. The offers, the wine, the flannels, the toolboxes, the laughs, kisses, grunt and groans all felt bittersweet to you now that you knew it was a cover up of his 'Punisher' alias.

He looked at you silently with a soft gaze and bit back any apologies or explanations, knowing there wasn't an excuse in the world worth your forgiveness. He'd gotten you hurt, and he was positive that's all you were thinking about right now. How he'd kicked the door down, punched and kicked, shouted and massacred the room. He was sure that was the image of him you had in your head.

But there was once a time you would've accepted his comfort. When you were under the illusion it was Pete Castigilone kissing your cheek and whispering apologies. A time when you couldn't imagine blood under his nails or the scars on his back being from more than unfortunately placed wire.