Survivor | Frank Castle

.23.

The sun dips below the horizon, casting hues of orange and purple across the small town as Frank navigates the quiet streets. Mary sits beside him, the dull throb of her wound a constant reminder of the recent chaos they've escaped. The old S.H.I.E.L.D. safehouse, a relic from a time long past, awaits them at the edge of the town.

"We're almost there," Mary says, her voice a soft reassurance that cuts through the quiet of the car.

Frank nods, his grip on the steering wheel steady. He steals a glance at Mary, the concern etched into his features a testament to the protective vigilance that's become second nature. Mary notices the worry in his eyes, and a small smile tugs at the corners of her lips.

The safehouse, a modest structure that seems frozen in time, comes into view. Frank parks the car, and they step into the fading light of the evening. The air is crisp, the tranquility of the small town a balm to the wounds they carry. Frank keeps a protective arm around Mary as they approach the entrance.

The creak of the door echoes through the silent house as they step inside. The living room, furnished with dated yet sturdy pieces, is dimly lit. Mary gestures toward a worn-out couch, and Frank guides her gently to sit.

"Take it easy," He murmurs, his eyes scanning her face for any signs of discomfort.

Mary settles onto the couch, and Frank takes a moment to simply watch her. His gaze lingers, a mix of gratitude and relief etched into the lines of his face. He fetches a blanket from a nearby shelf and drapes it over her shoulders.

"You're making me feel like I'm made of glass," Mary chuckles, her eyes meeting Frank's.

"Maybe I'm just making up for lost time," Frank retorts, a hint of seriousness underlying his words.

The small house, a sanctuary in the quiet town, becomes a backdrop to the delicate dance of shared healing. Mary glances around, her fingers tracing the edges of nostalgia that linger in the air. Frank, always vigilant, watches her every move with a protective gaze.

"You hungry?" He asks, already moving toward a small kitchen.

Mary nods, her smile widening, "Starving, actually."

Frank sets to work, his movements efficient and purposeful. He prepares a simple meal, the aroma of home-cooked food filling the air. Mary watches him from the couch, her eyes softening with gratitude.

"You don't have to do this, you know," She says, her voice a gentle reminder.

Frank glances over his shoulder, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, "Yeah, well, someone's gotta take care of you."

Dinner is a quiet affair, the clinking of utensils against plates punctuating the silence. Frank, despite his stoic exterior, keeps a watchful eye on Mary, ready to anticipate any need. The warmth of the small house, a haven in the aftermath of chaos, becomes a canvas for the unspoken language they share.

As they finish their meal, the fading light of the day retreats, leaving the small house bathed in the soft glow of lamplight. Frank gathers the dishes, his attention solely on the task at hand.

The unspoken understanding between them settles in the air, a shared acknowledgment of the healing that takes place not only in mending wounds but in the tenderness of shared moments. Frank helps Mary to her feet, guiding her toward the bedroom.

"You can take the bed. I'll crash on the couch," He says, a hint of reluctance in his voice.

Mary shakes her head, a playful glint in her eyes, "We can share."

As they settle into the bed, the dim light casting shadows on the walls, Frank remains vigilant. He lies beside Mary, his gaze never straying far. The weight of the day, the echoes of shared battles, and the uncharted territories of healing converge in this quiet space.