Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time you saw Pete Castiglione, he was following the foreman to the office trailer. He was the latest new guy, just another face to add to the bunch already there.

He was intimidating for sure. The way he carried himself was rigid and confident, his face partially hidden by a dark beard. No emotion to his face from what you could see, just simple nods and what seemed like one word answers when the foreman spoke to him.

But he didn’t stand out to you right away. He was just another man for you to be weary of. Being the only female among numerous men was not something you could ever get used to. This worksite was the same as every one before. The catcalls, sexist remarks, and even unwanted touches when some assholes really felt confident. But the money is good. So good.  The more you work, the more you can save to finally start taking your life in a direction you want.

Every worksite had the same kind of men who formed the same kind of cliques. The men old enough to be your dad, they usually left you alone; probably all had daughters or nieces your age that they saw in you, occasionally one or two of them would speak up on your behalf to shut down the trouble clique. The men your own age, they were the worst. Whether it was out of some sort of odd kinship they felt from being similar in age, but they almost always felt they had the right to harass you.  It was always these guys you looked out for the most.

The third type of people, the group you fell into, were what you called the loners. Those that never really conversed too much with anyone, didn’t really seem to fit in anywhere, just showed up. And it was obvious from day one that Pete fell into this group too.

He didn’t talk to anyone when the foreman brought him over to a concrete wall and handed him a sledgehammer.  Pete just instantly started hammering away, never a word to anyone.

It was his silence that ultimately made him the loudest. Lance and his asshole cronies zeroed in on him right away.  It started with wisecracks behind his back, but you were around to hear some of them. When the first week went by, still no words from Pete, the guys upped their antics.

“So you a mute or what?” Lance stands to the side, talking at Pete who just keeps hammering.

“It’s fucking rude to ignore people,” Greg pipes up.

“He’s a goddamn window licker, he probably don’t understand what you’re sayin’ Lance,” a third guy laughs.

“Is that it? You sit at home eatin’ paint chips, drooling on yourself?” Lance questions with a cocky grin.

Stopping your own work of screwing in sheetrock, you can’t help but get more annoyed on Pete’s behalf.

“God, leave him alone Lance!” you exclaim as you walk over, “He’s not bothering anyone, so just cut the shit.”

You notice Pete stops hammering and looks at the group of you.

Lance looks at Pete before turning his head to look at you, “Why don’t you go back to screwin’, ya know, like you do so well,” and he makes a humping motion at you garnering laughs from his friends, but you notice Pete doesn’t even crack a smirk.

“Real mature asshole,” you shake your head, “Hey, maybe there’s an old woman or a crippled man around you want to harass too, make yourself feel like a big man. You’re so pathetic,” and you go back to working.

It’s not until you hear the crumpling sound of paper that you turn your head to see Lance’s foot on top of your brown bagged lunch. When you meet his eyes, he squishes his foot harder into the bag, definitely ruining the sandwich inside.

“Looks like you may need a new lunch there, princess. Ya know, I always have a sausage you could eat,” and he grabs his crotch, with a flick of his tongue, before walking away with his buddies.

After you watch them walk away, you happen to look over at Pete who’s looking right back at you.  

You simply pick up the remnants of your lunch and throw it out before going back to work.

When lunchtime hits, you grab your backpack and head up to the top level of the structure, where no one goes. No one except Pete you noticed.  You aren’t sure if he notices you up there too, but you notice him. But you leave him alone. Whatever his deal is, it’s easy to see he wants to be alone and you of all people can fully understand and respect that.

Pulling out your sketchbook and pencils, you ignore the grumble of your stomach as you continue on your drawing of the New York City skyline that you’ve been working on the past few days.

“Ma’am,” you hear a gruff voice say and you look up to see Pete standing there, “Take this,” and he holds out a ziploc bag with a sandwich in it.

“Oh no, I can’t. Thank you though, but please, it’s your lunch, you have it,” and you give a quick wave of your hand.

“No, go on. Take it. I had a big breakfast, I’ll survive just fine,” and he sticks the bag out to you more.

And you look at him, his face still void of emotion, but his eyes seem so sincere in wanting you to have it.

“Okay,” and you reach out taking the bag from him, “This is very nice of you, thank you,” you gesture with the bag. Putting it down on the sketchbook in your lap, you stick your hand out, “I’m Paige by the way. We haven’t actually officially met yet.”

And there it is. A tiny second of a smirk at your name.

Frank hears your name and he can’t help the amusement that shows on his face. Paige. Unsurprisingly, it makes him think of one Karen Page. And that alone makes him instantly have a fondness towards you. Because the way you stuck up for him with Lance is exactly something that Page would do too.

“Pete,” and his hand practically swallows yours as he shakes your hand, “I appreciate what you did before, with those assholes, but you don’t need to do that. I can deal with it.”

Taken aback by his blunt words, you simply nod, “Well, alright then. Just know they’re not gonna leave you alone.”

“Like how they don’t leave you alone?” he questions.

And you look at him, “Um, yeah, well,” you give a small shrug, “Comes with being a woman in this line of work.”

“Yeah, well it shouldn’t,” he responds. And you both just share a look before he’s walking back to his spot at the other edge.

---

The next day at lunch, you walk over to Pete and he’s turned his head, hearing you approach, before you even say a word.

“I know this is sort of a corny gesture,” you tease on yourself, “But here,” and you hold out a ziploc bag with a few homemade chocolate chip cookies inside, “Just a thank you...for giving me your sandwich yesterday.”

Pete eyes the bag, a soft look to his eyes, then looks at you. He can tell how set you are on repaying him so he takes the bag from your hold.

“Thank you ma’am. Wasn’t necessary, but much appreciated.”

“You’re welcome,” you give a small smile and a nod, “Oh, and...I know we don’t know each other well so I just have to ask...is the ma’am thing just some kind of polite verbiage that’s ingrained in you or do I really look like a 60-year old woman?”

You truly weren’t trying to make a joke, but it felt good all the same to see a quick smile appear on his face before he drops his gaze to the ground then back at you.

“Polite verbiage. Former Marine,” Pete shares with a smirk.

“Oh wow. Thank you for your service,” you sincerely share and in an unexpected turn, his smirk fades away and he just politely nods at your words.

With a small nod of your own, you head over to your usual spot.

---

Talking with Pete was slim, but at least there was some words exchanged, even if it was just a greeting in passing, or a quick few words heading up to the roof for lunch.

That all changed when you went up to the roof one day only to find your usual slab of concrete, the one you sat on, gone.  Must have finally been needed for building. Before you could figure out where else to go, you heard a quick whistle of a noise and looked over your shoulder. Pete’s back to you, but you saw him slide over on his own slab - an invitation.

When you walk over, you glance at him as you sit. He shares your glance and gives a tiny nod before looking back out at the skyline.

You understand he likes his quiet and you’re thankful for the seat, so quiet you can do.

Taking out your sketchbook, you notice him turn his head a bit towards you.  

“That’s pretty damn good,” his rough voice cuts through the air.

Pete’s eyeing your skyline sketch, you’re in the process of coloring it now.

“Oh, uh, thank you,” you smile appreciatively.

“My kid liked to draw,” his voice sounds softer than you’ve ever heard it. It’s the first time he’s shared anything remotely personal, aside from being former military.

“Yeah?” you match his quieter tone, turning more towards him.

“Yeah,” he gives a quick breath of a chuckle, “started his love for it on the walls of our house.”

A big part of you wants to ask what happened to his son as you noticed the past tense he used. But you also know that with someone like Pete, it’s better not to. Instead you just softly smile with him. A lack of a wedding ring wasn’t too telling in construction, some guys choosing to not risk losing it or getting hurt by having it on, so even trying to guess his home life was hard. However, you had heard Lance and them grumble about Pete being here early and even staying late, you doubt he’d be able to pull that off with a wife and kids waiting at home.

“What did he like to draw?” you gently press further.

He glances at you before looking across the water, a quick lick of his lips, “Uh, you know, robots, dinosaurs, dogs, all that typical shit. But his-his drawing on the wall, that was uh, a big Marine...like me,” and the way his voice grows quieter at the end, it’s evident that the story of his son isn’t a happy one.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you blink away some unshed tears before finding your voice, “Sounds like he was a really great kid. The greatest artists think outside the canvas, even if it’s a living room wall,” you grin small as you see the corner of Pete’s mouth quirk up into a shadow of a smirk.

“Yeah, he was,” he narrows his eyes at the water before looking at you, “Don’t know about that last part though,” and his knuckle taps your book, “That looks pretty great and it ain’t on a wall.”

Shy now, you drop your gaze to your drawing and run your fingertips over it, “Thanks. My dream is to get paid to draw.”

“So what’s stoppin’ you? Be better than doing this shit.”

“A college degree. No place will even look at you without one. The money is good here, been saving up to take drawing classes at night. It’ll take time to get a degree and find a job, but,” you shrug.

Frank just looks at you. The ambition you quite obviously have is just another similarity between you and his Page. You deserve whatever you set your mind to.

It’s a couple weeks later, a couple weeks of small conversations with Pete, when you find you can’t sleep. Abandoning your bed for a seat at your desk, you do what comes naturally, sketching. What you find yourself drawing surprises even you - Pete.

The way his hair waves across his forehead at times, the few tiny scars that litter above his brows. It’s not until you finish with his dark eyes and start on the bridge of his nose that something strikes you as familiar. It’s not the fact that you’ve drawn him so perfectly, it’s different than that.  As you stare at those pencil drawn eyes, you really think. And about a minute later, a gasp. How could you not have known?

Quickly you drop to your knees and open your bottom desk drawer, rifling through newspaper articles.

Him being a former Marine. His son no longer around.

You pull out clippings, articles, even a few headlines.

You had been captivated by The Punisher and his trial. Even wanting to go support him in court.

And there’s the cover you were looking for, the New York Bulletin’s cover of Frank Castle in an orange jumpsuit being lead into court.

Those eyes.

Frank Castle wasn’t dead. He was working a construction project in Jersey.

A look at the time and you wonder if Pete..Frank...may be still be there like they say.

Quickly getting dressed, you head out. You take a bus, getting off a few blocks away. A bodega a block away is open so you stop in, grabbing two coffees.  

Frank can’t stop himself from hammering. The noise, the exertion, it just barely allows him an outlet to grieve the way he does.

The sound of the construction elevator grabs his attention and that gets him to stop. No one should be here. And he heard no car outside.

Stepping behind the wall he’s been demolishing, he stands quiet, sledgehammer at his side, at the ready.

Walking off the elevator, the banging you had heard echoing as you ascended is no more. A little nervous that maybe it wasn’t Frank up here, you slowly start walking.

“...Pete?” you try calling out.

Frank hears his alias and knows your voice by now. Stepping out from around the wall, he happens to step out a few feet ahead of you.

The grey shirt is covered in sweat at his chest. The small amount of light reflects off the sweat at his brow and you can make one single drop of blood rolling down the handle of the sledgehammer he holds.

“Hey,” you say.

“Paige, what are you doing here?” It’s not angry, it’s curious.

“I brought you some coffee, but maybe I should have brought water,” you walk to him, holding out a cup to him which he takes, but his eyes stay on your face, waiting.

You look at the paper cup in your hands, thumbing the plastic tab of the cover when you look back up at him.

“I know who you are.”

Frank stays quiet.

Nerves twist your stomach as you explain, “I only realized it a couple hours ago,” you nod gently at yourself, “When I can’t sleep, I sketch. And earlier I found myself sketching you,” and you notice his eyes get just a bit softer as he listens, “And when I looked at it, something just...hit me - like I’d known you before.”

He takes a step closer.

“I followed your trial.  I believed in what you were doing, I never saw you as - as some kind of psychopath that they tried to paint you as. So, I just want you to know that your secret is safe with me, I won’t tell anyone.”

Frank gives a small nod in appreciation.

“And I...I just want to tell you how sorry I am about your family, Frank.  The second I read that…” you glance at the ground as your emotions start to grow. With a quick lick of your lips, you lift your face to look at him again, “...just - I’m so sorry.”

A gravely, “Thank you” comes from the man in front of you.

All you can do is give a tiny, acknowledging nod; unsure of where to go from here.

“You know, guy like me? I’m not someone you should be friends with. People...they, uh, they get hurt when they’re around me,” he glances down a couple times.

“Who said we were friends?” you ask, but when he looks at you he sees the smirk on your face, and he can’t help but mirror it as he lets out an amused breath.

“Fair enough,” he teases back. A lick of his lips before he drinks the gifted coffee, “Thanks for this by the way. So, how’d you know I’d be here?”

You walk closer to him as you sip your cup, “Lance and them bitching that you steal their overtime by being here so late,” you share with a roll of your eyes.

“They really like runnin’ their mouths, that’s for sure.”

“Could say that again,” you agree. You motion to the sledgehammer in his hands, “Why do you stay so late? First guy I know who likes to work for free.”

Frank grips the handle on reflex when you ask.

“Not easy for me to sleep either. And with the way things are now, I’m better off beating the shit out of concrete,” he gives a small shrug, “Just helps.”

At that, the roaring sound of a car engine echos up to them.

Sharing a look, you both move towards the open edge of the floor, though Frank keeps his arm out to stop you from coming too close to it.

Both of you watch as Lance and his cronies get out, yelling at a fourth guy about fucking something up.

“Is that the new guy? Donny?” you whisper to Frank.

Donny takes off towards the stairs into the construction site as two gunshots sound off.

You drop your coffee as you cover your gasp. Frank has already dropped his and turned towards you.

“Listen to me,” he says stern while pointing to your right, “Get low behind that retaining wall and do not come out no matter what you hear, you got that? I’ll come for you when it’s safe. Go now!”

You do as he says, sinking down onto your side as you hear several running footsteps come onto the floor.

Whatever happens, you can only hear it all. Staying low and out of sight as directed, the sounds easily help you imagine what is going on.

Frank’s low voice before the screams of agony and pleading from Lance and the others. Donny’s voice yelling for help, but sounding far away. The sounds of bones snapping and flesh being pummeled. A couple gunshots at random times.

And all you do is shake as you squeeze your eyes shut and cover your mouth to stop from accidentally screaming.

It feels like hours before you feel a weight on your shoulder.

Eyes snapping open as you instinctively sit up and scramble back, you see it’s Frank crouched in front of you.

“You need to go. Go straight home.”

“You too, right? You can’t stay here!”

“I gotta clean up a couple things first. Just go.”

Both of you stand up, but you don’t turn away from him.

“Last time I’ll see you,” you state because deep down you know it’s not a question.

Frank nods.

With a tight nod, you look at him for a beat before you go to walk past him.

His hand stops you as it takes hold of your wrist when you’re shoulder to shoulder with him.

You wait a second before you turn your head towards his, “Just, take care of yourself, Frank.”

He gives your wrist a squeeze before he’s letting you go.

---

A few weeks later, your cell phone rings. Private Number displayed on the screen.

Normally, you’d never answer. But part of you hopes it’s Frank, just so you can know he’s okay.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Karen Page from the New York Bulletin. Is this Paige?”

Karen Page. The woman who worked on Frank’s trial last year.  Could she know he’s alive? How’d she find you?

“Yes, this is she.”

“How are you?,” and it honestly sounds so genuine, “I’m calling as both a friend of...Pete’s, and as an employee of the paper.”

“So he’s okay?” you can’t help but blurt out the second you could.

There’s a short moment of silence before she answers with a smile in her voice, “Yeah, he is.”

A sigh of relief from you before you continue with the purpose of this call, “That’s good to hear, thank you. So, um, how can I help you?”

“Well see, Pete was telling me about this really talented friend he has in New Jersey, quite the artist he said.”

A small smile appears on your face, “Did he now?”

“Mhm. And see, our paper is looking for a new Courtroom Sketch Artist. The pay is pretty decent,” Karen shares with a hopeful tone at the end.

You feel a few tears spring to your eyes as you realize what Frank has done for you.

“I don’t have an art degree or anything yet,” you share, just to lay everything out on the table.

“That’s okay, you don’t need one. Besides, you come with what I consider a high grade of a recommendation. So? You interested?”

Frank Castle wasn’t a psychopath.

Frank Castle was a life saver.

“Yes!”