Archive of Our Own ^beta

When nightmares came, Lisa used to scream for him.

He was her soldier. Her hero. So, when the monsters emerged from beneath her bed, she'd call for Daddy to come rescue her. And Frank wasn't always home to answer the call, only feeling it in his bones from the other side of the world, but when he was, he was always there in seconds, busting down the doors and scooping her up into the safety of his arms, his mere presence enough to put the bad dreams to rest.

Frankie was shy about it. He inherited some of his father's youthful pride, so when he couldn't sleep, he'd sneak into Frank and Maria's bedroom and, without looking them in the eyes, he'd ask through a sputter of words if he could squeeze in the middle. He never gave a specific reason, but Frank could always recognize that look in his gaze — the look of someone who's running from something. And he'd always make room for him, even when his joints protested, his own sleep was scarce, and he knew he'd wake up with the kid's foot in his face the next morning. 

Amy's nightmares were quiet. Came in the form of tossing and turning and an occasional whimper muffled by the pillow. As if even in her sleep, she was attempting to remain hidden, as if making a sound equaled danger.

He's been anticipating it tonight. Hated the fact that he did, but after what had happened earlier — from being kidnapped right from under his nose to kneeling in the junkyard’s gravel with a gun pressed to the back of her head — he just had a feeling. Maybe that's why he wasn't sleeping yet; he sank into the couch with a book in hand and ice packs laid out on his bare shoulders, and he waited — for her quickened breath, a stifled sob, or the sound of the mattress squeaking as she slid down from the bed and crawled under it.

But instead, what he heard were footsteps. Slow and tentative, like the kid wasn't sure if she should. The bead curtain finally rustled and her silhouette appeared in his peripheral. He lifted his gaze to read her face; she was as pale as a ghost.

“Frank?”

Her voice sounded so goddamn small. It worked on him the same way Lisa's cries used to, the same as the touch of Frankie's little hand on his shoulder. He felt it like a lightning bolt just shot right through him, the thunder of his heart replying to the girl's pain, leaving echoes like the ones in the sky. And maybe Amy wasn't his and he wasn't hers. But ever since that time he heard her muffled sobs coming through the door of Madani’s bedroom, it was getting harder and harder to ignore the instincts that were waking up inside him without his permission. He kept trying to stifle it out, told himself repeatedly that his hands were covered in too much blood to be caring and gentle again, but there was no use. Every time Amy was hurt, scared, or angry, each cell in his body demanded him to do something about it.

So he put the book down. Groaned as he took the ice packs off and threw them aside, then leaned forward and gave her his full attention.

“Hey.”

She didn't move, so he reached out an inviting hand. For a fraction of a second, Amy hesitated, but then she let her feet carry her forward. 

“Sorry, I… I didn't mean to wake you,” she whispered as she approached, still a bit like a spooked animal ready to run, but once her small hand slipped into his, she held on tight, like she was afraid to let go. 

Frank shushed her with a shake of his head and pulled her closer so she could stand right in front of him.

“You didn't wake me.” He gently grasped her other hand, his thumbs softly gliding over her knuckles. She fought to steady her shaking, but it wasn’t working too well. Frank kept his eyes on her, trying to get her to look at him, but her gaze was down, weighed by shame, stubbornly focused on their joined hands and hiding from him.

He let out a sigh. Brows drawn together in worry, he asked, “What's going on, kid? Can't sleep?”

Amy lowered her head even more. Blond curls fell over her face like curtains but it didn't stop Frank from noticing the way she nibbled on her bottom lip to keep it from trembling, how her tears pushed back against her efforts to keep them at bay.

Her breath rattled slightly in her lungs when she finally spoke.

“Can I… it's stupid to ask, really, and you can totally say no, but I thought…” a deep, steadying breath, and she finally looked up. “Can I stay with you for a bit?”

His face softened.  

“What d’you mean, stupid?” He chuckled. “C’mon, kiddo, come here.”

She was still hesitant, even when he tugged at her hand, and he saw it for what it was: the fear of rejection, of doing something wrong, the habit of pushing her own vulnerability down in order to make herself less visible, less of a nuisance. Briefly, Frank wondered where it came from, what made this girl so afraid to let herself be cared for. She always hid behind a tough exterior of cockiness and snark, all bark and no actual bite, so barricaded inside herself she took any kindness as a trick or a weapon pointed her way. It took him a bit to gain her trust and become a safe space for her to open up. Peeling off her layers was hard work, but he knew better than to push; God knows he wouldn't appreciate it if someone stuck their nose behind his defenses uninvited. So he did the only thing he knew to do; he guided her onto the couch and waited patiently until she leaned into his side. And once she finally did, stiff as a poker as if still expecting him to push her away, he grabbed her legs, threw them over his lap so she was now sitting sideways, and cradled her closer, drawing her into his chest as he leaned both of them back into the couch.

He expected some kind of protest: a scoff, an eye roll, or something about how she's not a little kid to be coddled this way. Lisa loved this sort of thing; it was her favorite way to spend time with him, but Lisa was twelve, she never got the chance to get to the dreaded by Frank part of outgrowing it. So he held his breath — but Amy's head fell into the crook of his neck. Her eyes closed. With a long, shivering exhale, he felt her body melt into his.

Smiling, Frank pressed a kiss to her hair. “Attagirl.”

“Are you sure this is okay?”

He thought about her tear-stained face when the preacher guy held her at gunpoint. Her gaze flooded with fear. How close they came to never getting to do this. 

He brought a hand up to cup the back of her head.

“Yeah, kid. More than okay.”

Finally convinced, Amy surrendered and nestled closer to him. She took hold of his hand, the one that lay gently on her knee, and for a long moment, she just held onto it, her thumbs softly tracing the contours of his red, bruised knuckles. In return, Frank rubbed soothing circles into her back, pleased when her weight grew a bit heavier against him and she let herself relax even more.

But his worries gnawed at him, impatient. The longer she kept quiet, the more they grew inside his ribcage. She was safe, she was unharmed, but wounds on the mind were trickier and harder to heal than the ones on the body. The kid needed rest, but she won’t be able to get it if she doesn’t let go of the shit haunting her dreams.

He ducked his head and once again tried to catch her gaze.

“You wanna try talkin’ about it?”

Amy paused, seemed to consider it, but ultimately lowered her head.

“I'm not sure I know how,” she whispered.

Twisting his hand in her grip, Frank laced his fingers through hers. Her hand was tiny compared to his, yet it seemed like they fit together perfectly.

“That's okay. We don't have to talk if you don't want to. Yeah? We can just sit here together until you feel up to anything else."

“You sure?”

“I'm sure, kid. Rest now.”

With a gentle nudge, he coaxed her back to him, feeling her heavy exhale brush against his chest as she became comfortable. She pulled their joined hands to rest against her stomach while Frank leaned his cheek on her head, and a soft smile started tugging at his lips. It was… nice. Holding her like this. Feeling her breath on his skin, synced up with his own. It brought back the long-forgotten feeling of holding your entire world in your arms. A sense of peace to his troubled mind, smothering the whirlwind of his own rage and worries like a blanket over a fire.

But Amy remained tense. Her bottom lip caught between her teeth betrayed something sitting at the tip of her tongue. 

“I just… I’ve never…” She sighed and shook her head. “Nevermind.”

He frowned. “What?”

It took time and courage for her to respond. She kept her eyes away from him, a distant gaze fixed on everything and nothing. And he had no choice but to be patient — to steel himself, suppress his rising panic, and control the overprotective instincts that urged him to fix whatever was wrong. He gently caressed her hair, tucking it behind her ear, and kept his gaze fixed on her until, at last, words slipped from her lips in a whisper so soft that he could scarcely catch it.

“I've never had this. I don't… I’m not used to someone… caring about me like that.”

How many more times could this kid break his fucking heart before the stubborn thing finally gave up and lost the will to put its jagged pieces back together? Because this time was pretty fucking close. It made him want to punch something, to look for someone to blame. A part of him, primal, wild, nurtured by the ghosts of his children, wanted to grab her by the shoulders and demand answers, wanting — no, needing — her to point him in the direction he could turn his guns to, to show him a target for his anger. But lashing out was not the way to fix it. There's no one he could punish anyway.

Still, a part of him understood. How unfamiliar this is. How it took shedding multiple layers of carefully crafted defenses to get to this point. Because he wasn't used to this either.

Sometimes Frank thought he had forgotten what human contact felt like. Giving it, let alone receiving it, felt foreign. But he couldn't help it. It was as if all these copious amounts of love he was left with after his family died had nowhere to go. So he locked it down and buried it deep because for him, loving people meant putting them in danger. 

And then this kid ripped the vault door off its hinges and threw away the lock. She ran her mouth, raised his blood pressure, and talked his damn ear off. A boil on his ass that didn’t want to go away. 

And yet.

All that love… spilled out.

He wondered if Amy also needed to remember what it feels like. How long has it been since someone hugged her? A parent, a friend, someone with any scrap of good intentions. Was there really never a person in her life she could run to? Someone to make her laugh, to offer a shoulder to cry on, someone to rock her to sleep and provide sanctuary from the monsters under her bed. Frank’s arms tightened around her immediately when his mind gave him the answer, setting fiery determination ablaze in his heart.

“Well, you better get used to it,” he said with a smile, running his knuckles across her cheek. “Because I ain't going anywhere.”

Her eyes met his, revealing a multitude of emotions. Shock. Gratitude. Still, a hint of anxiety. But above all, relief. 

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Hey, I meant what I said back there. I'd do anything. Yeah?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Now get some sleep, sweetheart.”

She nestled closer to him, resting her head back on his shoulder as he tucked her into his chest. Frank settled into the couch, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, and smiled against her skin as she let out a soft sigh of contentment. His arms were about to get numb and his back was bound to be all fucked up in the morning, but he didn't care; he simply couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.

It was scary to know that he would sacrifice everything, even the world itself, to protect her. Even scarier, realizing he could very well be the one who ends up bringing the true monsters into her life — the ones that lurk in the shadows, far more terrifying than the imaginary fears that once hid beneath Lisa's bed. Monsters with knives, with guns, with cruel intentions. This is why he didn't get close to people anymore, to not bring his carnage to their doorstep. Because even if he had been able to shield Lisa and Frankie from the creatures of their imagination, he was powerless against the bullets fired by the ones that followed him to their home.

But when John Pilgrim held a gun to Amy's head, Frank knew.

She was family.

She was his.

There was no going back from that.

Her smile suddenly blossomed against his neck.

“That feels nice,” she mumbled. Pulled back from his thoughts, Frank glanced down and found himself gently running his fingers through her hair.

Grinning, he tilted his head and twirled one of her curls around his index finger.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

Her sheepish smile flooded his chest with something warm and mushy.

“Lisa, she, uhh… she loved when I…” His throat grew tight as the image of his daughter appeared in front of his eyes. His hand stilled, the curl slipping from his finger.

A shadow of guilt crossed Amy's face. She sat up straighter.

“It's okay, Frank. You don't have to…”

Only, he wanted to.

He shook his head and brought the smile back to his face. His hand returned to smooth down the girl's scalp.

“Lisa loved when I played with her hair,” he said. “She always wanted me to braid it. Maria had to teach me because the kid would not get off my ass about it.” His tongue darted out to slide across his lips as he nodded along to the memory unfolding inside his brain. “The first few times it looked like shit, all crooked and tangled, but you should have seen the look on her face when she marched up the steps of her school, chin up, flinging that thing around with every turn of her head.” He choked out a laugh. “She was so proud…”

His heart stung with every word, but the more he talked, the easier it was. He told Amy about how Lisa used to climb into his lap after a bath, her pink hairbrush in her hand, asking him to brush her hair. How she used to curl up against him on the couch, like a clingy kitten, and refused to leave his side until she was passed out and he was forced to carry her to bed. He talked about her smile, her laugh, how it felt when her tiny hand slipped into his on a busy sidewalk. How he loved every second of it. 

He expected the pain to consume him. Expected the happy memories to be swallowed by the horrific image of her dead body in his arms. But instead, all he felt was peace. It didn't hurt anymore. It felt… good.

When he blinked away the stubborn wetness in his eyes, he noticed Amy looking at him with a soft, fond gaze.

“She was so lucky to have you.” She commented.

One corner of Frank's mouth turned up. “I was the lucky one.”

“No, seriously. It must have been nice, being so loved.”

She gave him that toothy grin with a hint of teasing that she always wears. A nonchalant half-shrug, accompanied by a gaze that darted away as soon as he caught it. Like her words have no hidden weight, like there isn’t something lurking just below the surface, hidden yet wanting to be noticed. It happened a few times before: things she said or did that were meant to throw him off his tracks but only proved the existence of something that ran deeper than what she was letting him see. It felt bitter. Hurt. All wrapped up in pretty bows of acting like it doesn’t exist.

Frank’s eyes narrowed. Concern that he didn't bother to contain anymore carved out deep lines in his forehead. He watched as Amy's gaze became clouded when he didn't take the bait, a haunted look he knew so well from his own reflection. 

She cleared her throat. Shook her head like she was trying to get rid of the thought, and her mask of youthful disdain returned. She tried to cover it with an ironic laugh.

"I mean, my parents were never the touchy-feely type. So…“ 

His frown deepened further as a thousand questions at once gathered at the tip of his tongue. Terror overtook Amy's face when she realized she was only digging herself into a deeper grave, but something else took shape in her eyes just as quickly: a kind of sadness, a sort of acceptance, with a shadow of unexpected relief.

She let out a sigh. Scooted back from his lap and curled herself up in the corner of the couch instead, drawing her knees to her chest and hugging them tight as she faced him fully.

“I… I don't remember much,” she muttered, answering his silent question. “They died when I was five.”

Something cold and sharp gathered in the pit of his stomach.

“What?”

“A car accident. DUI from what I know. I woke up in a hospital three days later to a social worker telling me I won't be coming home.”

Frank dragged a hand over his face and shook his head solemnly.

“Jesus, kid.”

He knew it had to be bad. Had a feeling the kid’s life must have been a bumpy road, but he didn’t think — didn’t want to think — it started this early.

Amy simply shrugged. “I mean, they weren't— great people, you know? It probably would have happened anyway. They… didn't care for me the way they should. Well, maybe my mom did. Or at least she tried. I remember her dressing me up in pretty dresses and telling me how I'm gonna be someone someday…” She shook her head with resignation, an edge of bitterness coloring her voice. “Probably was just projecting her failed fantasies onto me.”

Frank watched her closely in silence for a long moment. “So you were in the system?”

“Group homes, yeah.”

The fact that she used the plural form wasn't lost on him.

“No extended family to take you in?”

Hurt flashed in her eyes, but she just dropped her head and bit her tongue. 

“I, uh… passed through more than a few foster families but… never had any luck.” She continued instead. “I didn't— fit in. They couldn't mold me into their perfect life, you know? Too loud, too rebellious… too feral, they said. They always had some crappy excuse, like how it turned out to be too much, how I'm too much, how maybe a different family would be a better fit. And then they would just… drop me off at the door like a dog at a shelter.” 

Frank’s eyes closed as he released a breath that weighed a ton. His heart could barely carry his own grief most of the time; now it felt like it was about to crumble under hers. It was all so fucking unfair.

“I'm sorry,” he said softly. “If I had known…”

Amy scoffed. “If you had known, you wouldn't bat an eye, Frank. I wouldn't have fit into your picture-perfect family either.”

His first instinct was to object, to argue that he would have moved Heaven and Earth to give her a life she deserved. He even opened his mouth to let it out, but Amy’s words gave him pause. Because… would he? Would Frank Castle, a husband, a father, and a decorated marine officer, make this kind of decision? His marriage was slowly crumbling. He was almost never home, on one deployment after another, his duty to his country keeping him in the farthest corners of the world most of the year. He loved his children and he missed them dearly when he was away, but they were a handful, and he couldn’t deny that oftentimes, he just wanted them to shut up and stop bothering him so he could have a moment of peace. He and Maria had a conversation about not wanting any more kids. Two was enough.

Picture-perfect? Far from it. But Amy was right. He was a different person back then. His priorities were different. The thought of taking someone in wouldn’t have even crossed his mind. He had enough of his own everyday-life shit to deal with.

The realization left a bitter taste in his mouth. Amy wasn’t looking at him; instead, she curled even more into herself as if she wanted to disappear.

“Why are you telling me all this?” He eventually croaked out. Why now? almost followed.

She looked up and her face softened. “I know your story. It's only fair you know mine. Besides… I trust you.”

Even though it was tiny, the smile that gradually spread across her face spoke volumes. After tonight, there were no barriers left between them. Frank found himself mirroring that smile, a profound affection radiating from his face as an overwhelming warmth surged within his chest, almost breaking his ribcage wide open. This kid was everything to him.

Amy cleared her throat and finally unfolded out of the ball she turned herself into. Her toes wiggled against the cold wood when she put her bare feet on the floor. Leaning forward, she propped her elbows on her knees and spent a good minute playing with the rings on her fingers.

“You asked me once how I ended up living a life like that,” she spoke. Frank nodded slowly; he remembered it as if it was yesterday, the way she freaked out on him after he locked her in Madani’s bedroom. How she couldn’t stop shaking afterwards. It was hard getting anything out of her; her story was all over the place. She got defensive, straight up wanted to flee, as if even talking about it threw her into a state of panic. When he asked that question, she dodged it with a surprising precision, not giving him a single detail. She wasn’t ready yet.

“I ran away from my last foster home when I was thirteen,” she said and Frank barely restrained himself from cursing out. Jesus Christ, just thirteen years old. Barely older than Lisa. “It was a rich family, very uptight. I guess I was their charity case. But the dad had a temper. Mom only cared about their reputation. And the daughter? I honestly felt so bad for her, it was like she was their puppet.” She lowered her head and let her hair conceal her face. “That last night, I accidentally knocked over a wine glass during dinner. And all hell broke loose.”

A chilling sensation began to creep up Frank's spine, heavy and unsettling. He sat up, painfully alert, and placed a hand on her back.

“Did they hurt you?” He asked, an edge to his voice that he couldn't hold back. There was nothing for him to do about it now, but the mere idea of these people laying a finger on his girl—

Amy shook her head. She glanced his way before fixing her eyes on the trailer’s door, her gaze growing distant again. “The dad started shouting. Calling me names I will not repeat. The mom slapped me when I tried to apologize and told me I should go back to the ditch I came from. So I took her advice. I packed what little I had into my backpack and I ran.”

“Amy…”

She turned to him so sharp he was afraid her neck would snap.

“Listen, I knew what it meant, okay? They were going to send me back. With another stupid excuse I've heard a million times already. And I wasn't going back to that group home. I wasn't. It was its own brand of hell. It was—” Tears gathered in her eyes and she clamped her mouth shut. Took a deep breath through her nose, then another. When she spoke again, the rising panic in her voice was gone, replaced instead by bitterness. “I saved everyone the trouble. You gotta leave before you get left, right? Or, whatever…”

That's why she wanted to run so many times. She was expecting it to go sideways the moment she did something wrong. She thought he was going to get rid of her like everyone else did, for the tiniest mistake. She may have asked for his help but she didn’t trust him, not because she was scared of him, but because her experience taught her it’s not worth it.

His chest sank, guilt pooling in the pit of his stomach as he remembered every time that look flashed in her eyes and he was too angry or distracted to see what it was. He recalled the haunting sound of her cries, the sheer terror etched on her face as he lunged at her in a fit of rage, pinning her to the ground with the cold barrel of his gun hanging between her eyes, all in a misguided attempt to teach her a lesson.

Only it wasn't a lesson. 

He was just another bully. 

All the while she was just trying to make him proud.

But you’re coming back, right?

He felt sick.

“So you were thirteen years old, living on the streets.”

Amy pressed her lips together and gave a slight nod. “I spent a few months on my own before Fiona found me. And the rest… you already know.”

Yeah, he knew. Not much but enough to paint a pretty vivid picture. A woman who used teenagers in need to do her dirty work for her. Luring them in with an imitation of stability and income. Poor kids mistook exploitation for care just because she gave them a roof over their heads.

Rage rose up inside him once again, but he extinguished it. He’ll find a way to use it later. Amy needed something else right now.

He scooted closer. His hand returned to her back, palm sliding up and down her spine in a soothing motion that used to help lull Lisa to sleep. He waited until she looked back at him. And then he smiled.

“Come here, baby girl.”

This time, when tears welled up in her eyes, Amy didn't try to stop them. Her face crumpled like a piece of paper and she collapsed into him with no hesitation, a strangled sob clawing its way out of her throat. And Frank was ready; his arms folded around her and gathered her close, crushing her in an embrace strong enough to break bones. He gave her his all because it was what she needed. He’ll never be able to give her back what she should have had, but he's sure as hell going to love her the same way he loved Lisa and Frankie, with every fiber of his body, even if it fills him with the kind of dread he hasn’t felt since that day in Central Park. It went against every instinct he carefully cultivated since then, but to hell with that.

The kid deserved nothing less.

She was crying uncontrollably now, the tangled web of her emotions reaching a breaking point. Her beating heart thudded against his bare chest as she clumsily wrapped her arms around his neck and burrowed her face into it. It tore him apart in ways he couldn’t find words to describe.

He turned his head to kiss her hair. "It's okay, baby, just let it all out. I've got you, I promise,” he whispered, desperately wishing she wasn’t hurting, wishing he could do more to make it go away. 

Her shoulders shook from the force of her sobs. “I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t take it anymore.

“Hey, no,” he said, softly but with enough authority to get her attention. “None of that.” He took her face in his hands and looked her straight in the eye. "Never apologize for wanting to be loved, kid. You hear me? Never.”

His thumbs gently traced her cheekbones. Her chin still trembled, and the breath she let out was unsteady and fragile, yet she found the strength to give him a small nod and a flicker of a smile.

Frank smiled back, proud. “Yeah? Attagirl. Now get back here, cuddle up. Come on.”

He leaned back into the couch and took her with him. Amy curled up against his side, her head on his chest and one arm thrown across his middle. Placing two more little kisses in her hair, he squeezed her closer to him and rested his cheek atop her head.

“Was this what your dream was about?” He asked after a while, running his fingertips mindlessly over her arm.

Amy sniffled and pressed her cheek into his chest. “No, it was… a little bit of everything, I guess. I don't know what brought this.”

Her hesitation told him there was more to it, but the kid has already opened up to him more tonight than he ever hoped for, so he didn’t press. It wasn’t hard to imagine what it might have been. She’ll tell him when she’s ready.

“A lot happened tonight. Shit like this will mess with your brain. You should try to get some sleep now; you’re exhausted.”

She tensed up again, her breath caught in her throat. She wiped the remaining tears from her face with the back of her hand.

"Do you mind if we stay like this for a little longer?”

He looked down at her, saw her looking at him with those big, gray-blue eyes that saw too much too soon. And he knew without a shred of doubt that he’d do anything she’d ask of him.

“We can stay like this all night if you want.”

The sense of relief that welled up inside of her was almost tangible.

"I just… I think I just want to be held for a little while,” she said with a shy smile.

A heartfelt, genuine laugh echoed throughout Frank’s chest. Jesus Christ, this kid, he thought. She made him too soft. 

He grabbed the blanket thrown over the far end of the couch and draped it around her shoulders. There were still things that needed to be taken care of. The Schultzes were still a problem. Billy was somewhere out there. Monsters still lurked in the shadows, ready to attack. Frank knew the fight wasn’t over yet.

But for now, he just wanted to hold his girl.

“You got it, kid.” He kissed her forehead. “You got it.”