Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Where Frank's a walking mess of scars, maybe more scar than untouched skin by this point, David only really has two--which in Frank's opinion is still two more than he should.

The main one is an odd square-starburst-shaped thing on his chest, just under his left shoulder, from where Carson Wolf's gun propelled him off a very long drop he was never meant to survive. Only nonlethal thanks to his phone, hence the oddly angular shape. Plus a long, jagged cut down his side from catching wrong on something on the way down.

Whenever Frank's fingers trace it, he shivers, like remembering the coldest time of his life (a river, crawling out of it like a grave). It's enough to make Frank hit 'pause' on whatever sexy thing's happening, to just wrap him up and keep him warm for a while. David hasn't objected yet.

The bullet-phone imprint though, that's too close to his heart for comfort, and sometimes Frank's insides freeze up at realizing that the entirety of their lives together could have come down to a matter of centimeters. If David hadn't picked that pocket for his phone, if Wolf had just slightly better aim?

Frank doesn't think about that. He doesn't.

But he does wonder sometimes, exactly how David survived, if after he crawled out of the river, he risked going to an ER or back alley clinic, or if he just white-knuckled it, stopped the bleeding and patched them up himself. It'd explain why they're both still so visible. If he'd taken the even bigger risk of enduring a water-borne infection with absolutely nothing and no one to comfort him. (Dead men are beyond that.)

Frank hasn't actually asked, though. The existing images in his head (some imagined, some remembered) of David alone and scared and in pain are bad enough.

So Frank pays both spots special attention, to make up for it. Make up for a lot of things, most of which he wasn't there for, but some he was. Some he's the cause of.

Faces and necks aside, that raised, puckered skin on David's chest or side is usually the first place Frank will put his mouth when the occasion arises. Or his hand at the very least, resting on David's waist or sternum and feeling his heartbeat (get faster) through his shirt, and the still-tender flesh that kept it beating years ago.

It helps that David's sensitive to touch in general, but especially the one on his side. Frank never digs his fingers or nails in; he never has to. The second Frank's fingertips or tongue or teeth find scar tissue, David's suppressing gasps and wonderful little noises that Frank will do anything to hear more of. Anything to remind David of how much he's survived, how strong he is, how proud Frank is of him, without words. And to just turn off his ever-buzzing brain and feel good.

Frank counts that as a win every time.

Chapter Text

Frank Castle will probably die with his boots on.

He certainly lives 90% of his life them on, rarely removing them even when he's home, really only for showers or bed. It's part of being ever-ready, he says, but to David it seems like so much more hypervigilance, a PTSD manifestation Frank swears he doesn't have--though David's really not one to talk when it comes to that shit.

Pot, kettle, both of them messes.

He never said anything in the bunker, but one of the few times David actually let himself relax was seeing Frank start to unlace those monster shit-kicker boots. Meant he wasn't going to run out to chase (or become) death. Meant they weren't going to be attacked sometime in the night, and that for now, their work was over. They could let down their guards and rest.

It became a signal to his subconscious, a particularly weird flavor of Pavlovian; David sees Frank shoeless and the tension starts to automatically bleed out of him.

He's sure Frank would deflect or laugh it off somehow ("you got a foot fetish now, Lieberman?" He doesn't think so, but if that's what this is, it's honestly whatever by this point) if he knew, so David makes sure he doesn't. Never looks too long. Never says a word. Just takes the reassurance where he can, and carries on.

Until the night Frank comes home (yes, the bunker is 'home' in his mind, whether he wants it or not) drenched in blood, foreign objects still riddling his body, and it's over an hour of all David can do to keep him from passing out or worse.

They're both exhausted and shaken by the time he's stitched, cleaned, and in one case duct-taped Frank to where death at least isn't imminent.

They're both out of breath by the time he's heaved Frank off the table and upright, thick-muscled arm slung over his shoulders, and half-dragged him to the cot in the alcove he's claimed as his own. Lowered him down as carefully as he can, then leaned against the wall beside him, both wordlessly taking a break to catch their breath.

And they are both so wrung out past the point of caring about anything, that David doesn't so much as hesitate to kneel down and start working at those boot laces, nor does Frank comment. He's not even entirely sure Frank's conscious.

David Lieberman has always had steady, deft hands. Necessary for convincing machines to do your bidding. And taking care of hard-headed juggernauts with zero consideration for their own safety. Now, he puts that same level of care into undoing Frank's secure knots, working slowly, just in case there's more injuries here he hasn't seen yet.

It's almost... nice. As he works, he feels his own tension fade away. Like it always did when the boots come off.

He's halfway down the first set of laces, focus undivided, when something makes him jump, startled. Something touching his head.

It's almost as surprising when he looks up to realize it's Frank's big, callused hand, lightly resting there, fingers in his hair.

He doesn't speak. David can't, just stares back up with the bizarre feeling of having been caught. Sneaking where he shouldn't, or in a private personal moment Frank's intruding upon, even though David is one doing anything here.

David holds perfectly still. Doesn't so much as breathe.

Frank is gazing down at him through swollen, bruised, half-mast eyes that make it hard to tell exactly what expression he even has. If he's confused or annoyed or... no, if he were more awake and undamaged, David might call his face thoughtful, or... maybe 'awed.' At the very least, he doesn't move a muscle. Or his hand from David's head.

Frank has to be aware of the optics.

The imagery, rather, David on his knees, between Frank's, touching his feet with an almost worshipful care.

Neither of them planned this. It's just a bizarrely intimate, sacred thing they're doing. The borderline-divinity of it all, alone, makes strange feelings rise and clench and flutter in David's chest, but even stranger is the realization of how long and how deeply he's wanted to do this.

This should be embarrassing. Mortifying, but it isn't. Instead there's the twin feelings that none of this is real, but if it were, if this all wasn't just a dream they're both having... it'd be right.

That's what makes David finally ease Frank's boot off, place it carefully aside, and without so much as thinking, press a kiss to the top of his foot, near the ankle.

He hears a strange, choked sound. Looks up to see Frank leaning back against the wall, big forearm resting in front of his face. Like the sight of it, of David, of the gentle touch and kiss, is too much. Or shit, maybe he's just tired and got a headache; Frank's never been the most forthcoming with vulnerability.

So that means nothing's stopping David from repeating all this on his other boot. Even more slowly this time, even more reverent. Frank's hand knits through his hair to cradle and stroke the back of his head, and David pauses only to press his face closer into that big, rough, warm palm, give it a little nuzzle and kiss there too.

When the second boot is done, it goes neatly next to its mate on the floor, and David crawls up into Frank's arms, eager and trembling and exactly where he belongs too.

Everything has its place.