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saintedcooper · 6 months

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It's Complicated (Francis Ch3 | Frank Castle x Reader 1940s AU)

Chapter Summary: After the attack, you awaken with some pain and a lot of questions.

Series Summary: New York, 1949. You’re a waitress trying to find your place in the world and get your footing at your new job. That is, when you’re not being very distracted by the handsome, mysterious writer who frequents the diner.

Previous Chapters: 1 / 2

Pairing: Frank Castle x Reader

Content Warnings: memories of past violence as seen in previous chapter, hot man cooking you healing food (dangerous stuff).

Length: 2,908 words

cross-posted to AO3.

Your dreams are full of dark tunnels and winding paths. Shadowy figures shape-shift into terrifying creatures that you can’t escape. All you hear is the sound of your running feet and your heart pounding like a drum.

You turn down a dark path and stop. There’s a figure in this one but it’s clear, not shadowy like the others. It’s bathed in white light and glowing. It’s a man with his back to you, dressed in slacks and a white shirt with suspenders crossing his back.

As you move closer, the man turns. It’s Francis. Your eyes go first to the soft smile on his lips before traveling down to the twin guns holstered by his sides.

You start to back up slowly and he frowns.

“Sweetheart?”

As you take another step backward, your foot slips. You rear lands hard on the stone path. You’re trying to pick yourself up when you notice bloody scrapes on your legs. You turn your hands over to find they’re there, too.

A frown forms on your face.

How did that happen?

As you observe the scrapes, tiny streaks of red slowly bloom and quickly grow.

A gust of cold air draws your attention to your ripped tights. When you reach down a hand to inspect the ripped fabric, a hand appears in the darkness and wraps around your ankle. It tugs hard, pulling you down as you scream.

With a gasp, you startle awake, your eyes flying open.

Your eyes dart around a familiar room. It’s yours. You sigh a breath of relief as you grab your chest, willing your breath to slow down.

The sun is high in the sky, filling the room with warm light and humid air. Your body is covered in a light sheen of nightmare-induced sweat.

In the distance, you hear Maggie plugging away on the typewriter.

You let the rhythm of the keys fade into the background as your mind wanders to the night before. The alley. Those men. Francis.

Francis.

Why had he been there? Thank god he was, but, it was curious.

If you were being honest, there was always something odd about Francis. Sure, he was gorgeous, but there something dark and mysterious about him. It had never frightened you, it intrigued you.

He was kind, a bit sardonic sometimes, and funny. But he was also dangerous. You knew it when he’d shown up to the diner previously with bruised knuckles and scratches. You knew it the other night when you heard him taking down your attackers.

Francis Castiglione wasn’t like other men.

That's what had drawn you to him at first. But now, that hint of mystery was real and violent.

You’d heard the way he’d laid into those creeps, his fits pummeling their flesh like it was nothing. You’d heard him panting like an over-excited dog, telling them to get up so that he could brutalize them again.

It was one thing to know he had that darkness; it was another to witness it.

You hardly know him. He doesn’t owe you anything but you can’t help having more questions than you know what to do with. If the charming writer who’s been flirting with you for months is also the man you saw last night, which face is the mask? How can you trust anything he’s ever said to you?

Even with your confusion the undercurrent of fear you feel isn’t for you, it’s for him.

What have you gotten yourself into, Francis?

With a sigh, you flip back the sheet to get out of bed. Searing pain around your torso stops you in your tracks and doubles you over with a sharp cry.

The typewriter stops and a few moments later, you hear footsteps hurrying down the hall as you slowly try lower your body back to the bed.

Maggie appears a few moments later with a cool towel and a worried look on her face. The towel still drips with water, proof of how quickly it’d be gathered.

“Thank God you’re awake! You scared me half to death. Are you alright?”

You nod and attempt a reassuring smile. It’s more of a grimace.

Trying to lie back down is too painful, you end up sitting with your back propped up against the headboard and your feet out in front of you.

Maggie wrings the towel out of one of the windows before sitting on the side of your bed and brushing the towel across your forehead.

The cool water on your skin calms you enough to begin to relax. You lean into the towel and close your eyes.

“How do you feel?” Maggie asks.

“Like I got dragged down an alley.”

She sighs. “I’m so sorry, honey. I don’t know what to say. Just thank God you’re alright and that Francis passed by at the right time.”

Your eyes fly open. Francis.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“Don't you remember?” Maggie says. “Francis was headed home and heard the commotion. Those men got spooked and scrambled away.”

“Right... And how’d I get here? Back home?”

Maggie flips the towel over and brushes it gently across the rest of your face.

“Well, early that morning, I thought I heard you coming through the door. I heard the keys and the floorboards creaking, then a man mumbling or something.” She laughs. “I thought you were about to get lucky. I came out being nosy, trying to get a look at your fella.”

You watch her face as she continues. She looks off to the side and stops brushing the towel against you.

“That’s when I saw Francis with you in his arms, covered in dirt and dried blood. Knocked out. I think I must have screamed because I remember him telling me to be quiet and asking about all kinds of supplies. I cleaned you up while he cleaned and dressed your wounds. Then he put you in the bed and left so that I could change your clothes.”

She sighs. “I’ve never been so scared or so certain. It was like I just knew what to do.”

You’d liked Maggie from the moment she stepped onto your doorstep asking about the room you had for rent. You knew a bit about her past but you mostly enjoyed each other’s company in the present. She’s like your wild and free little sister. It feels odd seeing her sad because of you.

You grab her hand and she looks at you.

“Thank you, Margaret.”

She gives you a slight smile as she squeezes your hand.

You finally take a moment to notice that Maggie’s wearing her audition clothes, a smart blouse under a grey wool jacket and matching shirt. “Audition day?”

“Oh!” Maggie stands abruptly from the bed. “I heard you call out just as I was about to leave.”

She gives you a guilty smile.

“I got a call back from that audition last week.” She gnaws on her lip. “I think this is the one.”

It couldn’t be better news. She’s been a struggling artist every day you’ve known her.

“Don’t feel guilty! I’m happy for you. Please, go. I can take care of myself.”

Maggie’s expression of guilt fades quickly into amusement. “You won’t have to.”

“Oh?”

Maggie grins and leaves the room, coming back quickly with a serving tray. The tray she settles around you is loaded up with chicken and rice soup, a hearty slice of bread, a glass of orange juice, and the morning paper.

You gasp. Maggie is a lot of things, but a cook she ain’t.

“Margaret! You cooked?”

She laughs and says in a sing-song voice, “Well, somebody did. Definitely wasn’t me.”

You open your mouth to ask who else it could have been when you hear the floorboards creak in the hallway.

“Hello?” you call out just as the visitor enters your room.

Francis leans up against the door frame. He’s fiddling with his hands and looking up at you under his eyelashes.

“How you doin’, sweetheart? Alright?”

You stare back at him. His knuckles are bruised but he otherwise looks better than the last time you saw him at the diner.

Maggie clears her throat, mouth twisted to the side as she hides a smile. “I should be heading out. Thank you so much for staying with her, Francis.”

“No problem, sweetheart.”

Maggie giggles on her way out of your room. Her footsteps recede until you hear the door open and close.

Looking at Francis, all of the questions floating around your mind earlier rush back in at once. You’re intensely aware of a chasm between the girlish fantasies you’ve entertained about him and the fact that you know so little about this man.

Neither you nor Francis speaks for minutes.

“’s gonna get cold,” he eventually says.

You nod, picking up a spoon. The soup smells delicious. You wonder how long he’s been here.

“What day is it?”

“Saturday.”

“Saturday! I slept an entire day?”

Francis nods. “Yeah. ‘s not uncommon. The shock, the overwhelm. When you’re safe, you just sort of…crash.”

You nod.

Wait, Saturday.

“What about Mister Cranston?”

“Museum guy?”

You nod.

“He was by yesterday. Pushy little guy. Grilled me for two hours about that night like I wasn’t the hero here.”

You smile. “How’s he gettin’ on at the museum? I hate the idea of leaving him alone. It’s a big project, he needs help with it.”

Francis wags a finger at you. “He said those would be some of the first words outta your mouth, worrying about him. He also said don’t worry about him.”

Francis gestures to an envelope on your bedside table. “He brought your pay by early.”

You scoff. Typical Mister C. You’re supposed to be paid on Saturdays for the work done that week. You’re certain that check includes pay for two days of work you didn’t do.

You turn your attention back into the soup. Some old, faint voice belonging to your mother pops into your head. “If you must eat in front of a man, dainty bites. No man wants a barn animal.”

But at your first bite of the soup, all ceremony goes out the window. The soup is delicious. There’s flavorful chicken, rice, and vegetables swimming in a rich and full broth. You wolf it down as fast as you can and quickly find yourself slurping up the broth after eating most of the bowl’s contents.

Francis’ laughter draws you out of your search for the last drops of the broth in the bowl.

“There’s more where that came from, ya know.”

You wipe your mouth, a sheepish smile on your lips.

“I haven’t eaten in two days, thank you very much.”

Francis finally steps away from the door, seeming more relaxed now. He sits on the bed, just past your feet.

You wait for him to speak, but he seems to be searching for words. He opens his mouth a few times, an “uh” or “um” coming out before he shuts it again.

You’d try to help him out but you don’t know what to say either. Instead, you grab the newspaper and start flipping through it. You’re hardly paying attention, just skimming to have something to do.

Then, an article at the bottom of the page catches your eye. As you start to read it, your breath quickens.

“WHO PUNISHES THE PUNISHER?”

Over the past several months, the criminal inhabitants of New York City have had a new kind of law enforcement to answer to. A nameless, masked vigilante—colloquially referred to as The Punisher—has been terrorizing the criminal sect, leaving in his wake a trail of dead and mangled bodies.

The Punisher has become a polarizing figure in the city, with many locals grateful to have a criminal who’s on their side, but with others wondering, “Just who does this guy think he is?”

Jeannie Serrano was a witness to The Punisher’s most recent outing in Hell’s Kitchen, during which he saved an unidentified girl from two ruffians in an alley two days ago. Neither man survived the attack.

Serrano says: “I heard a commotion in the alley on the side of the apartment. I went to the side window to check it out and there was a girl running from two men. She’s just screaming her head off and I ran to call the police but then I heard the men start yelling. I went back and there and saw some guy pummeling the creeps. You ask me, they got what they were asking for. Trying to interfere with a girl like that. It’s not right. I’m glad he did it. Maybe now girls can walk the streets without fear. Make those scumbags afraid for a change.”

But other residents aren’t quite as welcoming as Mrs. Serrano. “I don’t like it,” says Brooklyn resident Marvin Akeman. ”Who died and made him the law? Who even is this guy? I know I didn’t elect him, did you? What’s he want? We’re all just suckers sitting around thanking him and who knows what he’s got planned. He could be the worst of the bunch and you’re out here reporting on him like it’s nothing. You ask me, somebody oughta lock him up. See what’s what.”

Polarizing as he may be, if this week’s most recent events are anything to go by, The Punisher has no plans of stopping. Or being caught.

You finish with the article and find yourself just staring. You think back to the morning before the attack. You remembered seeing yet another article about the guy they’re calling The Punisher. He’s been in the news for months now but you haven’t thought much about it. You’re from a small town, you know how it goes. There are some things the law isn’t cut out to handle. You were really surprised there weren’t more people like him in the city, where there’s so much unnecessary danger.

Because you don’t have ill will or fearful feelings about the “Punisher,” you’d never stopped to wonder who he could be. You’d never asked yourself what kind of man might be wrapped up in this.

“What happened to you the other night?” you ask. “When you came to the diner. You looked like you’d just gotten out of a boxing ring. What happened?”

Francis, who had still been trying to figure out what to say to you, knits his eyebrows together and makes a gruff noise under his breath.

He shakes his head. “Nothin’. Just a little disagreement.”

You nod. Your hands subconsciously tighten around the paper in your hands.

“Like the disagreement you had with the men in the alley?”

“Exactly like that.”

An uncertain silence falls between you two. Francis doesn’t break eye contact until you do, looking down at the paper in your hands. As stoic as he can be, Francis is a fidgeter when he’s nervous. You watch out of the sides of your eyes as he cracks his knuckles, picks at his nails, and bounces his heel up and down.

You’re quiet long enough that when you speak again, Francis flinches so slightly you might not have noticed it if you weren’t so focused on him.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you say.

“Hm?” he says with a raise of his eyebrows.

You lift up and twist the paper around to show him the article. His eyes dart down to it and then back up to your face but he remains silent. You’re glad he doesn’t bother lying to you, but it’s clear you’re going to have to drive the conversation.

“D’you know I’m not from the city?”

“Yeah, I remember some of those stories about your growing up in the country,” he says with a grin. “Pretty sure you told me one about pushin’ some idiot’s face down into a cow pat when got fresh with you.”

“Exactly,” you shrug. “Where I come from, a girl had to look out for herself and failin’ that, we had to take care of each other. Maybe it’d be givin’ a face a slap and maybe that wouldn’t cut it.”

Francis nods. “I get that.”

You watch him for a moment that stretches so long he starts to get uneasy. He shifts his weight slightly on the bed and visibly swallows. A first nervously clenches and unclenches once where it rests on his leg. But he never breaks your gaze.

“I watched my gran run more than a couple of bad eggs out of town with her sawed off. Women beaters. Worse. Sometimes you have to take care of things yourself. Maybe I wish it was different but people doin’ what they’ve got to doesn’t bother me. But with you, I don’t know.”

He looks so handsome with his eyebrows knitted together and his lips pursed. You’d almost prefer to keep him confused.

“You don’t exactly owe me anything here, Francis, but I don’t understand it. It’s always gonna be someone but why you?”

Francis nods, seemingly to himself, as his eyes roam around the room. He stands and walks over to one of the windows, leaning his arm against the frame. The sun is still sat high in the sky and he squints against it.

“Sweetheart…,” he says quietly. He’s still gazing out the window, but he darts his head down as if he avoiding meeting your gaze. “’s complicated.”

You gesture at yourself.

“I’ve got time. Uncomplicate it.”

This chapter has been mostly finished for months but life does life and anyway, it's here now! I love writing these two. Let me know how you feel about this chapter. Comments and good-faith feedback are welcome.

mdni banner by @/cafekitsune | divider banner by @/saradika (sorry for the accidental tags! I have no idea what I'm doing!)

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spacecasewriter13 · 1 year

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When the Lights Go On Again by @spacecasewriter13

Fic Summary: It is May of 1946, over a year after his fall from the Hydra train and losing his left arm, and James "Bucky" Barnes is struggling to adjust. Working as an analyst at the New York City SSR branch, Bucky tries to put the war and all of its sorted memories behind him. However, try as he might he is plagued by thoughts of Magdalene "Maggie" Ramirez, a Women's Army Corps (WAC) Corporal he met in London and hasn't spoken to since before his fall in January of 1945. Little does he know that Maggie, in her struggle to put the war behind her, has moved to the city and looking for a job with the New York Bell Telephone Company as a switchboard operator. Now, by sheer dumb luck, they are reunited as they both fight come to terms with what they were to one another during the war, and work to figure out how to move forward in a world that was unprepared to deal with the consequences of war in the unsteady peace.

Chapter 26: As Time Goes By

Chapter summary: Bucky and Maggie realize they have a mutual friend. Then they realize what they want out of the future and how that might look in the current circumstances. Hopes are high and expectations low; they carve out a moment just to exist and enjoy one another’s company.

Excerpt:

The music was loud, and the club crowded, but she and the other girls were quiet as they sat at their usual table, glasses cupped in their hands, staring down into nothing. They didn’t feel much like talking.

‘Or perhaps it's just me.’ Maggie couldn’t help but think. She’d been out a week and a half, and now in light of all that had happened, there was an uneasy awkwardness. A silence so loud that none of them knew how to fill it. So they were here, sitting and drinking without so much as looking at one another.

Some of it was exhaustion, and some of it was grief, fear, and anxiety. This wasn’t something they could write home about, not without letting the side down, not without potentially leaking classified information, not without facing the reality that this wasn’t all fun and games anymore and hadn’t been for a long, long time. They’d all known that, but now the truth was undeniable.

‘To hell with all this. If I can’t sleep and I can’t forget, at the very least, I can get a little drunk to help me on my way. I’ll be able to sleep it off before my shift.’

Throwing back the rest of her drink, Maggie rose and glanced around at the faces looking up at her from the table. “Who wants another round? I’m buying.”

A few of them protested weakly, but all four of them eventually relented and gave her their drink orders. So leaving them with a cheery smile, she wove through the crowd to the bar and let her mind wander.

She didn’t want to be here. She wanted to go back to the barracks, slip into her bunk and read, but it wouldn’t really be her barracks or her bunk, and her books had all been destroyed when—.

No. She wouldn’t be able to relax there. But in the quiet, she’d be able to write to Tony, and Daniel, and Pai and Nelly and Ing, of course. It had been a few weeks since her last letter, and they would start to get worried if she didn’t at least send a short note asking about the family.

‘No doubt like James. I haven’t been to the cafe in almost a month, and he—.’

It was a stupid and girlish thought.

There was a war on, and with Operation Overlord and then the V2 bombings, no one anywhere in the European theater was going to have any opportunity to slip away for a quiet cup of coffee and a nice chat over breakfast. Wherever he was, she hoped he wasn’t worrying about her. He had his sister and mother to worry about getting home and keeping himself out of harm’s way. There was no need for him to distract himself worrying about her. She was just some dam—

“Corporal Ramirez?”

Maggie turned with such force she had to stifle a wince. “Sergeant Barnes?” She couldn’t believe it. He was here. Somehow she’d managed to conjure him here through sheer power of will.

To Continue Reading Please Visit Ao3

#bucky barnes #James Barnes #1940s mcu #Sam Wilson #Sarah Wilson #Gabe Jones #winter soldier #captain america #fanfic #fic #new chapter up!

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