When you get close to someone like Frank Castle, it's only a matter of time before it catches up to you. Clara is good at recklessly inviting danger upon her. And the longer they're together, the more likely she is to be used against him. Oh, he tries to keep things quiet and hidden. Their life together is a secret world that neither of them want to invite an audience to observe. But when things between them get serious enough that she packs up and moves into his place, things get a little complicated.
It's not like they're married. But with as devoted as they are to one another, they might as well be. And from the second she's known about, there's a giant target painted on the both of them.
So really, it was only a matter of time before she was pulled into the violence that surrounds his life when he steps out as the Punisher. She's grabbed off the street one night while she's on her way home with dinner from the deli by the motel they're currently staying in. It's easier to bounce around from motel to motel and make each one feel like home, so he can continue using his alias in order to keep her safe.
Clara's not blind to the fact the men Frank is hunting down and fighting against are bad news. All of the people he kills are. But this new group seems stronger and more hellbent on destroying him. She loses count of how many nights he's stumbled back home to her, bloody and in need of bandaging. She's gotten good at it by now, always making sure to have a pot of coffee on for when he comes back.
Her first worry as she's grabbed and both her purse and the bag of takeout from the deli are tossed aside is that she won't be there for him to have coffee ready when he comes home. It's an utterly ridiculous thought, but fear doesn't even begin to take hold of her until days later. Days where she sits tied up to a chair and has plenty of time to think and worry about him, wondering what sort of man he's become now that he's well aware she's missing.
But as it turns out she doesn't have to worry for long. He finds her after five days, just as she knew he would. She has nothing but faith in the fact that he will always find her, and he will do whatever it takes to protect her. He gets her free from the chair easy enough, but there's nothing he can do to get her out of the fight that ensues. He gets her to the elevators, tries getting her out of the way. But there's no escaping the crossfire she's caught in. She's hit twice, once in her shoulder and again in her side.
The pain is unbearable, and she's left wondering how he deals with this on a near daily basis. It's the last thought in her mind as her hand clutches at her side and she feels a steady trickle of warm blood. Seconds later she gives in to the darkness tugging at the corner of her mouth and collapses.
When she wakes up she's in their bed, sore as hell but alive. He's done a good job of stitching and bandaging her up, but there likely isn't much to be done about the discomfort she's feeling. There's a hiss of pain as she shifts, trying to sit up.
"Frank?" She calls out to him, panic evident in her voice. He better not have left her here to go out and avenge what happened to her.
It took him time and getting through a load of denial for it to truly sink in that he'd let this happen again. She's gotten good at writing him even the quickest of notes before the Doctor snatches her away, but there's no sign of struggle around their little flat either. She just hadn't come home one night and Frank had spent it in an endless loop around and around Hell's Kitchen and come up empty. It almost made him want to pick up smoking just for his frayed nerves, but as always, he knows much better ways to spend his time.
Unfortunately, the smash and grab needed to rescue Clara doesn't give him enough time to properly take care of their mutual friends here. He does take down a couple guys, and messily, but it's not nearly enough - especially when their targets hit. He's coming back for the man who pulled that trigger and not even Humpty Dumpty will be able to put him back together again when he's through.
He has to shove all the rage back inside in order to give Clara what she needs right now. Thankfully, nothing went in too deep, but he's no doctor. He only knows what keeps him alive, but those are some low standards especially for this miracle of a woman who blew into his life one day and refused to leave. He's definitely not going anywhere any time soon so her fears are unfounded when she (predictably) tries to force herself up alone.
"Watch it, Evel Knievel. Not so fast." He puts his wrist across her shoulder to bar her moving any further before scooping his other giant hand into the small of her back to help her sit up properly, fluffing the pillows behind her to support her as she goes. Usually, he lets Clara be Clara no matter how reckless she decides to be, but for the duration of her recovery he's not taking no for an answer. His expression does soften though the moment he lays eyes on her finally-conscious face. "You really scared the Hell out of me, lady."
She starts to laugh when he first speaks, but the pain that causes quickly stifles the sound down to nothing. And for once, she lets him guide her and keep her from moving. Typically she'd fuss and do what she wants, but since he's used to being shot she figures he definitely knows what's best.
Somehow, the admission that she scared him stuns her. She knows that he cares for her, knows that he would kill for her. But hearing him admit that she scared him breaks her heart into a thousand little pieces. It's so hard to know she's caused him the fear he must have gone through, especially given how worried he always is about keeping her safe.
"I'm sorry," she starts with a soft and gentle apology. The urge to lean in and kiss him is strong, but the second she gives it a try she feels a piercing pain that has her staying rigidly still. Tears fill her eyes on account of both the pain and the fact she feels so guilty, and her breathing begins to quicken as emotions overcome her.
"I should've fought harder. Tried harder to get away." She still hasn't realized he's likely talking about the fact she wound up shot and bleeding out. Her mind is a jumble of thoughts and emotions, and her guilt only compounds when she thinks that she should be worried he's going to push her away because of this.
He grimaces when she starts to come towards him then gets stopped by her own limitations painfully. He's all too familiar with that feeling and it has him carving out a slot for himself next to her, somehow occupying much less space than his hulking frame would suggest he needs. That ugly expression twists into a downright scowl as she goes on apologizing. Frank doesn't interrupt despite his guts knotting up inside just as surely.
"This is my fault, Clara. Not yours." He waits for that to sink in before reaching up to brush some hair off her forehead, needing to find a point of contact but knowing she can't sustain his clinging right now. "You never have to apologize to me anyway."
Frank drops his hand to her knee, gently squeezing as he prepares himself for leaving her side again even if it'll only be for a moment. Best to keep lengthy conversations for once she's better, he reminds himself.
"I'll get you something for the pain. And some tea?"
She wants him to stay there with her, and almost grabs hold of his hand and tries to anchor him down next to her. But the offer of something to help ease up the pain is too tempting to pass up. Because it's all she can really focus on, and she wants to be in a place where she can reassure him that she's absolutely fine. So of course she nods a little, even as her hand reaches out to briefly press over his.
"I wouldn't say no to either right about now." He gets permission to leave, a tired smile tugging up the corner of her mouth. "Just as long as you promise to be back soon."
Clinginess isn't something that she's going to be ashamed of right now. Not when he needs to be able to be close to her and feel and see for himself that she's going to be okay. Maybe they'll have to worry about things like infection. And scars are definitely going to be in the picture. That doesn't matter to her though. Not as much as reassuring him that she very much still wants his presence beside her.
"Yeah, I promise," he offers gruffly with a nod as he slips off the bed to get her what she needs from the kitchen.
Frank is second-guessing his choice to take care of her here instead of bringing her to the hospital, but they both know he couldn't have stayed with her. Selfishly, he promises himself if she gets worse he will consider it but until then he won't mention the option aloud. Soon she'll be able to smell freshly brewing coffee and hear the kettle going off. She never did convert him from his own habit and he's been up too damn long besides.
He sets her tea on the rickety little table near her, handing her a water bottle first then a handful of unmarked pills he doesn't bother to identify. It's only Motrin 800 and antibiotics anyhow. Frank strategically sits a bit further away this time, but still beside her legs on the bed, sipping on his coffee as he watches over her intently.
She dozes off a bit, up until she hears the kettle. It pulls her out of sleep and she's fully coherent by the time he comes back. There's a bit of a frown as she watches him settle in further away, if only because she wants him in close. She wants to touch him and have him hold her, to remind the both of them that they're alive and everything is going to be okay.
However, the offer of pills and water are too tempting. She quickly works the bottle open so she can down a big gulp, and downs the pills on her second swallow. Her head falls back against the headboard and she sighs, eyes looking over to him.
"Everything hurts," she admits, trying to give a shaky smile. "I'm not sure I'd be able to hold anything down." There's a pause, as she tries to wiggle her leg to nudge him with it. "Besides, I don't want you going anywhere."
He immediately reaches out when she nudges him, holding onto her calf idly while he drinks from his cup with the other hand. Frank more-or-less expected that answer and nods even if it makes him feel like a subpar caretaker not to force the issue. He's betting water and rest are more important, at least for the time being.
"I remember, when my little girl was sick... we'd watch movies to take her mind off it. What do you think?"
There's a part of her that's surprised when he doesn't fight her on the food issue. But he knows how stubborn she is, and he also trusts her to know her body well enough to tell that she isn't going to be able to hold down any food. So the offer of a movie is met with a little nod.
"As long as you don't hold it against me if I pass out before it's over." Her eyes close briefly before she takes another sip of water. "I'll even let you pick the movie."
She moves to set aside the bottle water and pick up her tea, having to take in a sharp breath of air with every little movement. How in the world does he manage to survive getting shot so often?
"Can't I?" he teases, but it isn't as though they have very many opportunities to fall asleep watching a film like an old married couple. Something about it feels almost indulgent to Frank. "She always wanted to watch Fox and the Hound, my Lisa."
The bemusement falls at the way she breaths in sharp, frowning like a loyal hound that isn't quite sure what to do for her.
"I'll set it up." Frank moves to set his coffee next to her tea and places the softest of kisses at the front of her hairline. Then he's gone again to find the VHS he'd secreted away from his house before burning it to the ground.
Despite the fact she knows it'll hurt, she can't stop herself from instinctively leaning in toward the kiss to her hairline. She'll always chase after his affection wanting more, even when she feels like shit. It's good she has the tea in her hands to cover up the little grimace that's on her face from the effort, as she waves him off to go get the VHS for them to watch.
It's complicated being with him at this stage in his life. The loss of his wife and children is something that he'll never heal from, and she doesn't want to tread into territory where it feels like she's trying to replace any aspect of them and what they mean to him. But she loves him desperately at this point, and know he feels the same way toward her. He's moved on in a sense, but is forever haunted by ghosts in the form of VHS tapes. At least he's able to open up to her now, to casually mention his children and share that part of his life with her.
She's smiling at the thought of that when he returns with the tape, and waits for him to get things up and going before she pats the spot on the bed next to her. His spot, where he sleeps pressed in close with a protective arm curled around her.
"I haven't seen this in a long time. I bet you anything I'll still cry."
It's true, it took him a long time to talk with Clara about his family, especially Maria. But that had more to do with guarding his late wife's memory than anything. He still has this irrational fear that he'll forget her; that Clara's face will take her place in his dreams. As he'd gotten to know Clara, however, the two women's personalities were so diametrically opposed that voice became more than quiet enough to ignore and even quash. For similar reasons, once he gets talking about his kids it's hard to stop. He's overwhelmed for a moment when Clara pats the bed like Lisa used to, beckoning her daddy to her side to snuggle up as they watched this very film.
He fixes her with a stare that's dark and doughy as he slowly nods, carefully clambering onto the mattress from the bottom so as not to disturb Clara's injuries. Frank settles onto his pillow and places one hand on his tummy before holding out the other for her to hand him his coffee.
"Can't remember how long it's been since I watched this, you know." Which is to say he'll probably shed a tear himself. One side of his mouth hitches up as he watches Clara out of the corner of one eye while the other fixes on the screen.
She wordlessly hands over his coffee, waiting until he's settled until she leans over to rest up against him. It's a bit difficult at first to get into the movie, if only because she has so much on her mind. There's the pain she's feeling combined with concern about him. She's worried about his mental state, and about what sort of possible retaliation they need to be bracing themselves for. If there's even anyone left from that organization to retaliate.
Eventually the painkillers kick in completely and she's able to relax completely at his side. It's nice to be able to just sit here in silence with him. And about forty-five minutes into the movie her eyes start to feel heavy. Instead of fighting to stay awake she gives in to sleep, her hand seeking out his to hold as she dozes off.
Whenever she eventually wake up, she's alone in bed. The painkillers have worn off, but that doesn't stop her from stubbornly trying to get out of bed and walk. It's a slow shuffle that involves her holding onto the walls as she moves. But she eventually finds him sitting at the tiny little dinette table, and makes her way over to him to press a kiss to his cheek.
"Hungry yet?" She asks him like she wasn't the one that refused food earlier.
He should get up when he hears her feet start to scuffle along the floor, but by the time he's straightened up to stand Clara is already lumbering towards the kitchen. It seems more expedient to just sit and wait for her to arrive. His smile is a slow, deliberate thing as she comes closer, one massive hand alighting on the small of her back to show support while he leans into her affection.
"I could eat," he responds bemusedly, pulling out the other chair for her to sit in.
She eyes the chair warily, but shuffles over to sit in it. It takes a slow and careful sinking down into the chair before she's able to make herself comfortable. Sighing once she's able to find a position that's remotely tolerable, she looks over to him with an attempt at a smile.
"We could order something," she suggests, not wanting him to feel like he needs to get up and make something for her. "Or I could make sandwiches." She's become obsessed with more American things like peanut butter and jelly or grilled cheese sandwiches. Apparently they're for children, but she absolutely loves them.
He holds onto her gently while she sits, not about to risk her falling so soon after the incident. The rest, of course, makes him laugh.
"You're in recovery and you want to make me a sandwich?" he confirms, taking his hand off her to gesture towards the kitchen around them. "Well go on then, you know where to find everything."
Frank is well aware he shouldn't encourage her shenanigans, but sometimes when it comes to Clara he can't help but poke the bear. Sometimes it's entirely too tempting to see how far she'll go, if only because most of the time it seems like she doesn't have a limit at all.
There's confusion on her face at first, because she thinks he must be messing with her. Either that, or it's a trap for him to scold her for pushing herself too quickly. That causes her to hesitate, up until she realizes he isn't stopping her. The dimpled grin that breaks out across her face is pleased and confident.
She's got this. It's just sandwiches. How hard can it be?
All she has to do is push herself to stand up. Which she has to grip hold of his arm to do, but she only winces a little. And she hardly makes any pained sounds of discomfort. Once she's on her feet, it's just a matter of leaning in to steal a kiss before she's shuffling off into the tiny kitchen to work.
Which she does slowly, stubbornly refusing to admit that she should be resting. Yes, she hurts. But is that going to stop her from making peanut butter sandwiches and cutting off the crust? No.
"We should talk," she says about halfway through the second sandwich. "About what happened."
He's likely going to stubbornly refuse. But she's ready for that possibility.
It takes everything in his body not to pop up after her, but Frank is assessing how much recovery this will take. He knows this is partially just stubbornness, but he's hoping it's also serving the dual purpose of distracting Clara from her own mortality. It would have made a neat replacement for "talking about it" if not for her follow-up, to which Frank swivels his head to regard her seriously.
"Alright, yeah. You're right." He bounces his knee as he waits for the questions to start rolling in. "What part of it specifically do you wanna talk about over peanutbutter sandwiches with the crusts cut off?" Sometimes, he can't help a bit of trolling even while being 100% sincere as well.
Now that? That earns her slowly turning toward him, pointing a jelly coated knife in his direction. A glob winds up falling right off and landing on the old laminate floor, and she glances down at it sadly. She'll get that later. You know, when she can move properly again.
"You love my sandwiches as much as you love me," she teasingly points out, before turning back to finish making the second sandwich. She doesn't speak again until she's finished. But instead of going right back to him she stays in place, holding on to the edge of the countertop.
"I want to know what you're thinking. What you're feeling. I need to know that my getting hurt isn't going to make you think I'm not safe with you."
They've become so hopelessly entangled with one another that her life is completely with him. She doesn't know where she ends and he begins anymore. The thought of him pulling away even slightly is terrifying to her. And after waking up alone in bed twice now, she's very concerned he might be planning something that he thinks is for her own good.
He laughs outright at the jelly glob falling to the floor. "Don't you dare get that." Frank is already letting her run wild with those injuries, and again he's about to get up when her words hit him over the head like an anvil. He does love her which is exactly why this is so dangerous. But he knows they're too entangled to simply leave - that won't protect her as well as he can.
"They aren't mutually exclusive," he finally pipes up after a long silence, but he's hunched over his seat and staring into the flowers rather than over at Clara's face. "I'm not going anywhere." Shouldn't that be enough?? And if it isn't, what's their alternative?
She lets him have his space for the time being, taking her time shuffling back to the table with the plates. It takes her well over a minute to make her way from the dinette to the table, and his plate is wordlessly slid over toward him to take. She carefully sits, sighing in place of hissing in pain as she does. And instead of eating right away, she just stares at her meticulously made peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
"I love you," she finally speaks, her voice cracking slightly as she whispers. She'll blame it on the excitement of being shot, but she's getting a little emotional with him saying he's not going anywhere.
"And I'm not going anywhere either."
That being said, she picks up her sandwich and slowly takes a bite. It's in that moment she realizes she forgot a glass of milk, and gives out a muffled and sticky sounding fuck beneath her breath.
He murmurs a thank you even as he regrets letting her do that. Frank opens his mouth to try to respond to any part of that - he's not capable of it anyway so it's better left alone. He chuckles at her cursing as he sets a massive hand down on the table to push himself up and go get her milk and clean up the jelly from the floor.
Frank puts the glass in front of her before sitting again with the cup he poured himself of horrifically cold and black coffee. "Better?" he asks even while grimacing at the taste of his chosen beverage. He's not used to napping so the caffeine is necessary, but he probably should have just brewed a fresh pot. Hindsight, and all that.
He doesn't address anything she's said, and for a moment she's hurt by that. That hurt quickly brings on tears, which she refuses to let fall because she's stubborn and knows he doesn't mean anything by it. She bites into her sandwich and starts eating, not looking his way when he brings her the milk. And shamefully, she actually starts crying while she sits there refusing to look at him.
She swallows the lump that's in her throat and takes a drink before nodding in response. "Thank you."
There's no real reason why she should be crying. She doesn't know why she is. Maybe it's the emotion from the ordeal she's just been through finally coming out. She blames it on that as she wipes at her eyes and stares down at the remains of her sandwich on her plate.
"Did you kill them?" she finally asks, emotion thick in her voice. she doesn't specify who she means. she knows that he'll know exactly who she's referring to.
Frank's eyes widen when Clara starts crying, something he's certain somehow is his fault though he can't pinpoint what he did wrong yet. He watches like a deer-in-headlights like he's waiting for further instruction when instead she asks him that. The question they've always left open between them in the past. He knows Clara is no innocent herself, though she's also not a brutal killer like himself. Very few are so it's not that shocking - and for that reason her inquiry shouldn't shock him either.
"You're safe," he croaks out, not sure if that's why she's asking but he needs to be straightforward about this, he knows. His watery eyes reflect back her sadness as he admits, "Two of them got away, but I'll take care of it."
She has no idea why she asked. It's not that she minds him killing, because the people he kills are the sort that deserve whatever happens to them. It's not like he goes around just hurting people because he can. So his answer adds a layer of guilt that makes her stomach twist to the point that she further loses her appetite.
"You make everything safe," she murmurs, wiping at her eyes. "Remembering that was the only thing that kept me going. I was absolutely terrified."
And that little admission of her fear is a big deal. She never admits when she's afraid, she just puts on a brave face and deals with it. But she doesn't feel like hiding that terror she had felt. Not when she needs to talk about it, even a little.
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It's not like they're married. But with as devoted as they are to one another, they might as well be. And from the second she's known about, there's a giant target painted on the both of them.
So really, it was only a matter of time before she was pulled into the violence that surrounds his life when he steps out as the Punisher. She's grabbed off the street one night while she's on her way home with dinner from the deli by the motel they're currently staying in. It's easier to bounce around from motel to motel and make each one feel like home, so he can continue using his alias in order to keep her safe.
Clara's not blind to the fact the men Frank is hunting down and fighting against are bad news. All of the people he kills are. But this new group seems stronger and more hellbent on destroying him. She loses count of how many nights he's stumbled back home to her, bloody and in need of bandaging. She's gotten good at it by now, always making sure to have a pot of coffee on for when he comes back.
Her first worry as she's grabbed and both her purse and the bag of takeout from the deli are tossed aside is that she won't be there for him to have coffee ready when he comes home. It's an utterly ridiculous thought, but fear doesn't even begin to take hold of her until days later. Days where she sits tied up to a chair and has plenty of time to think and worry about him, wondering what sort of man he's become now that he's well aware she's missing.
But as it turns out she doesn't have to worry for long. He finds her after five days, just as she knew he would. She has nothing but faith in the fact that he will always find her, and he will do whatever it takes to protect her. He gets her free from the chair easy enough, but there's nothing he can do to get her out of the fight that ensues. He gets her to the elevators, tries getting her out of the way. But there's no escaping the crossfire she's caught in. She's hit twice, once in her shoulder and again in her side.
The pain is unbearable, and she's left wondering how he deals with this on a near daily basis. It's the last thought in her mind as her hand clutches at her side and she feels a steady trickle of warm blood. Seconds later she gives in to the darkness tugging at the corner of her mouth and collapses.
When she wakes up she's in their bed, sore as hell but alive. He's done a good job of stitching and bandaging her up, but there likely isn't much to be done about the discomfort she's feeling. There's a hiss of pain as she shifts, trying to sit up.
"Frank?" She calls out to him, panic evident in her voice. He better not have left her here to go out and avenge what happened to her.
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Unfortunately, the smash and grab needed to rescue Clara doesn't give him enough time to properly take care of their mutual friends here. He does take down a couple guys, and messily, but it's not nearly enough - especially when their targets hit. He's coming back for the man who pulled that trigger and not even Humpty Dumpty will be able to put him back together again when he's through.
He has to shove all the rage back inside in order to give Clara what she needs right now. Thankfully, nothing went in too deep, but he's no doctor. He only knows what keeps him alive, but those are some low standards especially for this miracle of a woman who blew into his life one day and refused to leave. He's definitely not going anywhere any time soon so her fears are unfounded when she (predictably) tries to force herself up alone.
"Watch it, Evel Knievel. Not so fast." He puts his wrist across her shoulder to bar her moving any further before scooping his other giant hand into the small of her back to help her sit up properly, fluffing the pillows behind her to support her as she goes. Usually, he lets Clara be Clara no matter how reckless she decides to be, but for the duration of her recovery he's not taking no for an answer. His expression does soften though the moment he lays eyes on her finally-conscious face. "You really scared the Hell out of me, lady."
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Somehow, the admission that she scared him stuns her. She knows that he cares for her, knows that he would kill for her. But hearing him admit that she scared him breaks her heart into a thousand little pieces. It's so hard to know she's caused him the fear he must have gone through, especially given how worried he always is about keeping her safe.
"I'm sorry," she starts with a soft and gentle apology. The urge to lean in and kiss him is strong, but the second she gives it a try she feels a piercing pain that has her staying rigidly still. Tears fill her eyes on account of both the pain and the fact she feels so guilty, and her breathing begins to quicken as emotions overcome her.
"I should've fought harder. Tried harder to get away." She still hasn't realized he's likely talking about the fact she wound up shot and bleeding out. Her mind is a jumble of thoughts and emotions, and her guilt only compounds when she thinks that she should be worried he's going to push her away because of this.
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"This is my fault, Clara. Not yours." He waits for that to sink in before reaching up to brush some hair off her forehead, needing to find a point of contact but knowing she can't sustain his clinging right now. "You never have to apologize to me anyway."
Frank drops his hand to her knee, gently squeezing as he prepares himself for leaving her side again even if it'll only be for a moment. Best to keep lengthy conversations for once she's better, he reminds himself.
"I'll get you something for the pain. And some tea?"
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"I wouldn't say no to either right about now." He gets permission to leave, a tired smile tugging up the corner of her mouth. "Just as long as you promise to be back soon."
Clinginess isn't something that she's going to be ashamed of right now. Not when he needs to be able to be close to her and feel and see for himself that she's going to be okay. Maybe they'll have to worry about things like infection. And scars are definitely going to be in the picture. That doesn't matter to her though. Not as much as reassuring him that she very much still wants his presence beside her.
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Frank is second-guessing his choice to take care of her here instead of bringing her to the hospital, but they both know he couldn't have stayed with her. Selfishly, he promises himself if she gets worse he will consider it but until then he won't mention the option aloud. Soon she'll be able to smell freshly brewing coffee and hear the kettle going off. She never did convert him from his own habit and he's been up too damn long besides.
He sets her tea on the rickety little table near her, handing her a water bottle first then a handful of unmarked pills he doesn't bother to identify. It's only Motrin 800 and antibiotics anyhow. Frank strategically sits a bit further away this time, but still beside her legs on the bed, sipping on his coffee as he watches over her intently.
"Hungry?"
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However, the offer of pills and water are too tempting. She quickly works the bottle open so she can down a big gulp, and downs the pills on her second swallow. Her head falls back against the headboard and she sighs, eyes looking over to him.
"Everything hurts," she admits, trying to give a shaky smile. "I'm not sure I'd be able to hold anything down." There's a pause, as she tries to wiggle her leg to nudge him with it. "Besides, I don't want you going anywhere."
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"I remember, when my little girl was sick... we'd watch movies to take her mind off it. What do you think?"
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"As long as you don't hold it against me if I pass out before it's over." Her eyes close briefly before she takes another sip of water. "I'll even let you pick the movie."
She moves to set aside the bottle water and pick up her tea, having to take in a sharp breath of air with every little movement. How in the world does he manage to survive getting shot so often?
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The bemusement falls at the way she breaths in sharp, frowning like a loyal hound that isn't quite sure what to do for her.
"I'll set it up." Frank moves to set his coffee next to her tea and places the softest of kisses at the front of her hairline. Then he's gone again to find the VHS he'd secreted away from his house before burning it to the ground.
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It's complicated being with him at this stage in his life. The loss of his wife and children is something that he'll never heal from, and she doesn't want to tread into territory where it feels like she's trying to replace any aspect of them and what they mean to him. But she loves him desperately at this point, and know he feels the same way toward her. He's moved on in a sense, but is forever haunted by ghosts in the form of VHS tapes. At least he's able to open up to her now, to casually mention his children and share that part of his life with her.
She's smiling at the thought of that when he returns with the tape, and waits for him to get things up and going before she pats the spot on the bed next to her. His spot, where he sleeps pressed in close with a protective arm curled around her.
"I haven't seen this in a long time. I bet you anything I'll still cry."
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He fixes her with a stare that's dark and doughy as he slowly nods, carefully clambering onto the mattress from the bottom so as not to disturb Clara's injuries. Frank settles onto his pillow and places one hand on his tummy before holding out the other for her to hand him his coffee.
"Can't remember how long it's been since I watched this, you know." Which is to say he'll probably shed a tear himself. One side of his mouth hitches up as he watches Clara out of the corner of one eye while the other fixes on the screen.
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Eventually the painkillers kick in completely and she's able to relax completely at his side. It's nice to be able to just sit here in silence with him. And about forty-five minutes into the movie her eyes start to feel heavy. Instead of fighting to stay awake she gives in to sleep, her hand seeking out his to hold as she dozes off.
Whenever she eventually wake up, she's alone in bed. The painkillers have worn off, but that doesn't stop her from stubbornly trying to get out of bed and walk. It's a slow shuffle that involves her holding onto the walls as she moves. But she eventually finds him sitting at the tiny little dinette table, and makes her way over to him to press a kiss to his cheek.
"Hungry yet?" She asks him like she wasn't the one that refused food earlier.
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"I could eat," he responds bemusedly, pulling out the other chair for her to sit in.
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"We could order something," she suggests, not wanting him to feel like he needs to get up and make something for her. "Or I could make sandwiches." She's become obsessed with more American things like peanut butter and jelly or grilled cheese sandwiches. Apparently they're for children, but she absolutely loves them.
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"You're in recovery and you want to make me a sandwich?" he confirms, taking his hand off her to gesture towards the kitchen around them. "Well go on then, you know where to find everything."
Frank is well aware he shouldn't encourage her shenanigans, but sometimes when it comes to Clara he can't help but poke the bear. Sometimes it's entirely too tempting to see how far she'll go, if only because most of the time it seems like she doesn't have a limit at all.
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She's got this. It's just sandwiches. How hard can it be?
All she has to do is push herself to stand up. Which she has to grip hold of his arm to do, but she only winces a little. And she hardly makes any pained sounds of discomfort. Once she's on her feet, it's just a matter of leaning in to steal a kiss before she's shuffling off into the tiny kitchen to work.
Which she does slowly, stubbornly refusing to admit that she should be resting. Yes, she hurts. But is that going to stop her from making peanut butter sandwiches and cutting off the crust? No.
"We should talk," she says about halfway through the second sandwich. "About what happened."
He's likely going to stubbornly refuse. But she's ready for that possibility.
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"Alright, yeah. You're right." He bounces his knee as he waits for the questions to start rolling in. "What part of it specifically do you wanna talk about over peanutbutter sandwiches with the crusts cut off?" Sometimes, he can't help a bit of trolling even while being 100% sincere as well.
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"You love my sandwiches as much as you love me," she teasingly points out, before turning back to finish making the second sandwich. She doesn't speak again until she's finished. But instead of going right back to him she stays in place, holding on to the edge of the countertop.
"I want to know what you're thinking. What you're feeling. I need to know that my getting hurt isn't going to make you think I'm not safe with you."
They've become so hopelessly entangled with one another that her life is completely with him. She doesn't know where she ends and he begins anymore. The thought of him pulling away even slightly is terrifying to her. And after waking up alone in bed twice now, she's very concerned he might be planning something that he thinks is for her own good.
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"They aren't mutually exclusive," he finally pipes up after a long silence, but he's hunched over his seat and staring into the flowers rather than over at Clara's face. "I'm not going anywhere." Shouldn't that be enough?? And if it isn't, what's their alternative?
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"I love you," she finally speaks, her voice cracking slightly as she whispers. She'll blame it on the excitement of being shot, but she's getting a little emotional with him saying he's not going anywhere.
"And I'm not going anywhere either."
That being said, she picks up her sandwich and slowly takes a bite. It's in that moment she realizes she forgot a glass of milk, and gives out a muffled and sticky sounding fuck beneath her breath.
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Frank puts the glass in front of her before sitting again with the cup he poured himself of horrifically cold and black coffee. "Better?" he asks even while grimacing at the taste of his chosen beverage. He's not used to napping so the caffeine is necessary, but he probably should have just brewed a fresh pot. Hindsight, and all that.
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She swallows the lump that's in her throat and takes a drink before nodding in response. "Thank you."
There's no real reason why she should be crying. She doesn't know why she is. Maybe it's the emotion from the ordeal she's just been through finally coming out. She blames it on that as she wipes at her eyes and stares down at the remains of her sandwich on her plate.
"Did you kill them?" she finally asks, emotion thick in her voice. she doesn't specify who she means. she knows that he'll know exactly who she's referring to.
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"You're safe," he croaks out, not sure if that's why she's asking but he needs to be straightforward about this, he knows. His watery eyes reflect back her sadness as he admits, "Two of them got away, but I'll take care of it."
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"You make everything safe," she murmurs, wiping at her eyes. "Remembering that was the only thing that kept me going. I was absolutely terrified."
And that little admission of her fear is a big deal. She never admits when she's afraid, she just puts on a brave face and deals with it. But she doesn't feel like hiding that terror she had felt. Not when she needs to talk about it, even a little.
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