You're scared. You're small and you're careless and absolutely terrified and hell, what did it matter? You're a little kid stuck in a dammed alley with some whack job backing you against the bricks. No parents, no aunt or uncle, just some little kid who had run from an orphanage.
"You're gonna make a pretty little present-" He didn't finish his scuzzy sentence before a bullet ripped through his skull, causing him to slam straight into the narrowly lined bricks.
You stayed there, staring at his body with wide eyes and a heavy heart.
Who had done it? You heard the march of boots after a couple minutes, heavily thudding in your direction. It was dark enough before the large man nearly filled the alleyway's entrance, casting a large shadow down the middle.
"No, please!" You cried softly, sticking your little arms out to offer open palmed hands in defense.
Eight years old and terrified.
"You alright?" You certainly didn't expect that. "Kid?"
You stared at him as he came closer, approaching you quietly. You noticed that, as he did this, he crouched down to your height. He was still a little taller, however. You dropped your arms a little.
"You shot that man." You whispered softly, pointing a quivering finger at the corpse. "You..."
"To protect you. Now," he started in again, focusing his warm and caring eyes on you. "Are you alright?"
You nodded slowly, still staring at the corpse. The man in front of you, with a gun slung over his back, reached forward. You flinched away as his index finger brushed your chin.
"Hey." The man said quietly, like a father would. He spoke softly, too. Much softer than you had imagined he would have. "Look at me, not at him. Where are you parents?"
"Don't have any." You said in reply, shrugging slightly. "I live at the orphanage."
Even in the dark you could see his eyebrows furrow.
"Then why are you here? At night? It's dangerous."
You shrugged again, the action speaking for itself. "Ran away."
"You know who I am?"
"You've been shooting other people like him... bad people." He nodded, they called him the– "Punisher."
"You can call me Frank." He stated, his finger leaving your chin. "You have anywhere you can go that you won't run away from?"
You shook your head quickly, your hair flying in a fluid motion around your neck.
"Great." Frank muttered, looking down momentarily before looking back at you. He stood and extended his arm, offering his hand for you to take. "You trust me?"
"No."
"Don't blame you." He sighed with a knowing smile. "You gonna let me help you?"
"You already did." You reminded him, glancing back at the dead man. "How can you help me more?"
Frank shrugged himself, the motion shifting the gun on his back.
"I'll figure somethin' out." He told you honestly. You chewed at your lip, staring at his hand before you uneasily placed your much smaller one in his much larger one. "C'mon."
He walked you out of the alley, keeping you close to him. Of course, when he need you to walk a little faster, he ended up just lifting you upwards and onto his back. You wrapped your little arms around his neck, without choking him, and stared at the gun as it jostled on his back.
He never really did figure something out for you.
You just stayed at his place.
When he went shopping, he'd carry a basket in one hand and have you on his hip or at his side. It was weird, honestly. He meant to take you back to the orphanage, he really did. A kid that wasn't his would've slowed him down at that point.
But he didn't.
He had it all planned. Packed a bag of the stuff he'd bought you (clothes, toys, books) and honestly meant to drop you off at the child's home sometime in the early morning, knocking only to give notice of your presence before hauling ass.
As previously stated, he didn't. It was nerve wracking when he suddenly didn't come home and you had just turned nine.
(He'd saved you a little while before your birthday.)
Frank had promised you a cupcake, something you could have on your own because: "He didn't need that sweet shit" and you were worried because, yeah, he said he didn't need it but you knew you'd find him walking in the door with a damn fleck of blue frosting on his upper lip.
But he didn't.
He didn't walk in and he didn't announce himself or toss a cupcake onto the table and tell you to eat your veggies. No, the door remained locked and bolted and closed and still – oh, God, so fucking still – for a week before you figured it out.
He'd been arrested for helping people.
For helping people in need -- like he helped you. He'd been treated as a criminal. Sure, his methods were unconventional and not to mention illegal, but they got things done.
You didn't like that guy in the devil suit much after Frank.
Before he had been arrest, when the blond lady broke in, you hid in the closet and watched her, only peeking your head out when she took the picture of Frank and his family.
You ate up all the food in the fridge anxiously when there started to be whispers about Frank with a little girl, who very clearly wasn't his daughter even if she could be passed off as it.
When you were found, you didn't cry or scream. You willingly went back to the orphanage with your extra things.
(Admittedly, you were stalling as you pretended to get some books from the closet and yanked one of Frank's heavy leather jackets off its hanger.)
"One batch, two batch, penny and dime." You whispered softly to comfort yourself before you could drift off to sleep. He read you that story like he had for his daughter.
You ran away from the orphanage again, hauling your box of stuff along with you. You ran to his house and found an unlocked window, slipping inside. You spent a few nights there, having unpacked the box easily. Toys and books and some clothes strewn about.
You'd see his face on newspaper pages, bulletins, websites, television news networks -- he was everywhere. You swore, once he was free, you saw him sometimes. You hoped, you even prayed, that he'd come back for you.
He didn't, not for a while. Maybe to keep you safe. When he did come back, he told you that you couldn't come with.
“It's for the better, (Y/N).” He said softly, wearing an odd vest with a skull on it as he threw your things into the old box, picking them up quickly. “You can't stay here.”
“But I don't want you to leave!”
“You don't get a choice.”
He was right, you didn't.
After all, a child would have slowed him down.