INTERMISSION
Even in the eternal night, New York wasn’t free from the wind. It blew hither and thither, lifting decayed newspapers and beaten plastic carrier bags in an erratic waltz, before subsiding once more and laying them gently on the pavement.
It rattled the windows of the abandoned confectionery shop, shaking them in their frames. Frank Castle’s eyes flicked up to the doorway. Just to be sure. One day, it would be an intruder - and they wouldn’t catch him off-guard.
He had appropriated the shop for a hideout, and he had to say, it made for a perfect lookout post/fortifiable bunker. Its position as a corner shop gave it line of sight over multiple entrances to Yancy Street. The shop floor had been cleared, replaced with sandbag walls Frank had scavenged from a construction site, ideal for defending from assault. The bell above the door was a simple but genius intruder alarm. The garish pink-and-yellow outside walls made it a perfect lighthouse for calling civilians to safety. And the storage room had plenty of room for his abundant arsenal, military-grade and improvised alike, and an emergency exit to the back alleys in case he came under siege.
But he didn’t need that right now. No, right now it was just the wind. Ease down, he told himself.
Frank rolled his shoulders, massaging the aching muscles, and heard the satisfying click as he cracked his neck. He didn’t like this downtime. He never had; even in the military, he had spent his “leisure time” wandering, drifting from room to room, toying idly with shelves and flipping through books. Always his mind was predicting the next task, rehearsing the next drill, warming up for the next exercise.
These days, he kept himself occupied with patrols and the odd scavenging run - but he had, reluctantly, accepted that even soldiers needed a spot of R&R. He was currently leafing through a car magazine in one such rest period. The storage room had an old, scuffed desk, attended by a cheap office chair, and Frank was making good use of both. Pale, industrial light bounced off his rifle as it gleamed on the ‘wooden’ plastic of the desk, and next to his other hand, a walkie-talkie sat silent.
He took a sip of coffee from a scratched hip-flask. When Frank heard about a city plunged into eternal night, he had anticipated combat in suboptimal lighting. He had prepared for difficult communication with his team. What had really thrown him for a loop was how it messed with his circadian rhythm. Waves of exhaustion assaulted his brain as he prowled the alleys, and as Ben Grimm’s Hospital rested for their next day, Frank Castle lay awake, wrestling the voices of his doubts into the depths of dream. Nine days was not enough to reprogram a man’s brain, no matter how much sleep he might lose.
A peal rang through the shop as the doorbell jangled. In seconds, Frank was up, snatching his rifle from the desk, his weariness forgotten. He stalked to the door. A mirror was positioned on a locker door for an occasion like this one, and slowly, carefully, he angled it. He squinted as he studied the shop floor with a hunter’s eye.
A figure walked the shop floor. His clothes were beaten from sleeping rough, his long hair messy, his eyes tired. His face was obscured by a bandana improvised from a scrap of black cloth. Guy’s either crazy or stupid, Frank thought to himself, because despite being neck-deep in the Punisher’s little playground, he didn’t seem the slightest bit scared. He actually looked impatient. Frank watched as he searched the room, circling sandbag piles and peering behind shelves. Then he did a curious thing: in front of a door handle, he turned his torso as if to reach out with his left hand - but the door didn't open. He cursed, and reached out with his right.
No left hand, Frank thought.
His left arm was gone.
With mounting disbelief and apprehension, Frank Castle realised he’d seen this man before. But the white hair’s new.
He stepped into the doorway that joined the storage room with the main floor. “Barnes?” he called out.
The figure turned. The bandana shifted upwards as his cheeks rose in a smile. Bucky Barnes tugged it down around his neck, and Frank started as he saw the crimson tinge to his old companion’s eyes. The hand bearing his rifle rose of its own accord.
Across the room, Bucky’s hand rose in parallel. “Easy there, Castle,” he soothed. “It’s still me.”
Frank caught himself. He forced his hand back down. “How’d you know where to find me?” he asked.
The smile returned, a smile of utter weariness. “You turned this place into Fort Knox, Frank,” he replied. “I didn’t have to look very far.”
“Damn right I did.” Frank straightened, proud of his work - and of the outcome. “Any punks set a toe on Yancy Street, it’s lights out for ‘em.”
Bucky looked at him strangely. Finally, he gave a simple nod.
The silence hung for a moment. Frank gestured to Bucky’s hair. “War wound?” he questioned.
“One of them tore my face half open. Thought you’d remember–” Bucky realised what Frank meant. “Right. We’re not sure what happened. The infection didn’t… didn’t take hold, I guess. But it gave me a few souvenirs.” He pointed to his eye, and his hair.
It was Frank’s turn to just nod. He didn’t know what to say. What do you say to an old comrade you saved, but you thought you’d never see again?
Bucky seemed to sense his thoughts. "I won't be here long," he assured. "But there's something I gotta know before I leave for good."
Something about his voice raised Frank's hackles. "Yeah?" he replied as caution tightened around his ribs like a vice.
"When we ran... what happened to you? Where did you go?"
Frank's mouth tightened. "This about Barton?"
"No..." Bucky trailed off. After a moment, he released a heavy, heavy breath, and looked away. "Yeah," he admitted.
Frank Castle was the Punisher. He was no good at sympathy. “I didn’t like the guy, but… he seemed decent. Through it all, I mean,” he offered haltingly. “He, uh… seemed to mean well.”
Bucky nodded. “Where were you?” he repeated.
Frank remembered what had happened all too well. “I wasn’t with you lot, remember?” he began. “I was getting the civ to the shelter. I headed back out to go to the Baxter Building, and heard a bunch of ‘em on the move. I stayed out of their way. By the time I got to Baxter, I found the Captain standing next to a mountain of corpses.” The memory gave him a faint grin. “We headed back to the jet. I stocked up on guns, and the Captain found a way to track you all down.” The smile vanished. “Then we found you. And Barton.”
He waited as Bucky digested all of that. After a moment, he sighed once again, and spoke “All right.” in a well that’s that, then voice. “Bye, Castle.” He turned towards the door.
Something in Frank told him to speak up. “Where are you going?” he demanded.
Bucky half-turned back to him. “To kill Dracula,” he stated simply.
“That even possible?” It had been years since Frank had seen a vampire movie, or read a vampire novel.
“I’m gonna find out.”
Frank’s mouth worked as he tried to think of something to say. His eyes flicked to Bucky’s hip. The holster was there, but empty. “What are you carrying?” he probed.
“Carrying?” Bucky didn’t seem to understand. “Oh. Weapons. I didn’t have time to grab one when I left the Hospital.”
He’s not armed. What kind of assassin is he? “Hold on.” Frank strode back into the storage room. Bucky was calling out for him, telling him he didn’t need to, but Castle ignored him. The rifle clanked as it impacted the desk. He pulled open the second drawer down - not the top drawer, that would be the first place they checked, but not the bottom drawer, that would be too far away if he was attacked - and pulled out a small handgun. He gave the slide a quick scan for rust, checked the magazine, popped on the safety, and returned to the doorway.
On the shop floor, Bucky was examining his reflection in a broken glass shelf, running a finger along the half-healed gash on his face. He looked away at the sound of Frank’s boots impacting the shop floor.
Frank held the handgun out to Bucky, handle first. “Should do until you find something better.”
“Frank-” Bucky was already protesting.
“What’re you gonna do? Go after Dracula with one hand? Take the damn gun, Barnes.”
Bucky’s fingers closed around the handle. He smiled reluctantly. It brought out the laughter lines around his mouth. “Thank you, Frank.”
Castle nodded in return. Bucky turned to leave once more. He was in front of the door when Frank remembered one final thing. “Barnes,” he appeased.
Bucky turned back one final time.
“Steve’s beside himself looking for you,” he confessed. “He’s got teams running around the neighbourhood. Never seen him lose his cool like this.”
A distant, sad look came over Bucky. His eyes dropped, and his voice was a mixture of pain and resignation as he replied, “He wouldn’t understand.”
“He’s gonna keep looking,” Frank persisted. “He’s not gonna rest until he finds you.”
The Winter Soldier’s eyes met the Punisher’s. The simple agony that danced behind those red irises spoke the truth that Bucky couldn’t: that something had fundamentally broken between the two old friends. He smiled, and Frank had never seen a smile more false in his life.
“They won’t find me,” he promised. The bell jingled as the door opened.
Frank found himself watching as Bucky strode away, further and further into the darkness, until finally he disappeared around a corner. He returned to the desk.
Ten minutes later - judging by the clock - Frank’s walkie buzzed something he didn’t catch. He put it to his face and responded, “Outpost here. Say again? Over.”
“Frank,” the voice on the other end called. “How’re things out there?”
“Captain,” Frank replied.
He paused for a moment, bouncing his walkie against his knee as he considered. He brought it up once more.
“All quiet here,” he finished. “Next patrol’s scheduled for forty-five minutes.”
“All right. Keep me posted.” Steve sounded resigned.
“Roger that.”
Good luck, he wished silently.