Chapter 5
The ride was bumpy in the back of the van. She and Frank sat on the floor opposite of each other, their shoes centimeters apart, as they both chowed down on a bucket of KFC drumsticks courtesy of Rick’s girlfriend. She had bought the bucket for Rick and her to share, but neither Parker or Frank had lunch yet, so Frank took it upon himself to confiscate it. Parker normally wouldn’t lift her mask to her nose to eat in the presence of a civilian, but Rick’s eyes were razor-focused on the road as he drove them to the drop point, so she wasn’t too worried.
As Rick drove, he filled them in on the situation. He was supposed to have dropped the van off at a garage that morning to be picked up by Dom to use for “transporting something, probably” that night, as Rick speculated. Dom needed it sooner than expected. When he saw it wasn’t at the location, he flipped his shit and called Rick.
Parker felt at ease knowing they weren’t about to drive into a situation she couldn’t easily punch or web her way out of. It was only Dom; they could take him.
Parker nudged Frank’s boot with her sneaker. He wiped his greasy hands against a discarded jacket on the floor and inclined his head.
Radio, she tapped into her earpiece. Frank scoffed and said, “No.”
Parker frowned. She kicked his boot and cocked her head towards the front, silently urging him.
He glared in response.
Ugh. What an asshat.
Parker stood and leaned over the center console, startling Rick. His grip on the wheel tightened and he glanced back and forth from the road to Parker as she messed with the radio. Smooth jazz filled the van.
“Turn that off, would you?”
Parker changed the station, giving Frank the middle finger behind her back as she did. Plucky country tunes crackled out of the speaker. Then some guy shouting bible verses. Then a pop song Parker vaguely recognized. She settled on a classic rock station and sat back down.
Rick shot them a look in the rearview mirror. "So, uh,” he started, curiosity in his voice, “what’s the deal with you two? You, like, a team or something?”
Parker and Frank exchanged a glance. Frank didn't answer immediately, taking a deliberate bite from another chicken drumstick. She leaned back against the cool metal of the van, letting Frank answer—or not.
When the silence stretched on, Rick cleared his throat uncomfortably. He gave Frank another look in the mirror. “This might be a weird question, but do I know you? You look kinda familiar.”
“Nope.”
Parker was surprised more people didn’t connect his face with his name and crimes. She could understand if someone from, say, Montana didn’t recognize Frank, but a New Yorker? They ought to be familiar enough with his face to point him out on the street. His mug was only posted everywhere for a year straight following his murders and infamous trial. Maybe the rumor that he was dead was what kept people from connecting the dots. Or maybe most people were too worried about themselves to notice.
The van jostled the vigilantes in the back as Rick turned into a pothole-ridden parking lot. The lights of the garage flickered into view, and Parker shifted and ducked behind Rick’s seat, ensuring she was out of view. Frank did the same.
Rick swerved the van to a stop in front of the garage. Parker picked up on four heartbeats: her own, Frank’s, Rick’s, and someone else’s. Dom’s, supposedly.
Rick put the van in park and got out, slamming the door shut behind him. His heart thudded rapidly in his chest. “Hey, sorry about—”
A thud, like skin on skin. Parker flinched. Did Dom just punch Rick?
Frank’s arm brushed against hers. She glanced at him. Her eyes met his. “You ready, kid?”
“I was born ready.” She was actually born premature and unable to breathe on her own, but he didn’t have to know that. Her adrenaline was kicking in, making her body feel light and energized.
The driver side door opened again. This time, Dom got in. His eyes caught Frank a split second before his face was smashed against the steering wheel.
Here we go. Parker opened the back doors and jumped out, quickly making her way around the van. She took note of Rick sitting miserably against the garage, nursing a bloody nose, as she reached the open door.
Dom pulled a knife from his waistband. Before he could shank Frank, Parker grabbed his elbow and yanked him onto the asphalt. The knife clattered to the ground. She kicked it away and kept an eye on him as he staggered to his feet. Blood streamed from his eyebrow and nose, dripping down his chin. When he bared his teeth, they were stained red.
He spat at her, but she saw it coming and sidestepped. Dom, however, didn’t see Frank coming from behind. Frank grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, slamming him up against the side of the van with his arm twisted behind his back. Blood smeared across the window.
“What the fuck, Rick!” Dom shouted, voice muffled by his cheek pressed against the glass.
Rick looked like he was going to either shit his pants or run away. Both, probably. He pushed himself to his feet. “They made me bring them here! I had no choice, they were going to kill Cindy!”
Parker whirled around with an arched brow, not that he could see. But still. What the hell.
“You’re messing with very powerful people,” Dom growled. His eyes were wide, but not with fear. “This isn’t a game.”
Frank slipped a knife from his belt, flicked it open, and pressed the tip to Dom’s throat. A bead of blood formed. Parker stepped forward, but Frank shot her a look, keeping her back—for now.
“Where’s Tombstone?”
Dom just chuckled and spat more blood from his mouth.
Parker tapped the letters d-o-c into her earpiece. Frank didn’t outwardly acknowledge the message, but the next question he asked was, “Where’s the doc?” No answer. Frank pressed the knife deeper. The bead turned into a drip. It took everything in Parker to stay put.
She trusted him—wanted to trust him. A little scratch wasn’t the end of the world; Parker had inflicted more damage than that before.
"You’re awful quiet for someone who’s about to get his throat slit,” Frank said. “Start talking. What do you want with Spider-Man?”
“What do you think?” Red drool dripped from his bottom lip.
Frank shifted on his feet, looking testy. “I think you have a death wish.”
“I think you do as well.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Parker spotted Rick moving. She shot a quick web at a foot just as he was about to take off running. Letting out a grunt, Rick tripped over the stuck foot and crashed to the asphalt.
Parker turned back to watch Frank throw Dom onto the ground and kneel over him. After the first solid punch that made even Parker wince, she decided it was probably time to step in.
Stop. Frank landed another punch. She knew he heard the message—she could hear it being relayed through his earpiece—and, yet, he punched again. And again.
Frustrated, Parker stepped forward, ready to yank Frank off the poor guy, but then Dom said between wheezed breaths, “They won’t stop.”
Frank’s raised fist lingered above him. His other fist took the front of his shirt and lifted him from the ground, getting into his face. “Why not?”
“Power…” He coughed. Tiny blood droplets sprayed Frank’s face. “Power is a precious commodity. More precious than money.” His eyes locked onto Parker hovering behind. “And she’s drowning in it.”
It took her a moment to catch it, but once she did, Parker's breath caught in her throat. She.
Frank let go of his shirt and let his head fall back against the ground, but Dom didn’t react with anything other than a twitch of a wince.
Her mind flashed back to when she was strapped to the chair. Doc knew she was a girl—Tombstone knew, too. Who else knows?
She stood there, her pulse hammering in her ears, barely registering the tension around her. Frank was still on top of Dom, his expression unreadable, but Parker could see the tightness in his jaw.
Welp. Now that the jig was up, there was no reason not to talk directly to the guy.
“You guys already got a little of my blood,” she said, recalling how the needle struck her vein and how she bled all over the floor. Surely they didn’t let that go to waste. “Isn’t that enough?”
“Wait, Spider-Man’s a gir—”
Parker webbed Rick’s mouth shut without looking away from the battered man on the ground.
Dom’s eyes slid shut, but he was still conscious. She could almost hear the throb of his concussion in the silence. “Doc has more plans for you,” he murmured, a sick grin tugging at his swollen lips. “She was delighted to discover what… what you were hiding beneath your s-suit.”
Parker’s blood ran cold, and she felt Frank stiffen beside her. His eyes darted to her for a brief moment—guarded, cautious—before returning to Dom. What the hell did that mean?
Dom’s eyelids cracked open, just enough for her to see the cruel glint in his eyes as he turned them toward her. A chill raced down her spine.
“What plans?” Parker managed, her voice strained as she fought the tight coil of fear in her chest.
A laugh, low and manic, bubbled up from his throat.
Frank grabbed Dom by the collar and jerked him closer. “What plans?”
Dom’s laugh sputtered into a cough, blood spitting from his lips as his swollen face twisted with pain. He met Frank’s stare, his grin widening.
Frank’s grip tightened, his knuckles white against Dom’s filthy shirt. Just when Parker thought he was going to snap and slam his fists into his face again, he let go and straightened. Despite the calm on his face, Parker felt a prick of danger at the base of her neck.
She quickly glanced at Rick, just to make sure he hadn’t somehow freed himself. The second her gaze shifted, Frank pulled out his gun, cocked it, and leveled it at Dom’s head, all in one fluid motion.
“No!”
Her ears rang, the sharp, metallic scent of gunpowder and blood thick in the air. It took a beat for her to process that Dom wasn’t dead. Her body moved on instinct; her arm was already outstretched, wrist face-up, middle and ring fingers on the webshooter.
The webbing had struck his elbow, jolting his arm as he fired, the shot veering wide. Frank was undeterred and fired again. This time, Parker shoved him, a quick, powerful push that sent him to the ground. The bullet hit the asphalt beside Dom’s ear.
The gun clattered to the ground. Parker shot a web at it, yanking it back to her hand before crushing it in a fist.
A muffled choking sound tore her attention away from Frank and Dom. Laying on the ground where Parker webbed him, Rick’s body shuddered and convulsed, his hands pressing against his stomach as red slipped between his fingers.
Parker jolted to action. Sliding to her knees, she dropped the crushed gun. Her hands pressed over his, applying more pressure. His eyes were wide and he was doubled over as if he were vomiting. The web over his mouth suffocated him.
Fuck. She tapped a sequence into the webshooter and sprayed the dissolving solution. Once it was wet enough, she quickly pried the rest off. Bloody vomit spilled from his mouth like a waterfall. She could hear some rattling around in his lungs. She went ahead and dissolved the webs around his feet, too.
Every alarm in her head was blaring. “Rick,” she said, her voice shaky, as she tried to get his attention. “Rick, hey, hey, look at me. You’re okay. You’re okay.”
He coughed out more blood. Parker wasn't sure if it was the same blood he had just inhaled or if it was new.
Frank was a marine—he’d know what to do. He’d known what to do with her bullet wound. “Help me!” she shouted over her shoulder, not taking her attention off Rick. Her fingers were slick and slippery as she applied more pressure to the wound. “Frank!”
She glanced behind her. Both Frank and Dom were gone.
Keeping one hand on the bullet wound, she lifted the other to her earpiece and dialed 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“He got shot in the stomach, I need paramedics over here now.” Parker didn’t even bother altering her voice. “He’s—it’s bad, he’s losing a lot of blood really fast. We’re… I don’t know where we are.” How long were they in the van for? Couldn’t have been longer than an hour. “I think we’re in Brooklyn.” Her eyes landed on a street sign. “Quincy Street.”
“I’m sending help your way. Is the shooter still there?”
Parker hung up with a quick tap and resumed pressing down with both hands. Rick let out a pain-filled gurgle amidst his hyperventilating.
“Help is coming, you’re going to be okay. Just keep looking at me, yeah?”
His eyes fluttered shut. Parker tapped his cheek, but it did little to stir him.
Tearing her mask off her face, his eyes found hers again, this time latching on.
“That’s it, keep those eyes open.” She grinned, but it didn’t reach her eyes. It felt too toothy. “They’re almost here, you’re doing so good.”
She could see the life slipping out of him with every passing second; she could hear it, too, as his pulse weakened and his breaths got raspier. Her mind flashed with images of a girl’s face—her curly hair matted with blood, her eyes wide and frantic as she sputtered for air.
Parker blinked the ghost away. “Fuck,” she choked out, tapping her earpiece again, this time trying to get ahold of Frank but only being met with radio silence. What was the point of the comms if he wasn’t going to use them?
Finally, above Rick’s groans and the city sounds, sirens broke through.
“Hold on for a little longer. You hear me?” Parker tilted Rick’s face, locking eyes. “You have to stay alive.”
“Hnnng.”
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes, ma’am.’ ”
The sirens got closer. Parker waited with Rick until the very last second. Once they rounded the block and their lights flashed the garage with red and blue, she took off and tugged her mask back down, ducking behind the building.
She waited there as the paramedics transported him into the back of the ambulance. The cops fanned out to find the shooter. By the time they checked behind the building, Parker was already gone.
_
The safehouse was empty when Parker burst in. Which was a good thing; if Frank had been there, she would’ve punched his nose through his skull. When she first left the scene, she thought she’d go track down Frank to stop him from killing Dom. Then, when she realized she was probably too late, she thought she’d just run away and skip town so the Black Hand forgot about her. It was tempting, to run. But she knew too much to just leave the group be. And, besides, if what Dom said was true—that Doc had more plans for her—there was no way they’d stop going after her once she left New York.
Once that was established, Parker thought that she’d handle them by herself. No Punisher needed. But she was tired, hungry, covered in Rick’s blood, and absolutely wrecked.
She hadn’t realized she had made her way back to the safehouse until her trembling hand was on the cool door handle. Once inside, she dragged her feet to the bathroom where she scrubbed her hands clean. There were flakes under her fingernails that wouldn’t go away, but after several minutes of scrubbing, she gave up and turned the faucet off.
The water-spotted mirror above the sink taunted her. The last person she wanted to see—other than Frank—was herself. Because, as much as Rick’s blood was on Frank’s hands, it was also on hers, and not just literally. If she hadn’t webbed him in place, he would’ve been able to dodge the bullet. Or if she hadn’t webbed his mouth up, he wouldn’t have choked on his own blood, would’ve been able to cry out as soon as the bullet made impact.
She sunk into the dirty mattress and stared at the discolored ceiling. She shouldn’t have let Frank take it that far. Should’ve paid better attention to him. Should’ve acted sooner. Should’ve—should’ve jumped in front of the bullet, or something. Anything.
The silence of the safehouse was suffocating. She could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator, the shuffle of her own breath, and whatever was making that faint whirring noise, but there was nothing else. No one to talk to. No one to comfort her. The pain was hers to carry, and it only compounded on the years and years of pain she already carried.
The images of the girl’s face plagued her. She thought she had finally buried it along with the rest of her traumas, but all it took was another person dying in her arms to bring it all back.
She knew she should’ve been doing something productive, but all her human body knew to do at that moment was shut down before it could break down.
_
Parker’s eyes snapped open. A door creaked. Even breaths, footsteps, the smell of copper.
She jolted upright and zeroed-in on Frank stepping inside as he let the door fall shut behind him. His face and neck were splattered with blood, and the front of his shirt was soaked in it. For a brief moment she worried it was his own, but the way he strode inside didn’t allude to any injuries.
Her stomach swung low, though she was expecting this.
Their eyes met and Frank paused. The hardness in his stare didn’t waver. It was all the confirmation she needed.
Say something, she challenged silently through her own glare. He tore his eyes away and headed towards the bathroom.
Parker pushed herself out of bed and stormed towards him. She stopped at the open doorway and seethed, “Do you feel good about yourself? Did killing him fix all your problems, Frank?”
He didn’t flinch. His gaze stayed fixed on the sink, the water running over his hands in a steady stream. The blood rinsed off, but it didn’t seem to matter to him as he continued scrubbing.
Parker’s fists clenched at her sides. She wasn’t going to stand there, silently watching him clean himself up like he hadn’t just slaughtered someone—someone she should’ve protected, whose blood was still crusted under her nails. She was Spider-Man, for fucksake—she was supposed to protect people from people like Frank.
The anger in her chest grew like a wildfire. “Say something, asshole!”
She startled when he turned, his broad frame blocking the doorway. He towered over her, but it wasn’t just his size that made her freeze, it was his own fiery anger in his face. His jaw was tight, and it looked like he was holding himself back. From what, Parker wasn’t sure.
“He was a bad man. Did you not hear the shit he was saying? About what they wanted to do to you?”
“You don’t know what their plans—”
“The motherfucker told me,” Frank interrupted sharply.
Parker scoffed. “What, while you were torturing him? I bet he said a lot of things.”
“Yeah, while I was torturing him.” Frank shouldered past Parker out of the tiny bathroom. “I shouldn’t have killed him so soon. Should’ve let him suffer a little more, let him choke on his own blood, you know?” His voice was steadily rising.
“You’re a monster,” she spat at his back.
“I’m a monster?” Frank whirled around. “You want to know what they want to do with you? Tombstone wants to rape you so he can have a fuckin’ enhanced baby.” Parker’s anger died in her throat. It tasted like ash. Her mind tried to make sense of his words, but he plowed on. “He was going on and on about power. Apparently you’ve got the power he wants, and your blood ain’t cutting it. But I’m the monster, right?”
A tense silence fell over them, Frank seething and Parker frozen. She blinked back tears that had been steadily building since the incident with Rick. His eyes studied her face and, after a beat, he looked away. Parker silently watched him retreat to the kitchen.
Her brain felt like it was stuck in gum, the stretchy pink kind. So they had salvaged what little blood they had of hers, but it didn’t yield the results they wanted? What did they even do with it? But those thoughts weren’t even the ones that made her throat tight—they were just the ones she dared to consider. The other thoughts, the ones about what Tombstone wanted to do with her body, made every inch of her skin crawl.
Frank took a can of ravioli from a cupboard and slammed it shut. Lost in her head, Parker’s shoulders jumped to her ears.
He avoided looking at her, his eyes narrowed on anything else: the floor, his food. After a bite, he said, “I had my hands around his throat as he told me, with a fucking smile on his face.”
Parker cleared her throat. “Do you believe him?”
“Why would he lie?”
“Because you had your hands around his throat.”
Frank ate another forkful and shook his head. “He was dying no matter what he told me.”
“Maybe he knew that, and he wanted to say anything that would piss you off.”
Frank set the can down on the counter and poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue, deep in thought. The angry lines in his forehead were less intense, but still there. “It checks out, doesn’t it?”
It did. That was why Parker was grappling for an excuse. She sniffed and looked away, unsure what that hell she was supposed to do with that information. For some reason, all her mind could give her were vivid flashes of a memory she’d worked hard to suppress.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Parker turned and blinked hard. The bed beckoned to her, but her head was far too tangled to rest. She started towards the door.
“Where are you going?”
“I need some air.” She wrenched the door open. He didn’t stop her as she walked out, but she could feel his eyes boring into her back.
_
There was no sure way to know what time it was, but Parker wasn’t all that interested in knowing anyway. It was dark—that was all she needed to know.
The cemetery was empty, if you didn’t count the hundreds of buried bodies marked with gravestones. She’d only visited the grave once, and that was years ago, so it took a few minutes of perusing the aisles for her eyes to land on the name she was looking for: Michelle Jones-Watson.
Parker’s feet froze on the path. It had bothered her then, and it still bothered her now that they didn’t write “MJ”; she always hated being called Michelle.
Her gaze lowered to the engraved dates below the full name. June 10, 2001-May 5, 2017.
A month shy of sixteen. MJ wasn’t the type to want a huge sweet sixteen party; she had told Parker that all she wanted to do was watch some bad movies and slip some of her moms’ alcohol for a quick sip. Parker had told her that alcohol tasted awful and burned your throat, but MJ was adamant on trying it.
She never got to. She never got to do a lot of things.
Guilt pulled Parker to her knees. She crawled across the grass above the grave and lay down on her back next to it. When she closed her eyes, she imagined they were in MJ’s room, lying side-by-side in her queen bed listening to music.
“Your music taste is so random,” MJ had said, nose crinkled.
Parker smiled and shrugged. Her arms were folded behind her head. “I don’t limit myself to specific genres.”
“You transcend genre.” MJ’s voice was light, teasing. It was an inside joke Parker couldn’t remember the origin of, but it always made her smile.
“You transcend genre.”
The Jones-Watsons were foster family number five, six years after entering the system when CPS took Parker out of Aunt May’s custody when she was nine. Parker was the kid who was always getting lice, who always had a weird smell, who wheezed in gym class, who fell asleep at her desk. Teachers got suspicious. The other students avoided her like a disease.
MJ was her foster sister before she was her friend, but it didn’t take long for their friendship to bloom. MJ and Parker were only a couple months apart in age, but Parker was held back a year in first grade. Even if she wasn’t, MJ went to a fancy, private STEM school in Midtown while Parker was handed to the nearest public school, so they wouldn’t have seen each other much if they were in the same grade. MJ also had a slew of nerdy clubs, so they didn’t get to hang out until the evening. Even when they did see each other, MJ was usually swamped with academics. Parker—bored with her own school work—helped MJ study flashcards most nights. One evening, when Parker was helping MJ study for a chem quiz, she realized that the material was far more interesting than the basic stuff she was learning in her public school. MJ caught on and roped Parker into working on her homework together.
After only a few weeks of going through the flashcards MJ struggled with, Parker didn’t even have to look at the back for answers anymore.
“How does the electrolyte concentration affect the conductivity of a solution?”
MJ blew a raspberry. “It makes the solution less conductive because it makes the solution thicker.”
Parker made a buzzer noise. “Errr. Not even close, try again.”
“The conductivity decreases with more electrolytes..." MJ squinted at the ceiling. “...because they just block the current or something?”
Parker set the flashcard in the wrong pile to shuffle through again later. “The conductivity of a solution increases with the concentration of electrolytes because there are more ions present to carry the electrical current.”
“You didn’t even read the back!” MJ plucked the card from the pile. Her shoulders deflated when she read the answer, but then her head shot up as she looked at Parker with a weird stare.
Parker shifted. “What?”
“You should take the Midtown entrance exam.”
“Why?”
In a duh voice, MJ replied, “Because you’re smart.”
“No, I’m not.” Her nose crinkled. “I only know this stuff because I’ve been helping you study.”
Parker picked up the next flashcard. Before she could read it off, MJ said, “You’re catching on much quicker than I am, and I’m the one who sits in these classes all day.” She leaned back with her palms on the bed, her head lolling to one shoulder. Her voluminous curls fell from her shoulder and swiped at her shoulder blades. “Come on, I’ll help you study for it.”
“Isn’t Midtown, like, crazy expensive?”
“If you get a high enough score, they’ll give you a scholarship. Plus, you’ve got, like, the best sob story. The board of admissions will eat that shit up.”
As it turned out, MJ was right about all of it: the exam, the scholarship, the sob story working on the board of admissions. Parker was pretty sure the principal’s assistant wiped a tear from her eye during the entrance meeting. When she relayed this back to MJ that evening, the girl had slugged her shoulder and said, “Told you so.”
Parker’s life was as near perfect as it would ever get when she attended Midtown with MJ. Her teachers actually cared about her, her school lunches didn’t taste like cardboard pizza with plastic pepperonis, she started to make some actual friends, and she scored a fancy schmancy junior internship at Stark Industries. It was ripped away just as she was getting a taste of a good, normal life.
Maybe that was when Parker’s origin story began: the night MJ was shot.
Approaching footsteps brought Parker back to her body. Her hands grabbed a fistful of the dry grass and she pushed herself to sit. Frank stood on the path, hands in his pockets, hood pulled over his head. His face was slightly more open than it normally was. He looked...cautious. The anger from before was completely gone.
So was Parker’s. In its place was bone-deep exhaustion.
She brought her fingertips to her cheek to brush off any grass or crumpled leaf bits, and she was numbly surprised to find that it was wet. She didn’t remember crying.
Frank silently watched her as she wiped both cheeks with the sleeve of her hoodie. His hoodie, technically, but whatever. With a sniff, she said, “How did you find me?”
He looked over his shoulder, then back. “I followed you,” he admitted. “You shouldn’t be alone.” Right, the Tombstone-baby thing. She probably shouldn’t have even left the safehouse; if she didn’t pick up on Frank following her, she sure as hell wouldn’t have noticed someone from the Black Hand on her trail. She waited for him to say as much—to scold her and to make her feel like a stupid child—but, instead, his eyes flickered to the gravestone behind her. She watched him read it.
Unexpectedly, he didn’t ask. He didn’t say anything. Parker wondered if he was trying to figure out what to say, or if he was giving her some space.
Hugging her knees to her chest, Parker randomly asked, “Do you regret becoming the Punisher?”
He took his time, inhaling deeply and slowly exhaling as he scanned the empty graveyard. “It’s just a name they gave me. I didn’t become anything.”
Parker considered this. “Do you regret what you’ve done?”
Their eyes locked. Something intense brewed behind his. After a moment, Frank broke the barrier between the path and the lawn and lowered himself beside Parker. His elbows hinged on his knees as he laid his fist in his palm.
“I regret some things.” He pursed his lips. “But the people I’ve put down—I don’t regret that. I don’t.”
Parker nodded, feeling the sincerity of his words. She didn’t—couldn’t—understand taking someone’s life without remorse. Maybe before she met MJ she could’ve. She was pessimistic and running out of her faith in humanity, but then MJ and her moms proved there was still good in the world. It was hard to believe in forgiveness and redemption back then. It still is. But MJ was adamant that everyone was born with a seed of good in them. Some got water and sunlight; others dried up. After the night MJ died, Parker made a silent vow to nurture the good in everyone, no matter how shriveled up it might’ve been or how many times the world tried to kill it. She gave petty criminals ultimatums. She played pickup with the neighborhood kids who used to beat the crap out of each other. She sat and listened to the man on edge of the Brooklyn Bridge cry. She scolded cops that were too rough with the thieves she caught.
It was funny—Frank killed people he deemed unfit for society and slept just fine; Parker tried so hard to be good, yet she spent most nights restless and guilt-ridden.
Speaking of guilt, her words from earlier echoed in her mind. She’d lashed out at Frank—understandably, in her opinion—but he was just protecting her. She wiped under her nose with her sleeve and turned to the man beside her. “I’m sorry I called you a monster.”
His shoulders lifted. “I’ve been called worse.”
Parker bit her lip, fingers toying with the fabric of her jacket. The nonchalance in Frank’s voice was comforting, at least; he wasn’t offended by her words.
"Maybe you're right.” The confession slipped out before she could stop it. "Maybe some people just don’t change. Maybe they don’t deserve to." She paused, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I don’t know how to live with that."
The silence stretched out again, but this time, it didn’t feel as heavy. Frank said, “It’s ‘cuz you’ve got a good heart. Ain’t nothing wrong with that.”
She agreed that there was nothing wrong with having a good heart, but she wasn’t so sure hers was spotless. Hugging her knees closer to her chest and resting her chin on them, she asked, “What time is it?”
“Too goddam early.”
Go figure.
Frank wrung his hands together, his eyes flickering between the ground and Parker as if weighing something. Eventually, he spoke. “I’ve got a location.”
Parker raised a brow, silently saying, Go on. She might’ve been exhausted, but the idea of getting the whole Black Hand situation over and done with was enticing.
“Took Dom's phone. There was a text with an address and time. It’s a pier over in Red Hook. Figure it’s a shipment of some kind—weapons, drugs. Not sure who all is going to be there, but it’s another step towards getting this shit dead and buried.” Parker moved to stand, but Frank took her arm. Not tight, but firm. His eyes looked tired. “Slow down, kid. It ain’t til tomorrow.”
Parker sat back down. Frank retracted his hand but kept his eyes steady with hers. “Listen to me, and don’t argue, okay? You’re sitting this one out.”
Like hell, she wanted to say, and almost did, but two things stopped her. Frank was giving her the most serious stare she’d seen on him. It wasn’t hard and cold, not frustrated or annoyed. Just serious. And the other thing—he was right. It wasn’t smart to willingly show up to a place she knew the Black Hand would be when they were actively planning on kidnapping her letting Tombstone do whatever with her body. Yeah, no thanks.
Parker rested her cheek against her knees, exhaling deeply. It didn’t feel in character to give in so easily, so she muttered, “So bossy.”
Frank cracked a small smile. “And you’re more stubborn than a mule.”
“Bossy and stubborn don’t really go together.”
“Nah, they don’t,” he agreed. He nudged her shoulder with his. “But we’ll make it work, yeah?”
Her eyes softened as they flickered to meet his again. In that moment, she mentally zoomed out and saw the pair as an outsider: a young woman sitting by a grave, mourning, regretful, exhausted. The man sitting beside her had just been called an asshole and a monster, and yet, he still cared for her safety—for whatever reason—and followed her. She had ignored him, insulted him, even punched him in the face (multiple times), and yet, there he was. Sitting beside her in the grass by MJ’s grave. Maybe he wasn’t a complete fuckhead; somewhere in his chest, hidden behind military training, ego, and a thirst for vengeance, was a beating heart.
Yeah, she thought. We’ll make it work.