Chapter 6
When they returned to the safehouse, Parker dragged herself to the cramped bathroom to shower for the first time in days. She wasn’t sure how many, but a shower was long overdue. The water pressure was overly strong, but the way the lukewarm water shot out, it felt like a massage against her tense shoulders and back. Besides, a shower was a shower. She wasn’t going to complain.
There wasn’t any soap—or shampoo, either—so water would have to do, even though setting herself on fire didn’t even feel like enough to cleanse her. It was partially because she’d gone so long without a shower, but also because the whole idea of what Tombstone wanted with her made her skin crawl. She turned her body around in the little stall, angling certain ways for the blast of water to hose off the sweat and dirt. When she ducked her head under the spray, she also shut her eyes and slotted a finger in each ear, plugging them.
It was something she did since she was little. She could still hear the water pounding against her bare skin, but it was muted. If she ignored the divots of tile beneath her feet and the low hum of the exhaust fan, it was as if she were standing out in the middle of a rainstorm. If she dissociated enough, she’d hear thunder rumbling in the distance.
A knock on the door. Parker’s eyes opened, and she was face-to-face with the grimey shower wall speckled with water droplets.
“You good, kid?” Frank’s gruff voice came from the other side of the door.
Parker ran her fingers through her short wet hair. Even though the water wasn’t hot, the mirror above the sink was foggy. How long had she been just standing under the water?
“Parker?”
“Almost done,” she called, waited for a beat, then listened as his footsteps retreated. Just as she was wrapping up, she heard the heavy safehouse door open and close. Brow furrowed, Parker turned the water off and poked her head out the bathroom door.
Frank had left, then. Parker frowned and closed the door. He was under no obligation to fill her in on his whereabouts, obviously, but she wondered where he’d gone.
After a quick dry, Parker pulled on her dirty clothes from before—underwear, sports bra, t-shirt, leggings, socks, and Frank’s hoodie. It felt wrong to put the dirty clothes on her clean body, but she had no other choice.
Speaking of no other choice, the food in the cupboards was all she had readily available to satiate her deep hunger that cramped up her midsection. Canned pastas, beans, soups. She grabbed a can of chicken and noodle soup, shook it, and popped the lid open with a knife. After realizing there weren’t any spoons in the kitchenette—why would someone stock up on soup and not have at least one spoon?—she tipped her head back to drink the salty broth.
“Damn, what’s the sodium content of this thing?” Parker squinted at the faded label, then shrugged and tipped it back again, ignoring how slimy the room temperature noodles were.
As Parker drank down the last of the lukewarm soup, she wiped her mouth on the sleeve of Frank's hoodie, a half-hearted attempt at wiping away both the mess and the taste. The hunger in her gut still gnawed at her, but it wasn’t just the food that had her feeling off-kilter. Frank’s absence was eating at her—the safehouse didn’t feel as safe without him. (Again: weird, considering her past with men and the fact that Frank was a serial killer.)
With no telling how long Frank would be gone, Parker lay back down and attempted to get some rest. She wound up just staring at the ceiling, counting. At six hundred thirty-seven, she picked up on footsteps outside. Then, the door opened.
Parker pushed herself out of bed just as Frank was walking in with a takeout bag in hand. Something sweet and tangy hit her nose.
“Teriyaki chicken and broccoli?”
“What are you, a fuckin’ bloodhound?” Frank shot her a look that was a cross between amused and disturbed. “Yeah. Wasn’t sure what you liked, but I figured it was a safe option. Plus, you need a vegetable every now and then, you know?” He set the takeout bag on the kitchenette counter and took a box out.
Parker stepped up to the counter as he slid the box her way. She took it and said, “To grow big and strong?”
“That’s right.” He grabbed his own box, took out the plastic silverware, tossed one Parker’s way, and balled up the plastic bag to discard. If she didn’t know him better, she wouldn’t have realized that he was joking along behind the flat tone.
“I think I’ve got enough strength,” Parker pointed out as she dug in. It took everything in her to not let out an embarrassing moan. If her stomach could speak, it’d be saying hell yeah.
“Focus on getting big, then.”
“Hey.”
“Just saying.” Frank’s shoulders lifted innocently, but there was a hint of mischief in his eyes. It was hard to believe that he had just ended a man’s life not even three hours before.
The reminder twisted Parker’s stomach. Ugh. Murder and teriyaki chicken didn’t mix.
“How was the shower?” Frank asked as he chewed. He was leaning over his box, elbows on the counter.
Parker shrugged and stabbed a piece of chicken. “Water pressure was jank and the temperature didn’t get above lukewarm, but it was nice to hose off.” She slowly worked the chicken in her mouth, savoring the flavor but also mulling over everything that had happened, and everything that could happen. She needed to turn her brain off for five minutes to actually enjoy her food.
She glanced up at Frank across from her. He kept things pretty close to the chest, but she needed something to take her mind off the whole Black Hand and Tombstone thing. “So. You watch any good movies lately?”
Frank looked up with a question in his eyes. “What?”
“See any good movies recently?” Parker tilted her head with a squint. Her tongue was working on getting a piece of chicken unstuck between her back molars. “You seem like an action movie kind of guy—Tarantino, Christopher Nolan.”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “Don’t have the time.”
Fair. She herself hadn’t sat down and watched a movie in… years, probably. She let out a soft sigh and took another bite of chicken, her teeth working over the meat mechanically, still lost in her own thoughts. “What’s your favorite movie?”
“Don’t have one.”
“Bullshit,” she said, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You’re telling me you’ve never once sat down and watched something that made you go ‘Yeah, that was it’?”
She paused, waiting for him to offer an answer, but he just continued to eat silently with his eyes focused on his food.
“Okay,” she said, giving him a teasing look. “Mine’s Surf’s Up. Ever seen it?”
Frank’s eyebrows furrowed. “The one with the penguins?”
“Yep.” Honestly, Parker didn’t expect him to have even heard of it. “Surfing penguins and a surfing chicken, shot like a documentary, full of interviews, breaking the fourth wall—it’s genius.” She took another bite. Mouth full, she added, “It’s revolutionary.”
Frank raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but didn’t question her taste in movies. Another silence fell over them. Parker asked, “Do you have any cool war stories?”
He set his fork in the box and clasped his fist in his palm, eyes narrowing. “What’s goin’ on? What’re you doing?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Just making conversation.”
Frank eyed her suspiciously. “I don’t do war stories.”
“What do you do? I’m sure childhood stories are out—something tells me yours wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows.” Projection, maybe, but look at the statistics; most vigilantes weren’t born into a peaceful life. There’s the origin story stereotype for a reason.
He picked his fork back up and resumed eating, and Parker was about to give up on the idea of distracting herself with conversation, but then Frank started talking.
“You know, you remind me of someone.”
Parker straightened and smirked. “Is she super cool and funny?”
“She has attitude problems,” Frank said, “an inflated ego, never listens.” A smile threatened the corner of his lips.
Parker scoffed. “Says you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Pot,” she says, lifting a hand and gesturing to Frank, “meet kettle.”
“See?” He pointed his fork at her. “There’s that attitude coming through. Now, are you going to let me finish?”
By all means. Parker mimed zipping her mouth shut.
“Amy.” The name came out gruff, but simultaneously fond. Something shone in Frank’s eyes. “She’s just a couple years older than you now. Same as you, the way to her heart was food. She once stole a credit card from a Homeland Security officer and bought a shitload of clothes. I was going to give her shit, but I saw that she also bought Lombardi's.”
Parker took this in. “Is Amy your daughter?”
“Nah, just another brat like you.” Finished with his food, Frank wiped his hands together before resting his palms against the counter, leaning on them with his elbows straight. “She got mixed up with the wrong people, got in trouble; I helped her out.”
“Oh, so this is normal for you.”
Frank released a long, heavy sigh. “Unfortunately.”
It felt weird, knowing that Parker wasn’t the only exception to Frank’s lone wolf ways. She recalled what Frank had said the first night they met about not getting himself involved if she were a man.
“If I had come home to this scene and there was a man in my bathroom,” Frank had said, “I would’ve pulled him out, tied him up, questioned him, and kicked him out to fix himself because his shit is none of my business. But, instead, I came home to a teenage girl.”
Parker’s heart twisted as the memory solidified in her mind. And then there was the fact that Frank was going to guilt her into quitting Spider-Man because of how devastated her parents would be if something happened to her.
She remembered the way his face had hardened when she’d asked if he had kids. That brief, flickering sadness.
Her stomach tightened as the realization hit her like a punch to the gut. Frank had a daughter. The pieces clicked into place with a clarity that stunned her—odds were, she wasn’t alive anymore. Frank wasn’t just helping Parker because he was a misogynist who believed she couldn’t handle herself. He was trying to atone for something. Or, maybe, it was purely instinctual.
A heavy silence filled the room again, but this time it wasn’t just the quiet that pressed in on Parker. It was the weight of understanding.
Frank cleared his throat and nodded to Parker. “Okay, your turn.” Her softened eyes lifted from the ground and met his. Oblivious to her revelation, he pressed, “I told you something about me. Your turn.”
Parker cleared her throat and tried on a teasing smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “No, you told me something about Amy.” Though, it did inadvertently tell her something about him, not that she was going to admit that.
“Fine. Then tell me about someone in your life.”
The heaviness was getting overbearing. It was charged with something too close to vulnerability for her comfort. While some of her yearned to open up and let somebody in for the first time in years, most of her rejected the idea outright.
“Like I told you before, I don’t have anyone.” Her voice wasn’t cold, exactly, but Frank seemed to notice the shift in tone.
He could’ve pointed out the fact that he had just found her at a grave a couple hours before, obviously mourning someone. He looked like he wanted to mention it. Instead, clearly noticing Parker shutting down, he just nodded.
Eventually, he straightened and said, “You should get some rest.”
“And you should shower.” Parker watched him gather the trash from their dinner—breakfast?—and jam it into the bin. “I could smell you a mile away without my enhanced senses.”
It was a poor attempt to lighten the mood, but it worked. Frank scoffed and tossed a wadded up napkin at her. “Brat.”
“Stinky.”
_
Parker was never good at doing nothing, especially when she could be doing something. Having to watch Frank gear up and leave to scope out the location he got from Dom’s phone without her felt like the equivalent of a dog watching their owner leave for work from the window.
Even though staying behind was the logical thing to do, she still felt pathetically useless. She was the one who dragged Frank into this mess, and now she had to sit the bench while he fought her battle. Not very girlboss of her, but what was she supposed to do? Show up and risk getting kidnapped by a guy who wanted to impregnate her? Yeah, no thanks.
As soon as Frank left, Parker ventured back to the computers and did some poking around. They were somewhat outdated, but that didn't bother her. She ran a couple of basic commands to check for any leftover files or unusual processes, her fingers tapping rhythmically as she scanned the system logs for anything that looked mildly interesting.
Parker leaned back in the creaky chair, her hazel eyes flicking between the dull glow of the monitor and the worn-out keyboard in front of her. After a few minutes of staring at files that didn’t belong to her and processes that seemed about as exciting as a paperclip, her mind wandered.
She sighed, then muttered to herself, “Whatever.” She rolled her chair forward and click-clacked away at the computer to close the systems, then opened a browser window and opened good ‘ole Google.
Parker searched for recent news and clicked through the feed, skimming headlines about random stuff—celebrity gossip, political chaos, Tony Stark’s latest fuckup, the usual. None of it held her attention for more than a few seconds. She clicked over to the weather and shivered at the below freezing temperatures that popped up. An unexpected pro of staying at the safe house instead of her drafty apartment: it was pretty warm. She wondered who paid to keep the electricity on.
She typed “Spider-Man” into the search bar, then scrolled through results ranging from news reports where she had intervened to blog posts from fans. There were a few YouTube links of sightings, too. She’d combed through a lot of those when she first started out a couple years back, and her favorite was a compilation of her fails—falls, slips, clumsy moments, getting decked in the face.
There weren’t any new videos or reports, which made sense considering she hadn’t been patrolling regularly the past couple days. There was a new wikipedia page dedicated to Spider-Man, though, which was cool as hell.
Did Frank have his own wikipedia page? Curious, she typed Frank Castle into the search bar. Sure enough, there it was: Frank’s own page. It had much more information than Parker’s did.
She snorted. “Francis David Castle.” She was definitely going to bring that up later.
Her amused smile faltered as she read on. “Castle was arrested in 2016 and charged with multiple counts of first-degree murder for a killing spree targeting Hell’s Kitchen gangs, earning him the title ‘the Punisher.’ During People of the State of New York v. Frank Castle, his defense team argued an insanity plea, citing PTSD as a result of his family's murder earlier that year in a gang-related drug deal. His wife, Maria, fifteen-year-old daughter Lisa, and twelve-year-old son Frank Jr. were killed. The court denied the insanity plea…”
Parker blinked, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She leaned back and released a long, heavy breath. “Jesus, Frank.” Her hands went to her head. She knew he had a past, but this? He lost everything. No wonder he snapped.
There was a picture at the bottom of a smiling family of four. She almost didn’t recognize Frank in it; he was smiling. Glowing, really. And he looked about a decade younger even though the caption only dated it five years ago.
Her eyes trailed from face to face, starting from Frank’s, then to his wife’s, his son’s, and then his daughter’s. They looked normal.
Parker was standing before she knew what she was doing. Her skin buzzed. With a frown, she turned to the door, but she didn’t see or hear anyone approaching.
The sense of danger wasn’t intense, it was a soft, persistent hum at the back of her skull. Her sixth sense was something she had a hard time trying to describe to herself—there are different levels, it seemed. This tingling was telling her “there’s a slight possibility of danger,” not “OMG take cover!” It was like a tornado warning versus a tornado watch—the conditions were right, but the danger hadn’t been spotted. Like, there’s a gun in someone’s purse versus there’s a gun pointed at me.
Bottom line, there was danger brewing. There was a good chance it had something to do with Frank.
Parker grabbed her mask from the bed. She was just going to check up on him—just to make sure everything’s A-okay. He wouldn’t even know she left.
The tingling under her skin didn’t ease as she stealthily made her way towards Frank, but it didn’t intensify, either. Maybe it was nothing.
Still, she had to make sure.
The sun had yet to breach the horizon, but the sky was lightening from inky black to deep navy in preparation. It took a few minutes, but she eventually reached Red Hook. She didn’t have the exact location, so she relied on her instincts and other senses to lead her in the right direction. Besides, there were only so many piers in the neighborhood.
The scent of gunpowder led her to a pier on the southern end of Red Hook. She scaled a tall building a good distance away—far enough not to get noticed, but close enough that she could still decipher what blobs were shadows and which were tangible objects—and zeroed-in on a figure crouched over a body lying on the ground. There were at least half a dozen other bodies lying on the ground, still, but this one’s chest was still pumping.
The figure’s back was to her, but she knew it was Frank. He stood, aimed a gun at the figure he was looming over, and fired.
Parker flinched. The body jerked with the force and fell limp. Unfazed, Frank turned from the body and meandered over to a shipping container with slow, easy steps. If Parker focused, she could pick up a faint vinegar-like smell of heroin. Drug shipment, then.
Frank struggled with the lock—Parker fought the urge to swing over and break it with her bare hands—before stepping back and shooting it.
He tossed the hunk of metal aside. As he was easing the door open, however, a phone pinged. Parker watched him pause before digging a phone—Dom’s?—out of his pocket. The screen illuminated his face in harsh angles.
Somewhere, an engine revved. Parker’s back straightened; the quiet alarms in the back of her head were now on full-blast and banged against her skull like a drum.
Frank had turned his back to the shipping container and was standing, feet set, shoulders squared, staring at the road with a hard countenance. His index finger brushed the trigger of his firearm.
For a moment, she stood there, watching in confusion, trying to make sense of what was unfolding. Then, it hit her—Frank was trying to end it. Tombstone had been just out of reach up until now. But what better way to provoke the boss than by sending taunting texts from his dead right-hand man’s phone? She wouldn't be surprised if Frank had snapped a quick picture of the bodies as a clear "come and get me.”
Parker gripped the brick ledge until her knuckles were white. Don’t intervene, don’t intervene.
A pillar of light sliced through the darkness, washing Frank and the container behind him in a blinding white. It screeched to a stop about six yards from where he stood firm.
The passenger door opened and a massive figure emerged. Rising high above six feet, his presence was undeniable—broad-shouldered, built like a tank, and exuding an aura of danger. Parker’s breath caught in her throat as she was instantly back in that sterile room, strapped down as he watched from behind the glass. His pale skin and stark white hair shaved close to his scalp was almost ashy in the dim morning.
Parker lowered herself behind the ledge. Fuck this guy. He wants me to have his babies? Fuck. Him.
Frank lifted his chin, appraising Tombstone as he shut the car door. His eyes were dancing all over him as he studied the man who was behind all the shit he’d been through the past few days.
He unceremoniously lifted the gun and fired. The bullet met its target, implanting itself in Tombstone’s chest. But he didn’t go down; if anything, he straightened to his full height, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Definitely enhanced, then.
Frank fired again, but the guy dodged the bullet with reflexes similar to Parker’s. Whatever juice Doc pumped him with, there was a good chance it had a drop of Parker’s blood mixed in.
“Straight to business, eh?” His voice was nasally but deep, and rough like a patch of gravel. Tombstone took large strides forward. Frank didn’t budge, his gun steadily trained on the center of his chest. “What do you think is going to happen here?”
Frank glanced around at the dead bodies littering the ground before returning his gaze to the towering man. “I’m going to kill you.”
Tombstone’s smirk twitched. “You and your little bug keep coming up. Just small inconveniences.” He sniffed, rubbing his nose with a ringed finger. “But when my men try to squash you, you just won’t die.” His mouth hung open for a moment, then closed, like he interrupted himself. He scanned the yard; Parker ducked when his eyes flickered in her direction. “Where is she?”
Parker’s heart squeezed.
“This is between you and me.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Parker peered over the ledge just as Frank charged. He pulled a long dagger from his waistband and aimed for Tombstone’s head but was shoved into the container before it could meet its mark.
As tough, badass, and ruthless as Frank was, he had one flaw: he was merely human.
Parker felt like she was watching the scene from behind a screen. Her brain was telling her body to move, to intervene, to save Frank, but her bones were locked in place as she watched Tombstone punch Frank square across the face with the force of a freaking bus. His head snapped to the side with blood spewing from his nose.
Frank’s hands found purchase on Tombstone’s jacket. He fisted the material and let out a roar before delivering his own punches. If his opponent wasn’t enhanced, he’d surely have killed him. As it was, Tombstone barely bled.
They took turns delivering blows: Tombstone threw Frank into a pile of metal scraps. Frank fired a round into his chest. Tombstone punched him in the gut. Frank broke his nose. Only after a few back-and-forths, though, Parker noticed Frank wasn’t striking with the same energy or fervor. His eyes still held a fiery anger, but his movements were slower. Tombstone landed a hit that knocked Frank flat on his ass. He didn’t get up.
It wasn’t until Tombstone scraped Frank’s battered body off the concrete and hurled him into the river that Parker’s body unfroze.
Her limbs felt simultaneously too light and too heavy as she propelled herself off the roof towards the water. Tombstone had turned–-the driver opened his car door for him—and was casually limping back to the car he arrived in. It was the perfect opportunity for her to strike.
She didn’t. She ignored Tombstone entirely and scrambled towards the splash Frank’s limp body made.
Parker reached the pier just as the car was peeling away and ripped her mask off. Her eyes locked onto his dark shadow under the surface, and she jumped.
The world exploded into freezing cold. It felt like a thousand needles stabbing into her skin all over, all at once. Parker’s chest tightened and threatened to pull in a sharp gasp, but she kept her composure and swam like hell towards Frank’s limp form.
The water stung her eyes as she kicked her way towards him with an arm outstretched. Her numb fingers wrapped around his arm.
Her chest was getting tighter. Keeping an iron grip on Frank, Parker fought to bring them both to the surface before time ran out.
The harder she swam, the further away the surface seemed to stretch. It took everything in her not to inhale, but, like Frank, she was only human at her core.
She gasped. The cold wrapped around her like an icy grip. Her mind went momentarily blank, the world reduced to nothing but the brutal sensation of freezing water filling her lungs.
Her legs kicked, instinct taking over as she fought to rise to the surface, her one arm flailing until she broke through and the other still grasping tightly under Frank’s arm.
Parker coughed and sputtered desperately. The cold air burned her lungs as much as the water had. She gasped again, blinking hard, her skin tingling and stinging from the sudden exposure.
Fucking hell. Remind her to never go swimming in the East River in October ever again.
Struggling to keep both Frank’s and her own head above the water, Parker lifted an arm and shot a web at a building to pull herself out of the river.
The shivering was instant as the brisk morning air hit her. The only coherent thought she could muster was a string of fuck, fuck, fuck.
Frank’s body dropped onto the pier with a wet squelch. Parker leaned over him, still coughing and gasping, and tried to figure out what the hell she needed to do. She set her ear against his chest, heard water in there somewhere. His heartbeat was silent. He wasn’t breathing.
Her hands shook as she placed them on his chest, one over the other, and started compressions.
“C’mon, Frank,” she croaked in a whisper. Her wet hair fell over her eyes, so she wiped her face against her shoulder without ceasing her movements. Frank’s eyes stayed closed. “Come on, Frank!”
Parker lifted his chin, pinched his swollen nose shut, and breathed into his mouth, ignoring the taste of blood. She’d only done this once before—CPR and mouth-to-mouth. She prayed she was doing it right.
When a few breaths didn’t bring Frank to consciousness, Parker went back to compressions.
The chest beneath her hands resisted at first, but then—thank God—there was a faint rise. She paused and listened, but still, no heartbeat. Parker continued, pushing, breathing, fighting the terror of failure building in her throat.
Then, something—a weak cough, a gurgling breath. Frank’s body trembled beneath her.
Parker’s own breath hitched, and she nearly collapsed in relief as Frank’s swollen eyes fluttered open, dazed and confused. His lips parted, gasping for air, his body arching with a desperate, choking cough.
Parker laughed with relief and sat back on her heels. Frank, disoriented, leaned over and threw up water.
“You’re okay,” Parker said, mostly to reassure herself. “You’re okay.”
The world around them began to come into focus again—distant sounds of traffic, mourning doves, shallow waves—but there wasn’t time to rest. A prickle at the base of her neck, while only barely there, was enough to prompt her to get them the hell out of Dodge before Tombstone came back.
Frank’s eyes slipped shut and he lay back against the ground. Something rattled in his chest every time he inhaled, his face was cut up and bruising, his ankle was twisted at an odd angle, and who knew what else was wrong with him. Semi-conscious was better than unconscious, at least.
Parker wiped her stray hairs out of her face again before positioning herself to heft Frank off the ground. A low groan slipped past his lips as she lifted. She winced, whispered, “sorry,” and shot a web to swing them back towards the safehouse.
The wind whipped through her wet clothes like a bolt of freezing lightning. In her arms, Frank’s temperature was dropping fast. His lips were blue and his face—where it wasn’t battered—was ghostly pale.
By the time they reached the warehouse, Parker couldn’t feel her toes, fingers, or face. Or anything, really. It was a miracle she was able to keep her grip on Frank.
She laid him down on the mattress and moved on autopilot. First she wrestled his soaked shirt off in an attempt to dry and warm him up, but then she saw the mess of cuts and bruising beneath and instead went for whatever medical supplies she could find under the bathroom sink.
It took a while to open the antiseptic with her numb fingers, but once she did, she cleaned out any open wounds she could find. Frank would groan or jerk every now and then as she worked but otherwise didn’t show any signs of consciousness. It was nice at first, since Parker was sure he’d protest against her treating his wounds if he were awake, but it got more concerning the longer he was out.
After treating and dressing the wounds on his face and torso, Parker grazed her fingers over his chest and ribs, pressing down ever so softly to check if there were any fractures. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for, but when she pressed over a swollen area that felt misshapen, she figured it was as good of a sign as she was going to get.
Parker gently rolled him to his side, treated the long, deep gash on his back, then tended to his swollen ankle that needed to be popped back in place (This, she knew how to deal with—dislocated joints were almost common for her from all the one-arm swinging and rough landings from tall heights.)
When she was confident he wasn’t going to bleed out, Parker layered all the blankets over him. She considered lying next to him—body heat—but there wasn’t much room on the twin mattress, and she wasn’t confident she’d be able to share the bed with him without having a panic attack. Besides, what would he think if he woke up to find her snuggled up against him?
Parker rested her back against the metal bars and lowered herself to the ground, arms going around her knees. Despite being indoors, her body still shivered and shuddered. She needed to get warm—a hot shower would do the trick—but she needed to stay with Frank to make sure he didn’t stop breathing again.
So, she stayed.
_
Frank was in and out of unconsciousness for the next twelve or so hours. During that time, Parker stayed on autopilot, changing a bloodied bandage, checking his pulse, tipping water into his mouth when he was coming to, making sure he was comfortable when he was fading back out.
She wasn’t a doctor; she had no idea, exactly, what was wrong with him, or if it was normal for someone to take so long to be out from his injuries since she was used to her skin stitching together before her eyes. It was as she was watching Frank’s chest rise and fall that she realized that he needed her protection as much as she needed his.
Watching the slow, uneven rise of Frank’s chest, the realization hit her—he needed her protection as much as she needed his.
She should’ve intervened sooner.
It was driving her mad. Tombstone bashing Frank’s head in and throwing him into the river flashed across her mind every time she paused for a breath. She let him hurt Frank, and then she let him get away. She was damn sure that, if their situations were switched, he wouldn’t have hesitated to step in as soon as Tombstone pulled up. Hell, he wouldn’t have ever let her go alone.
Parker’s clothes were finally dry but felt stiff when she moved. Not for the first time, she missed her apartment: its warm bed, its closet that held her clothes. The closet was filled to the brim with abundant outfit options, but at least she had enough to be able to climb out of the clothes she’d been wearing the past couple days that now smelled like armpit, sweat, river water, and gunpowder.
She lifted an arm and sniffed. Yeesh. She couldn’t tell if it was the clothes or herself that stank, but if it was the clothes it’d seep into her skin anyways. Either way, the river bath didn’t do her any favors.
The silence cracked with a cough. Parker whipped around—Frank was moving, trying to sit up. She shot over faster than her feet could keep up and stumbled.
“Christ, kid,” Frank croaked between coughs as he watched her scramble back to her feet. He leaned his head back against the pillow and released a long breath. He squeezed his eyes shut then forced them open. Looked around the room, then down at himself. He met her concerned owlish eyes. “What happened?”
Parker squatted by the bed with worry creasing her brow. “You don’t remember?”
“Would I be askin’ if I remembered?”
At least he was feeling well enough to give her lip. “Tombstone beat the shit outta you and threw you in the river.” Parker’s eyes narrowed. “You seriously don’t remember? Do you have a concussion?”
“It’ll come back to me,” he said, then immediately winced as soon as he tried to sit up again. Parker eased him back down and ignored his protest.
“Your back’s all messed up, and I’m pretty sure you’ve got at least one broken rib.”
Frank gave a short hum in response to that, and she couldn’t tell whether it was in surprise or in a that checks out kind of way. He cupped a hand over the left side of his ribcage and turned to give Parker a once-over. “You hurt?”
She looked away, cheeks blazing red. “No.” There wasn’t a single scratch on her. That fact only made her feel that much more guilty as she sat beside the man who likely would’ve torn Tombstone apart limb by limb if he’d touched her.
“Tell me the truth.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze. His eyes, though a bit dazed and glossy still, were razor-sharp on her. “I’m okay, Frank. I didn’t intervene until they drove away,” she admitted. She couldn’t help it; her eyes darted away again. “I pulled you out of the water, and you were…” A sniff. “I should’ve stepped in sooner. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
“You could’ve died.”
“Didn’t.” His eyes were closed again. Parker watched him steadily, waiting for him to say something else, but then his breaths evened out and he was still again.
Parker blew a hard breath out of her nostrils. At least he was alive. Concussed and low on blood, but alive.
She could work with that.