When all is going wrong and you're scared as hell {what you gonna do? who you gonna tell?}
March 8th, 2013
1:12 PM
“What, you just walk all these dogs to Central Park everyday?”
The small child in question squints his eyes, five dog leashes clenched in his hand. “What?”
Frank Castle stretches out on the park bench. “I dunno, I just thought that you walkin’ a dog entailed being dragged down a street by a puppy.”
Lips began to pout and a slightly offended look replaces a confused one.
Frank raises his cup of coffee to his lips, grinning. “‘Cause you’re so short.”
Furious gremlin mode.
Peter huffs. “It was really nice to see you, Mr. Castle. But I gotta go now and you’re kinda mean, so..”
Frank snorts, scratching the back of one of the dogs, this one a golden labrador retriever. “You want me to make sure you don’t get blown away by the wind?”
Frank’s pretty sure that Peter is about ready to attack him.
He had caught Peter by surprise, as he was waiting for Billy to show up. He instead saw the nine year-old leading a pack of dogs, scolding and nudging them along the path. Peter had caught sight of Frank, then the dogs had caught sight of Frank and had rushed over, dragging Peter behind them.
Hence, the short jokes.
“I’m not that short,” Peter mutters, hugging his arms around himself, “I’m only an inch shorter than Lisa.”
“Speakin’ of which,” Frank snaps his fingers, pointing at Peter. “Lisa said somethin’ about you not bein’ able to hang out this week. Somethin’ about you havin’ a babysitter.”
Peter’s eyes widen. “Oh yeah! You mean Skip. He’s watching me ‘cause Dad’s away.”
Frank’s eyebrows creased.
Why the fuck did Peter seem so nervous?
Hands fidgety, shoulders tense as a wire, with a face paler than a sheet of paper. The glass in one of the lenses was broken, as it usually was. A sweatshirt instead of a winter coat covered his thin shoulders and Frank resisted the urge to tell him to go to Maria. Because, Jesus fuck, this kid was walking dogs in 20 degree weather wearing only a sweatshirt and ripped jeans.
“Skip?” Frank swallows his bitter coffee, immediately taking another sip. “That’s a-that’s a name. He nice to you?”
Frank eyes Peter carefully over his coffee. He hasn’t known his daughter’s friend for long, having been deployed for seven months last year. But Maria has, and Maria thinks that Peter’s been acting weird.
“Yeah!” Peter gives a little nod, his arm being tugged in the direction of the dogs. “He’s-uh. He’s cool.”
“Uh-huh.”
It’s a little hidden, but Frank picks up just a little hitch in Peter’s voice.
Just a little one.
“You sure you’re okay?” Frank asks, as gently as he can. For him. “‘Cause we don’t mind if-”
Peter shakes his head furiously. “I’m fine, Mr. Castle. But uh-”
He wraps the leashes around his wrist, opening his backpack and pulling out a book, offering it to Frank. “This is Lisa’s. She-uh-let me borrow it.”
Frank takes it, examining the cover. It’s one of those Percy Jackson books, the ones Lisa found and immediately fell in love with. She wouldn’t stop talking about them for weeks, so excited that there was an entire series that she could read. She had tried to get Frankie to read them too, but Frankie declared that books were stupid and could be only used for a fire.
It’s the first one, all dog-eared and well-loved. Frank tucks it into his jacket. “Did ya like it?”
Peter beams, zipping up his backpack and standing up. “Yeah! It was really good and I really liked it. Can you tell Lisa thank you? Please?”
Frank grin, chuckling slightly. “Sure kid.”
One of the dogs tries to jump onto Frank’s lap and Peter scolds them gently, tugging back the leash. “No, Buddy. Mr. Castle is not a sofa. And you are not a lap-dog.”
Buddy, a great dane with white fur and black spots, looks cowed and instead tries to lay down on the ground, paws over their head.
Peter sighs.
Frank tries not to laugh. “So, what’re their names?”
Peter sighs again, tugging the leashes. “Buddy’s Mr. Bailey’s dog. He’s a Great Dane and taking theatre classes.”
Peter points at the Golden Lab. “That’s Lucky. I’m not sure who he belongs to. All I know is that Mrs. Lebedev had him and told me to go take him out on a walk. He-uh. He tried to eat pizza out of the dumpster and nearly got hit by a car.”
Lucky pants, drooling everywhere. Then he tries to eat his leg.
“Lucky, no!” Peter scolds, tugging on the leash. “Then there’s Mrs. Lebedev’s dog, Boris. He’s a husky and a very good boy. Doesn't try to run off or attack pigeons.”
A glare is directed to a very fluffy dog, while Boris sits majestically on the ground, Lucky coming over and nosing around only to be batted away.
“The fluffy dog is Mocha. She’s Mr. Akulov’s dog. He got her at the shelter and she likes picking fights. And snow. She loves snow.”
Mocha places her giant head on Frank’s lap and he gives her a neck scratch, smiling as Peter glares at his wards, acting like an exasperated parent.
“Queenie, where are you? Stop hiding behind Boris; it’s okay.” Peter gently coaxes a smaller, limping dog from behind the husky. “Come out.”
Peter faces Frank. “Okay, so this is Queenie. She’s Ms. Russell’s puppy. She’s a pit bull, but she’s really gentle and she’s only got three legs.”
Queenie’s a caramel-colored dog, with white markings around her head. She’s missing her front left leg, her tail wagging to keep her balance. She approaches Peter warily, not trusting of the other stranger.
“She’s shy.” Peter gives Queenie a light scratch. “She’s the baby.”
Frank can’t help himself from chuckling, leaning back on the bench. “You really love these guys, huh?”
Peter shrugs. “Dogs are better than humans.” He glances at Frank, tilting his head to the side. “With some exceptions.”
Oh, kid.
“I meant Lisa and Frankie.”
No you didn’t.
“Sure kid,” Frank takes another sip of his coffee, openly grinning at Peter’s scowl. “But I’ll agree with you. Dogs are better than humans.”
“You replacin’ me, Frankie?” A familiar voice filters into the conversation and a familiar face as well. “‘Cause lemme tell you, I am way better than an mangy old mutt.”
Peter looks halfway between exiting the conversation and attacking Billy for calling a dog mangy, so Frank decides to intervene.
“Hey, Billy,” Frank greets, raising his cup. “Glad to know you can read a clock.”
Billy shrugs. “I’m fashionably late.”
Lucky tries to eat Billy’s shoe.
Billy tries to move his foot away, but the lab follows him. “Okay, so who are you?” He squints at Peter, who is also squinting at Billy. “You a secret agent? Tryin’ to get government secrets?”
Peter blinks in confusion. “If I was a secret agent, why would I take them?”
He gestures at Mocha and Lucky, who seem determined to eat Billy’s shoes.
Billy quickly moves to the park bench, kicking his feet up and away from the dogs. “Cover. Obviously.”
Peter huffs, fixing his glasses.
Billy nudges Frank. “Who’s the shortstack?”
“Billy, this is Peter, Lisa’s friend.” Frank gestures with his free hand. “Peter, this is Billy Russo.”
“His friend.” Billy interjects, adding more exposition. “As unlikely as it seems.”
Frank glowers at Billy over his coffee.
Peter waves a little, hand still holding the leashes. “Hi, Mr. Russo.”
“Oh my god, I feel so old,” Billy whispers, then adding a little louder. “Please, just call me Billy.”
“Sure.” Peter checks his watch, eyes widening. “Oh, crap.”
“Language,” Frank mutters.
“I gotta go.” Peter tugs the leashes, pulling the dogs with him. “Bye, Mr. Castle. Bye, Mr. Billy.”
“That’s worse,” Billy calls after him, but Peter’s already gone, jogging with the dogs. Frank watches till he’s out of view, yipping and barking fading out of earshot.
“Weird kid,” Billy remarks, rubbing his fingers together. “Where’d Lisa find him?”
“She hid ‘em in her room after finding him on the street.” Frank brushes the dog hair off his pants. “Nearly gave Maria a heart attack.”
Billy chokes. “Holy fuck.”
“Blasphemy.”
“You barely go to church, Frankie.”