Chapter Text
No. 31 - disaster zone | trauma | prisoner | IT’S ALL MY FAULT
“It was always going to come to this,” Mysterio sighs. “But I can’t say I’m not disappointed. I had hoped I could play the hero for a little while longer.”
What?
Frankie can’t help their confusion when the figure of Master Khiwyn disappears in a puff of smoke, not vanishing like a magician, but literally turning into smoke and blowing away. They knew that Mysterio was up to something, but somehow, they have even more questions than before.
All of the things that “Master Khiwyn” had summoned evaporate too, revealing more than a hundred drones, hovering silently in the air. Some are outfitted with sophisticated projection technology, and others are outfitted with turrets and other combat mechanisms. Suddenly, Frankie’s singed suit makes sense, if they were blasted back by an explosion instead of a blow from an earth elemental.
“None of it was real…” Frankie realizes. “It was all an illusion, tricks and holograms to make you look like a hero!”
Mysterio claps slowly, the fog clearing from her helmet to reveal her face under the blue lights of her HUD. She looks smug. “Great job, detective. Truly.”
Frankie’s eyes narrow in a glare, muscles tensing in preparation for a fight or chase.
“You’re right. None of it was real. Unfortunately for you, this is no hologram.”
Frankie doesn’t get the chance to ask what she means, as Mysterio flings a small canister at their face. They catch it, of course, but that proves to be a mistake when the canister starts hissing, spewing a thick green fog in every direction and surrounding Frankie in moments. They toss the canister away, but it’s too late.
The gas is somehow both sweet and acrid, making Frankie’s sinuses itch and their eyes water behind the mask. Their throat burns, and they can’t help but cough, knowing they may have just signed their death certificate. Whatever the gas is, it can’t be good.
“I hope I calculated the dosage correctly. You’re going to make an excellent case study for my next paper if your heart doesn’t give out. Fingers crossed.”
Frankie’s too busy hacking out their lungs to come up with some witty response, falling to their knees as Beck makes her escape.
Frankie squeezes their eyes shut against the spasming of their diaphragm, and when they open them again, everything has changed. Everything is wrong.
Frankie’s still in the street, but Mysterio and her toxic smog are gone. In fact, there’s no one. The street is empty, with no person or car to be seen. It’s so unnaturally quiet that, for a terrifying moment, Frankie is convinced that Mysterio has somehow rendered them deaf.
“You should have walked me home.” The voice is so achingly familiar, and Frankie nearly trips in their haste to spin around, to see the owner of a voice they haven’t heard in so long.
There she stands, dressed in the familiar pleated skirt and grey sweater of the BAT uniform, nails covered with chipped purple polish and wrists decorated with colorful beads and strings, just like the first day they’d met.
“Paige…?” Frankie breathes. “What? No, this isn’t possible. It can’t be–”
“You knew something was going to happen. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“No– No, I had no idea. You have to know that,” they say, stepping cautiously toward her. They reach out, hand shaking, but as soon as their fingers brush against her cheek the image changes. Dust stains her skin and dulls the shine of her hair. Half her face collapses in on itself; gore and viscera pour from the wound. Purple bruising stains her skin as her limbs bend at unnatural angles. Her remaining eye glares at Frankie with so much hate.
Frankie yanks their hand back with a wounded noise, taking a stuttering half-step backward.
Paige opens her mouth to speak again, but all that comes out is a sickening gurgle of blood.
“Are you even making a difference?” a new voice asks. Frankie turns and comes face to face with another ghost staring at them, despite the hole in her head. Lily McKay, the first person they’d failed to save in the field.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry–” Frankie tries to back away only to collide with another body.
“If you were actually sorry, Vulture wouldn’t have been able to hurt anyone else after what he did to me,” he says. Detective Allen Becker. He’d been killed for investigating Vulture’s Chitauri weapons trade. Toomes had made an example of him, talons opening his torso like a zipper for his entrails to spill out of.
Frankie gags on the thick scent of iron.
“I– I didn’t–”
Suddenly, Frankie’s surrounded on all sides by familiar corpses, broken and bloody bodies, ghostly reminders of all of their failures. Their voices overlap in a cacophony of venomous accusations and grief.
“We never had issues with supervillains until you so-called ‘heroes’ showed up,” says one (Aaron Blake, crushed in the path of Rhino’s destruction). “We were better off without you.”
“My little boy is growing up without his mother, thanks to you,” spits another (Leah Sharp, the first of Green Goblin’s victims).
Frankie shrinks under the onslaught, shoulders hunching forward like it might protect them from the fear and guilt. Like it might protect them from the truth.
“You’re no hero, Aurachnid. You’re just a kid playing pretend,” Paige says, blood dripping down her chin. “I mean, just look at yourself.”
Frankie glances down, alarmed to find the dark Kevlex of their suit has vanished, replaced with the thin white hoodie and athletic leggings of their first attempt at a costume.
“You haven’t changed anything, not even yourself.”
Frankie’s heart is racing, and it’s impossible to breathe, making them gasp for air. Their spider-sense is racing up their spine and buzzing through their teeth but there’s no direction, no instinct to dodge or run. All it is, is an inescapable, overwhelming cacophony of panic.
“Is this really all you’ve done with my legacy?”
“Gods, please– No–” Frankie pleads around wheezing breaths. In the years since the Vanishing, they’ve only heard that voice through old YouTube videos and meticulously maintained voicemails.
In a blink, the scene changes. The corpses and the city disappear, leaving Frankie in an impossible void with Spider-Man’s memorial looming dozens of feet above. Bronze limbs groan as he rises from the plinth, the ground shaking under his feet.
“You’re just a poor copy of what I was. You should have died in that Sears when Rhino defeated you,” he says, towering over them. “You shouldn’t have put on that spider in the first place.”
“I– I just wanted to m-make you proud, Queens. I wanted to protect people–”
“You failed.”
Frankie doesn’t see the blow coming until it’s too late, the statue’s metallic foot catching them in the chest and flinging them backward like a rag doll. They tumble and skid across the ground, gravel slicing through the suit and tearing their skin. It stings, but Frankie barely notices it through the haze of fear and breathlessness. Their vision blurs with tears and warped shadows haunt their peripherals.
“Hey there, firecracker.”
Frankie sobs, practically flinging themself at the new figure in their haste to wrap their arms around him. Their papa is just like they remember, warm and smelling of books and coffee. Their dad stands with his hand on Papa’s shoulder. He’s got his scrubs on, and Frankie can smell the hospital antiseptic like he just got home from work.
“Papa! Dad! I’m s-so sorry,” Frankie sobs, holding as tightly as they dare. One arm around their papa’s shoulders and their free hand grasping their father’s scrubs. “I didn’t w-want any of this to h-happen.”
“Didn’t you?” their dad asks. Frankie snaps their head up to look at him, and they can’t find any warmth in his eyes. Their papa hasn’t lifted his arms to hug them back, and he’s looking at Frankie with barely concealed contempt.
“What? O-of course not,” Frankie says, confused. “I missed you so much, you have to know that.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” says their Papa.
“How soon after I died did you start calling that murderer ‘dad?’"
Frankie steps backward like they’ve been burned, tripping over their feet and falling to the ground. "I– No, it’s not like that– He’s not– I’m just–"
They don’t get the chance to explain themself, as they watch their fathers turn to ashes for a second time, their anger ringing in Frankie’s ears. There’s no dust to collect, no dog tags to clutch like a lifeline. Frankie wails, bruised chest aching as they struggle to breathe.
”You’re just a little cuckoo, is what you are.“
"Stop– Please, just stop,” Frankie begs.
“Did you think I would put up with you forever? You’re not my family, you’re a parasite."
Castle stands a few yards away, in jeans and a T-shirt. He’s unarmored and unarmed, Max at his side like he’s between missions. He’s looking at Frankie like they’re a stranger, and Max’s hackles are raised, his ears pinned back in warning.
"Castle, please– Please, don’t leave,” they cry, reaching out desperately in hopes of seeing just a shadow of parental affection in Castle’s eyes.
“You’re not my kid. I don’t care about you,” he spits, turning his back and walking away.
Frankie doesn’t chase after him, crumpling like a puppet cut from its strings. Their arms are wrapped so tightly around their ribs that they’re bruising their own skin. Their hair stands on end in a pathetic, vestigial attempt to make their trembling form look larger and scarier.
They’re all alone, and they don’t understand why. Terror and confusion tie their brain into knots they can’t undo. Their body hurts and they can’t breathe, their extremities go numb as they fail to get enough oxygen. Their head swims with it, black spots dancing in their vision. Their heart beats like a drum, blood roaring in their ears, but not loud enough to drown out insidious whispers. They don’t understand what’s happening or how to make it stop.
They feel like they’re dying.
⦰⦰
Frankie can’t remember everything that happens after that, just flickers of memories that slip through their fingers just as quickly as they come. Small sparks as they swing away, racing across rooftops as something chases after them. Flashes of Nicky, wounded by Frankie’s strength and lack of control. Glimpses of Frankie’s friends in the Cluster turning their backs in disgust.
Maybe they pass out, or maybe the hallucinations get so horrific their brain just automatically redacts them. Whatever the case, Frankie loses a considerable amount of time.
The next thing they know, they’re on a rooftop in Brooklyn, pressed into a corner, miles away from where they’d confronted Mysterio in Manhattan. The sun has set, and the sky has opened up, icy spring rain pouring down and soaking Frankie to the bone. Heart still beating out of their chest, Frankie clambers to their feet, bracing for the other shoe to fall.
It doesn’t.
They feel jittery, anxious and paranoid as they make it back to their apartment without interruption. They’re twitchy and on edge as they yank off their soaking mask and fall on top of their covers, still shivering in their wet costume. They’d never even turned the heater on, despite the dangerously low temperature.
Frankie’s apartment is empty and deafeningly silent, and suddenly everything comes crashing down again and again. Every hissed accusation and gory memory echoes in their head. Frankie curls into a ball, squeezing their eyes shut and covering their ears, but it doesn’t help. Their entire body hurts and the whispers just get louder. Frankie can’t do this anymore.
Something shatters in them. Frankie can practically hear the sound as they fall to pieces, a gaping cavern replacing everything in their chest. They weep, into an isolation so expansive they might as well just be silent.
If a hero falls and there’s no one around to hear them, did they ever make a difference? Did they matter? Were they even there in the first place?
Frankie loses more time, slipping through their fingers like sand, buried under the cacophony of screaming whispers. They fade in and out of consciousness with no break from the nightmares, heart racing and ribs creaking with every hitching, unsteady breath.
"What heart? What lungs? You're empty, Frankie. Empty, empty, empty~"
There are hands around their ankle, claws slicing into their skin, but they don't react. There's no point.
"This is all your fault, parasite."
He's right. He's walking away and it's all their fault. All because they're a hollow little cuckoo. They should have known better.
Time slips away again, and now their suit has started to dry, but they're still so cold, frost crackling against their skin. There's a heavy suppression collar digging into their neck.
"You deserve this. You're a threat."
Frankie tries to shake their head, to deny it. They never meant to hurt anyone! Please don't lock me up!
"Lock you up? Oh no, we have bigger plans for a marvel like you."
Metal cuffs, holding them down, the smell of antiseptic, the searing lights of a surgical theater, needles, scalpels, and a knock on the door.
What?
Another knock, impossibly loud and drowning out the voices. Frankie goes still, holding their breath.
"They're coming for you, Frankie. They're at your door."
Frankie explodes into motion, flinging themself off of their bed and away from the door. The floor is cold as they press into the space between the nightstand and the wall. They need to hide!
"Too late."
There's a key in the lock, a streak of glaring light as the door swings open, a voice calling their name as she reaches for the light switch. A flickering yellow glow, rain dripping from her coat as she hangs it up.
"Frankie? Are you here?" she calls again. Her voice is so loud, it makes their ears hurt.
She steps further into the apartment, the old floorboards creaking under her feet. Tweed pants and the smell of old books. Curly red hair and sunny warmth that cracks the ice.
"I saw the news, and you weren't answering your phone," she says. She sounds scared. Like she's walking into a lion's den. "Please tell me you're okay."
The pressure in Frankie's chest bursts, shattering the silence and giving them away.
"Frankie!" Nicky gasps, rushing toward them.
"You're going to hurt her."
Frankie flinches back violently. "Don't touch me!" they shout, digging their fingers into their arms and squeezing their eyes shut.
The silence that follows is deafening, and when Frankie finally dares to open their eyes again, Nicky has paused, taking slow, measured steps backward, her hands raised in a placating gesture. She looks confused. Join the club.
"Okay, sweetheart," she soothes, crouching to make herself smaller. "I'm not going to touch you. It's okay. You're safe here."
That's not the problem.
“Then what is?” Nicky asks. Frankie must have said that out loud.
"No, not safe for you," Frankie says. "I'm dangerous. You should go far, far away. Go where I can't hurt you."
Nicky frowns, curls bouncing as she tilts her head, red ringing her face like a halo of blood. It drips down her cheeks and Frankie can't look at her anymore, staring at the floor between them. There's a blue stain on the wood.
"Can you look at me, Frankie?"
They shake their head, eyes fixed on the splatter of blue. Hair dye, maybe?
"Okay. That's fine. Just take a deep breath for me, nice and easy."
Why?
“Because you’re hyperventilating, baby. I’m worried you’re gonna pass out,” she answers. Frankie must be talking out loud again.
“But I don’t have any lungs,” they tell her, gaze skittering over to the bed. There’s a dark smear on their comforter, rusty brown on forest green. “No heart. No stomach. Hollow, empty body.”
Nicky goes quiet, the silence stretches like taffy. Like a rubber band ready to snap. Frankie still can’t look at her and the cloud of blood around her face.
"You've totally lost it. She thinks you're crazy~"
"Shut up!" Frankie hisses, snapping their head around to glare at the wall. A water-stain mouth grins, laughing at them.
Nicky swears under her breath, drowning out the giggling.
"Frankie, did Mysterio hit you with anything? A needle or maybe some type of gas?"
Frankie glances back toward Nicky with a frown, gaze fixating on the shiny brown of her Oxfords.
"Mm-hmm," they answer, nodding. "The Titans were pixels. I called her a liar. It was a giant pill filled with so much green smoke. Burning sugar. It made my eyes itch."
“Okay, okay.” Nicky gives a heavy sigh, shifting her weight back onto her heels. “I need you to listen to me. Can you do that?”
Frankie nods again.
“Good.” Nicky pauses for a couple of seconds. “I think that green smoke was some sort of psychedelic, and I think it’s still affecting you, making you hear things that aren’t real and think things that aren’t true.”
“Wow, she’s a smart one. Way too smart for you.”
Frankie ignores the jab. “Makes sense,” they respond to Nicky instead.
“Yeah?” She sounds relieved. “So do you think you could try taking a deep breath for me again?”
They already explained this, didn’t they?
“I know what you said, but just humor me? All you need to do is try.”
Reluctantly, Frankie does what they’re told, forcing their spasming diaphragm to slow, lungs expanding with a stutter. What?
What?
“That’s it, Frankie. You’re doing so good. Can you do it again?”
Frankie sucks in another breath and it tastes like blood and rancid sweat. Their heart pounds like a drum under their bruised sternum. Oh gods, their chest hurts. They’d forgotten.
“Just like that, sweetheart. Keep going.”
They manage another two, heartbeat slowing. On the third exhale, things fall apart again, a violent sob pulled from their heavy, full chest. Tears pour from their eyes.
“Frankie? What’s wrong?” Nicky sounds alarmed.
“Everything!” they wail. “Everything h-hurts and nothing makes sense! I feel so s-scared, and I don’t know w-why! Everyone’s gone! They l-left and I know it’s all my fault but I’m so confused! I don’t kn-know what’s r-real! I’m hearing voices!”
“It’s gonna be okay, Frankie,” Nicky says softly. “I know it probably feels like the world’s ending, but we’re gonna get through it. We’ll take it one step at a time, okay?”
Frankie can’t form words around their sobs anymore, so they just nod, rubbing their eyes more roughly than they probably should. The rough fabric of their gloves grates at the fragile skin.
“Good. We’ll start easy,” she says. “Just breathe with me. That’s all you have to worry about right now.”
Frankie follows Nicky’s lead with shaking unsteady breaths, one after the other, until they stop feeling so faint. It’s easier to ignore the voices when they have something to focus on.
“Good job, handsome. Just keep doing that,” Nicky praises. “Can I come sit next to you?”
Frankie tries to keep their breathing steady, but they can’t help the way the idea makes them flinch.
“I won’t touch you, not until you’re ready,” she promises. “And you won’t hurt me. I’m just gonna sit a bit closer. Is that okay?”
Frankie feels like a cornered animal, and they hate it. So, they take another breath and nod, tucking their knees just a touch closer to their chest.
“Okay. I’m gonna stand up and walk over there. Just keep breathing for me.”
Frankie’s grip on the passage of time is weak. The sky is still dark, and they haven’t moved from the corner, but clearly, some time has passed. There’s a cup of water in their hands, less full than when Nicky handed it to them. She said something about flushing out the toxin. The straw is tap-tap-tapping on the sides as their hands continue to shake.
They take another sip. They don’t feel thirsty, but Nicky says “good job” every time she sees them take a drink.
She’s sitting next to them now, a phone in her hand while she chews on her lower lip. Her hair has stopped turning into blood. Frankie gave up trying to get her to leave.
“You’re gonna hurt her.”
They don’t respond. It’s not real. Frankie’s pretty sure.
“Sweetheart,” Nicky says, voice low. “Can I call someone for you?”
Oh, the phone in her hand is Frankie’s burner. “Who?”
“I think it might help if you see Castle.”
“You replaced your dads with a murderer who doesn’t even like you.”
Frankie frowns. “But he left. I’m not his family, I’m a cuckoo. I remember that, I think?”
Castle had left, hadn’t he? He called them a parasite and then walked away. But he’d promised to have their back, too. He kept clothes for them in his safehouse and came to their graduation. Frankie’s fairly certain that he left, but they know he did those other things. It’s so confusing.
“Man, you’re just as crazy as Jigsaw. Remember what Castle did to him?”
Strangely, the sentiment is equal parts scary and relieving. If they’ve truly lost it, they trust Castle to do the right thing. He won’t let them hurt anyone.
“You’re not a cuckoo, Frankie. He loves you,” Nicky promises. “Can I try and prove it to you?”
Frankie nods and takes another sip of their water. Nicky tells them “Good job” before getting up to make the phone call. She always paces on the phone. Frankie takes another deep breath and finishes their water with a loud slurp. They put the glass on the floor so the straw will stop tap-tap-tapping. The rainwater has dried, but their skin feels sticky with sweat-and-blood and their hair is stiff. They’ve been so anxious for so long that it’s almost starting to get boring. Their legs are cramping.
Castle doesn’t answer, the first time Nicky calls. Frankie knows it’s rude to eavesdrop, but Nicky’s voice is much nicer than the ones in their head.
She groans, and the phone beeps as she dials again. Castle answers on the second ring, voice slightly garbled. It’s not on speakerphone, but Frankie’s ears are more sensitive than they’d like.
“Hullo?” He sounds like he’s just woken up. Please don’t be mad.
“Frank Castle? Don’t hang up!” Nicky says in a rush. “My name is Nicky. I’m Frankie’s girlfriend.”
“What happened?” He sounds more awake now. “Are they safe?”
“They’re a little banged up, but they’re safe. Are you in New York?”
He grunts an affirmative.
“Something happened with Mysterio. She was just pretending to be a hero and she hit Frankie with some sort of psychedelic gas, and it made them see some horrible things,” she explains. “I don’t know most of it, but I think she convinced them that you left? The toxin is still messing with their head, but I think it might help if they could see you?”
“You at their apartment? Can I talk to them?” Castle asks. Frankie can hear fabric rustling and the stomp of heavy boots. Jangling keys. A slamming door.
“Yeah, let me ask.” Nicky holds the phone to her collarbone as she kneels down in front of them. “Sweetheart, Castle wants to talk to you. Is that okay?”
Cautiously, Frankie nods. He has their back, right? He promised, and Nicky doesn’t lie to them.
“Okay. I’m gonna put it on speaker and go get you some more water. Good job drinking all of it for me.” She gives a soft smile, picking up the cup and leaving the phone on the floor by their feet. “Go ahead, Castle. They can hear you.”
“Hey, kid,” Oh. His voice is softer than it was before. He sounded so mean when he walked away. “Heard you had a rough day.”
“Mm-hmm,” Frankie answers, resting their chin on their knees. “She lied about the Titans. Made me see things. Hear things. Are you real?"
"I'm real, sweetheart." Creaking metal. An engine turns over with a hitch. Tires squealing against pavement. "I'm on my way. Ten minutes. You gonna be okay?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Alright. I'm gonna hang up now. Drink some water and breathe. Ten minutes.”
They hum again before the line clicks and Nicky comes back with a new cup of water. There’s ice this time, and the cold feels good on their throat.
⦰⦰
Frankie watches the clock after Castle hangs up, waiting. Nicky sits down next to them again. She’s talking about something, maybe homework. Frankie isn’t listening, really, but her voice makes the other voices easier to ignore, so they don’t say anything.
Nine minutes and fourteen seconds after Castle hangs up, the door buzzer goes off. It’s loud and Frankie’s heart kicks back up. They have to set their cup down, so they don’t spill it. Nicky stands up to go answer it. Nine minutes and forty-seven seconds after Castle hangs up, he walks through the door.
He’s dressed differently than before. Cargo pants and his tac boots, a knife around his ankle. He takes off his coat before he kneels down in front of them, and there’s a handgun on his hip. Nicky hovers awkwardly in the kitchen. A worn-out olive Henley with one sleeve pushed up, gauze wrapped around his forearm. He must have just gotten back from something.
“Hey, kiddo. How you holding up?”
“You’re here?” they ask, instead. “You came back?”
“Yup. Hell or high water, right?” Castle answers. There’s a scrape on his brow and a gentle expression on his face. “You wanna come outta that corner and see for yourself?” he offers.
Frankie shakes their head.
“That’s fine. I’ll wait until you’re ready,” he says, shifting to lean his back against the wall. He pulls a small paperback from one of his pockets, propping it up on a bent knee and stretching the other leg out under Frankie’s bed. “Take your time. I got nowhere to be.
“You won’t leave?”
“I won’t leave,” he agrees. It sounds like a promise.
Frankie forces their breath to stay steady as the silence stretches out. The voices aren't saying much anymore, but they're certainly not quiet. Accusations and warnings have given way to a cacophony of overlapping whispers that do nothing but make Frankie's ears itch. It's like the worst ASMR track they've ever heard. It's an improvement, but not by much.
"How long've you been curled up like that, kid?"
Frankie shrugs, gaze fixed on the floor. "I dunno. A while."
They’ve taken six-hundred eighty-four breaths since Castle started reading. Each breath averages four seconds, which makes two-thousand seven-hundred thirty-six seconds. Forty-five minutes and thirty-six seconds.
There's a cramp in their right calf and their hips have locked up. They take another breath. Forty-five minutes and forty seconds.
"Looks uncomfortable," Castle observes.
Frankie shrugs again.
"You don't have to come out yet, but do you think you could try stretching your legs out?"
Frankie nods, and Castle moves over so they have enough room. They both wince as Frankie's joints pop, loud and painful. It hurts and the morning aches are sure to be hell, but it's better. Frankie hadn't realized how compressed they'd been until they finally get a decent breath. Ouch, they'd forgotten about the cracked ribs.
The whispers crescendo for a moment and Frankie scrubs at their ears with their palms, grumbling in frustration. It's not fair that hallucinations can trigger their sensory issues. They're not even real!
"You alright?"
Frankie huffs and drops their hands. "Whispers make my ears feel itchy. I hate that noise."
Castle looks confused but doesn't ask them to explain. Good, because Frankie's thoughts are more like macaroni than spaghetti at the moment with no threads to follow.
"What are five things you can see right now?" he asks.
Oh, this sounds familiar.
"Um– My legs? The floor?" There's a blue stain on the wood by their knee.
Castle nods and waits for them to continue.
"The cup and my bed."
"One more, kiddo."
"Nicky." She's slumped forward at the table, breathing evenly with her face smushed into her arms. Her hair looks like blood, so Frankie takes a deep breath and blinks really hard. It looks like hair again.
"What about four things you can hear?"
"You mean other than the voices?" Frankie asks bluntly. It makes Castle laugh.
"Yeah, other than that."
It takes a second for Frankie to focus, to take a deep breath and hear past the incessant whispering.
The lights are yellowy-green. Ancient fluorescent fixtures that flicker just a little bit, but Frankie hasn't bothered to replace. They're noisy.
"The lights are buzzing. I hate that sound too," they say. "It's raining outside. That’s a good noise."
Castle hums.
"Your voice." It sounds like gravel. Crashing waves and rumbling skies. It's nice. "And my neighbor's boom box." Gods, what an asshole. It's like 2 am.
"Now three things you can smell."
Frankie's nose is stuffy, but they do what they're told.
"Sweat," they answer. It smells sour and gross. They feel sticky with it. "I need to shower."
"Nicky's conditioner," it's subtle, especially from across the room, but Frankie catches it. "It's coconut."
Frankie breathes again and wrinkles their nose. "Your jacket smells like Max. You should wash that.”
Castle rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. "Okay then, smart-ass. Take off your gloves and tell me two things you can touch."
Anxiety prickles up their neck as the whispers try to distract them. They ignore it and pull off their gloves. Their hands aren't shaking as much anymore.
"My suit," they say, pinching the fabric between their fingers. "And the wall," they finish, brushing their knuckles along the surface.
"Okay, last one. What can you taste?"
"I dunno, my mouth? That one's dumb."
Castle shrugs. "Maybe. You gonna stay in that corner all night?"
Frankie thinks about it for a minute, biting the inside of their cheek. If they say yes, Castle won’t be mad. He can’t drag them out before they’re ready, even if he wants to. The corner is safe, but they can't stay forever. It's lonely and uncomfortable and boring.
Tentatively, Frankie starts to scoot out of the corner. It's a slow process. They're nervous and their body hurts. Road rash and bruising make themselves known once more, reminding Frankie that they recently got their ass beat by a megalomaniac wearing a fishbowl on her head. It's a slow process, but Castle waits patiently, and eventually Frankie makes it out into the open.
There's a foot of space between them and Castle, and suddenly that’s too far. So, they wrap their fingers around the edge of Castle's sleeve. The fabric is soft, and their eyes start to water again. Fuck.
"You weren't real before, were you? When you left?" It's phrased like a question, but Frankie knows the answer. They press their forehead into Castle's bicep. "You never called me a parasite."
Castle makes a sad noise. "No, sweetheart. That wasn't real."
"Promise?"
"I promise, Frankie. You're not a parasite, you're my family. Okay? I love you."
Frankie doesn't sob, if only because they're too fucking exhausted. Instead, they clutch tighter to Castle's sleeve and cry.
They cry, and Castle stays, mumbling soothing words and petting over their sweat-stiff hair.
"It's gonna be okay. Just let it out. I gotcha, kid," he says, and Frankie believes him.