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by ArtemideLamp

Summary:

Search and destroy. Clear and hold. Attrition warfare. It turns out to be one clusterfuck after another, unclear orders, Billy’s got sand in his eyes and his ears, even feels like it’s in his goddamn asscrack, he’s tired and thirsty but he’s not hungry at least and the best part is that he’s got Frank fucking Castle next to him through it all. Frank Castle is everything Billy has ever wanted to have and to be. He’s stoic masculinity, hard edges all over, taking stay frosty to new heights, a natural-born leader, a tactical genius, he is. And he’s always by Billy’s side.

---

Billy and Frank overseas and at home, before everything.

Notes:

Disclaimer: Characters’ opinions do not always reflect the author's opinions. Obviously.

Chapter 1

 

2006 - Afghanistan

“They gave us a shit detail,” Billy mumbles, sweat dripping down his brow and into his eyes. “Plus they even gave us this goddamn journo to keep our eyes on.” Billy glances at the man in question — Carl Evans. Evans’ helmet doesn’t fit him properly, he’s always clutching his stupid camera and carrying that little recording device. Apparently he works for Rolling Stone and wants to show the American public the real faces of the war and Billy thinks that’s a terrible idea. 

“Fucking hell, stop complaining,” Masterson says and gives Billy a pointed look. “I’d rather do this than sit on our asses in Zabul.”

He looks over to his new shooter — Frank Castle — and the dude looks serious as hell, like he’s never laughed a day in his life. “What about you, Castle?” Billy says. “Would you rather trudge through these fucking mountains days on end only to sit on our asses waiting for battalion or would you rather sit on our asses back in camp and wait for the Taliban to launch that offensive we’ve been warned about for months now?”

“Don’t say it like that,” Masterson groans but Castle doesn’t even dignify him with an answer, just gives Billy a sidelong glance and shrugs.

“If Command thinks we’re more useful here…” Castle says.

Billy throws his head back and squints at the skies. “Command doesn’t know shit,” he says under his breath. “Command looks at maps all day and gathers half-assed intel by the fucking Aussies and Brits and then they send our platoon up to the fucking mountains to freeze our nuts off when we should be in Helmand or Kandahar—”

Masterson grabs Billy’s vest and shakes him. “Quit your goddamn yapping before the sarge or the fucking journo hears you.” 

“Fine,” Billy holds out his hands placatingly, “Christ.”

 

/

 

They’ve set up camp for the night and Billy shares his tent with Castle. They go through their equipment, everything’s still set and smooth. He’s barely talked to the guy which annoys him because he was real close with his last shooter but he supposes you can’t always be lucky. At least Castle agreed to switch between shooting and spotting which Billy prefers though for this mission they agreed Frank be the shooter. The rifle is goddamn heavy so Billy feels a little smug that he doesn’t have to carry it this time.

Frank pulls out a small photograph of himself and a brunette smiling in some park.

“That your girl?” Billy asks because he’s nosy as shit.

“Wife, actually,” Frank says and Billy glances at his ringfinger which is glaringly ring-free. Frank notices and says, “I don’t like wearing it here. Don’t wanna lose it.” He wiggles the finger as he speaks and Billy nods. “What about yourself? Pretty boy like you.”

It might be the first time that Frank’s said anything remotely lighthearted and Billy chuckles in surprise. “Nah. Don’t wanna be tied down. I like my freedom.” He leans back in his cot and gives Frank his best smile. 

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. If you’re with the right woman, you’re not losing anything.”

“Ew,” Billy simply says and Frank shakes his head.

“What do you think of that Rolling Stone guy?” Frank asks as he’s pouring water into his MRE-bag. 

“Seems fine,” Billy says absentmindedly. “What you got there?”

Frank looks at the label. “Supposed to be mac’n’cheese,” he digs his fork in and takes a bite and grimaces. 

“I’ll trade you. I’ve got —” Billy rummages through his rations, “bolognese?” He holds up the package.

Frank grins. “Fuck yeah.”

 

/

 

After another day, they’ve finally reached their spot. It’s Billy and Frank, Masterson and Reyes, and McDonaghue (or McD as they call him — fitting for a big guy) and Garza… and Evans. 

They set up their mesh, Frank gets the rifle out, assembles it nice and quick, and Billy gets down next to him with his array of scopes. Evans lies down next to Billy and asks, “So, how long do these kinds of things usually take?”

Billy shoots him a real unimpressed look like what are you even doing here. “Dunno. Could be a day or two — could be several weeks.”

“It’s not gonna be several weeks,” Frank scoffs and stares down the scope. “The others’ll be here in three days and we’ll be support,” Frank pats the rifle to make his point and Evans nods. Billy still doesn’t trust the guy — he’s got an eager look in his eye and Billy is pretty sure Evans is just salivating to catch them doing something they’re not supposed to be doing so the cocksucking liberal media can pat his back and push their anti-war rhetoric. Doesn’t matter they all fanned the flames five years earlier. It’s all fucking politics at the end of the day. It’s all a big dick-measuring contest, Operation Enduring Freedom, this crusade, invoking quasi-religious imagery just to rile up the backwoods, sister-fucking, moonshine-drinking constituents as the Hollywood elites clutch their pearls while making movies about 9/11.

“You should give the guy a break,” Frank mutters after Evans has left and gone over to bother Reyes.

“He’s a fucking homo,” Billy says and Frank’s eyes go wide.

“How do you know?”

“He’s constantly checking out my ass.”

Frank laughs. “Now that just sounds like wishful thinking. Don’t say shit like that, Billy.”

“Why? It’s not like they can give him the blue slip.” Billy’s got his eyes locked on Evans. Evans is about forty maybe. Late thirties. Scruffy beard. Well-built for a pencil pusher. And he’s definitely been checking Billy out — giving him hungry looks in the mess hall. Problem is that Billy’s been looking right back. 

 

/

 

Just as Frank said, three days go by until 1st battalion arrives down in the village. The platoon provides sniper support. Frank and him are surprisingly efficient together. Billy’s really coming around to the guy. 

Evans is watching with apt fascination. At the foot of the mountain gunfire is echoing upwards, Billy’s on the spotting scope, giving Frank coordinates and wind directions, and Frank is a goddamn machine. They’re just about two klicks away and Frank never misses a single shot. “Fuckin’ A,” Billy says with smile on his face as Frank shoots a guy clean between the eyes.

Masterson taps them both on the shoulder. “Schoonover is calling in an air strike.”

“What? On the village?” Frank asks. 

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t that danger close?” 

Masterson shrugs and grins. “Since when does Schoonover care about danger close?” 

Billy and Frank both look through their scopes as they see 1st battalion scramble away and then they see the missiles landing, engulfing the village in flames, before they hear the sonic boom of fighter jets. The rest of the guys whoop but next to Billy, Evans gasps. “What about — the marines? Civilians?”

Billy swallows and tries to be as unmoved as possible when he says, “Battalion knows to haul ass and — there were no civilians.”

“How can you be sure?”

“It’s what I’ve been told,” Billy looks up from his scope to Evans who looks at him, mouth agape, wide-eyed. Billy leans in close and says, “This real enough for you?” Evans doesn’t respond and turns his gaze back down to what was once a village.

 

/

 

The way back is as uneventful as the way up. Frank and Billy are forced to share their tent with Evans one night — they’re tossing the guy back and forth between the three teams like a child of divorce. It annoys him because he’s getting closer and closer to Frank; he learns that Frank met the wife, Maria, in high school and that they live in a nice house in the suburbs of New York with a white picket fence and everything. Frank is as American as apple pie. The opposite of whatever life Billy is living. Drug addict mother, shitty and lonely childhood, dilapidated apartment in Williamsburg, and Billy will fuck just about anything with two legs. And so his mind drifts to Evans and his hungry eyes. They shouldn’t. But he knows they will. 

Evans is scribbling away in his little notebook and Billy asks, “So, what are you trying to prove here? You wanna win a Pulitzer or something?”

Evans raises his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t be opposed to that,” he says slow and sardonic, and Billy smirks as they stare at each other. 

Frank clears his throat, diffusing whatever tension was between them.

 

/

 

Back at camp, people are aimless, waiting, there are rumors of a new operation, of sending troops out. Billy is almost tingling in anticipation — finally something to fucking do. 

They’re in their bunks and Reyes is plucking away at the guitar, humming some tune, until Frank goes over to him and holds out his hand. Reyes raises an eyebrow and Frank just moves his hand in a gimme motion. 

“You even know how to play?” Reyes asks.

“Better than you, brother.”

“Fuck off,” Reyes grins and hands the guitar over. 

Billy is watching this exchange out of the corner of his eye, still pretending to read his book. It’s this French existentialist bullshit and the main character annoys Billy to the point of frustration. This dude never takes a goddamn stance on anything in his life. Fucking weak. Billy could never. He’d rather shoot himself, he thinks, than just let himself go with the flow and see where it takes him.

Frank sits down on his bunk next to Billy and Billy places the book on his face, closing his eyes, and folding his hands over his chest. Frank strums a few chords before a steady rhythm builds. Removing the book, Billy arches his eyebrow and dares to peek over at him; Frank’s got a smile on his face, head swaying slightly in time with the song.

“Motherfucker,” Masterson exclaims. “Why you been letting Reyes assault that poor instrument when we could’ve been listening to you?”

Reyes makes a noise of protest and Frank — Frank just looks Billy straight in the eyes. 

“Springsteen?” Billy asks and sits up.

Frank nods and hums along, sings a few words here and there. Billy sees the way confidence builds in Frank, keeping his eyes locked on Billy, and he starts singing more clearly and loudly until some of the others start to join him. It soon, of course, turns into jovial belting but it’s all the same. Frank grins big and wide and keeps glancing over at Billy and Billy nods at him, like yeah, I see you.  

The song ends, the men applaud and Frank stands up and bows. Billy comes up to him from behind and shakes him by the shoulders while leaning in and whispering, “Fuckin’ A, Frankie-boy.” 

Frank turns his head and their faces are so close and Reyes shouts, “Just kiss already.”

Billy grins and says, “And give you a free show? Absolutely not.” Frank laughs and puts his arm around Billy’s neck, rustling him a little. 

One of the captains enters their tent and they all stand at attention before being told that the Major wants them in HQ for a briefing. “Get ready, boys,” the Captain says, “we might finally see some fucking action.”

Schoonover’s already got the maps up, hands behind his back, his towering figure imposing as always. NATO has got a new operation for them, Schoonover tells them, Operation Mountain Thrust. The objective is to disrupt Taliban command structures and dissuade people from joining and weaken their overall influence. “In other words; we get to shoot some motherfuckers,” Schoonover says and a wave of excitement rolls through the men — adrenaline and too much testosterone make for a fucking nice cocktail, new-found energy, purposeful energy, crackling off every single guy in the room. “We’ll be with the Canadians in Kandahar and it’ll be search-and-destroy. Standard operating procedure — we all know how it goes by now. I expect scorched earth, gentlemen.” He shows them the area of engagement on the maps, lays out the who and what and where before telling them they’ll be out of here in two days. 

As they leave the HQ Billy sees Evans smoking, leaning up against one of the buildings, and he excuses himself.

Evans gives Billy a funny look before arching an eyebrow. “You wanna tell me where you all are going?”

“I can’t imagine I’m allowed to do that,” Billy says. “You’ll have to ask Command.”

“Then why come over here?”

“Maybe I want one of those,” Billy points to the cigarette resting between Evans’ thumb and index finger.

“Yeah? I don’t think that’s what you want.”

“Maybe not. But it’s all I can get. Out here, anyway.”

Evans hands him one and lights the cigarette for him, holding out his lighter, and Billy stares at him as he takes a drag. “Most marines do dip,” Billy tells him. “Tastes like shit.”

“Let me guess,” Evans says, “you want something different than the rest?”

Billy smirks. “We don’t have to keep talking in vague metaphors. But I’m not gonna tell you anymore about that because I don’t want you writing about it for your little magazine so all the fucking queers in New York and LA or whatever can feel real bad about the poor guy who has to hide who he really is from the big bad military daddy while fighting for his life in the geopolitical pissing contest.”

Evans doesn’t flinch at Billy’s words. “It doesn’t annoy you just a little? Your buddy Castle can talk all he wants about his wife and —”

“No. I don’t give a fuck,” Billy leans closer and grabs one of Evans’ belt loops with a finger, pulling him in. “And you don’t have to care about me, alright? That’s not what I’m looking for.”

Evans swallows. “What are you looking for?”

“Getting my dick wet,” Billy whispers and he knows it’s crude but again, Evans doesn’t flinch, instead he takes a deep breath, sucking on his cigarette. “And you get to fulfill your lifelong dream of fucking a guy in uniform.”

Evans’ eyes meet his and they both grin. “Lifelong, huh?”

“Yo, Billy,” Frank calls, pulling them out of their little bubble. Billy sighs and takes a step back. Evans looks like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar and Billy rolls his eyes. Frank comes up to them, hands behind his back, standing at fucking attention in front of the journo, always so prim and proper, that Frank Castle. Billy wants to — wants to — he’s not sure. Mess him up. Rough him up. Get him dirty. See what makes him tick. Evans smokes the last of his cigarette, taking such a deep and anxious drag that it almost burns the tips of his fingers and Billy suddenly regrets ever wanting to be anywhere near Evans’ dick because right now he looks so feeble in comparison to Frank. Evans takes his leave and Billy turns to Frank and asks him what the hell he wants.

“You really should cut that shit out. Certainly not on base —”

“Eh. It’s not like anyone’s gonna ask,” Billy says and takes a pull of the cigarette.

“Nobody needs to ask if you’re caught with your pants down,” Frank gives him a very serious look before scanning Billy’s body up and down. “I didn’t figure you for a — you know…”

Billy chuckles. “I’m not. I’m… adventurous — an equal opportunist,” he says victoriously. “You know, what it all comes down to — a hole is a hole.”

Frank pulls a face. “That’s such a disgusting way to put it. Like actually vile.” He’s shaking his head in disbelief and laughs awkwardly. 

“We can’t all be romantics like you.”

Frank sighs and pauses. “Yeah, well…”

“Don’t tell me there’s trouble in paradise?”

“No, no. She just worries. And I don’t know how to comfort her. It’s not like her fear is unfounded. Schoonover and that fucking air strike.” Frank puts his hands on his hips and kicks at the small rocks on the ground.

“Schoonover is a hard-ass.  But I trust him.” Billy takes another drag and Frank watches his mouth as he exhales and Billy’s mind races in all sorts of directions because Frank has never looked at him like that before. 

“I thought you didn’t like command all that much,” Frank’s voice is all hoarse sounding as he speaks and Billy hollows his cheeks just a little as he sucks on the filter of the cigarette. 

He blows the white smoke out of the side of his mouth and holds the cigarette up between his thumb and index finger. “You know what the Brits call these? Fags. Colour me surprised when one of the English lieutenants —” Billy smiles as he puts on a horrible cockney accent and pronounces it the British way (lef-tenants) “— asked me if he could bum a fag. I thought perhaps they had different regulations over there than we do. You never know with those Europeans and their loose morals.”

Frank shakes his head again and lets out a short laugh. “You’re gonna get me in trouble, Russo.”

“Why?” Billy asks and tilts his head to the side. Their eyes meet and he grins as he sees about a hundred thoughts wash over Frank’s expression. Billy flicks his cigarette to the ground and snuffs it out with a press of his boot. “I don’t think I could make you do anything you don’t want to do, Frankie-boy.” He doesn’t miss the way Frank’s jaw clenches.

“I’m gonna go — to bed,” Frank says and turns on his heel. Billy smiles to himself and tilts his head back, looking at the perfectly clear night sky.

 

/

 

Two days later they head out. Search and destroy. Clear and hold. Attrition warfare. It turns out to be one clusterfuck after another, unclear orders, Billy’s got sand in his eyes and his ears, even feels like it’s in his goddamn asscrack, he’s tired and thirsty but he’s not hungry at least and he’s never felt more like himself. And the best part is that he’s got Frank fucking Castle next to him through it all. Frank Castle is everything Billy has ever wanted to have and to be. He’s stoic masculinity, hard edges all over, taking stay frosty to new heights, a natural-born leader, tactical genius, he is. And he’s always by Billy’s side. Always clasping his shoulder, always smiling when Billy says “Fuckin’ A, Frankie-boy,” always appraising, always a cool, predatory gaze on his face. And Billy will look at him and nod like yeah, I see you. He’s not really sure when they started seeking each other’s approval but it happened and he’s never felt more like he belonged to someone. 

While Frank is capable, everything else is a damn mess. The pure ineptitude of some of the fellow marines is honestly frightening and Billy takes a page out of Frank’s book and keeps a cool facade, though internally he knows this whole thing is just powder keg that’s waiting to blow. 

He’s leaning against the humvee when Frank comes up next to him and says a quiet, “Hey, man.”

Billy just nods and stares back at the collection of houses they’ve just raided for insurgents. “We shouldn’t be wasting our fucking time here, chasing people who don’t matter. McD told me about the attacks in the cities in Kandahar and Helmand. How come we’re up in the fucking mountains again?”

Frank clears his throat and looks around them. “You ever heard of the Dunning-Kruger effect?” he asks with a small grin on his face. “It’s the — tendency for people to overestimate their knowledge and abilities in areas they’re not really all that skillful in, you know?”

“Frank Castle,” Billy breathes incredulously and gasps for dramatic effect, “are you calling Command stupid?”

“I’d never do such a thing.”

Billy chuckles. “Fuckin’ A.” But after a week of stewing in his own juices, exhausted down to the bone, surrounded by his marines’ sweat, paranoid fears, pent-up raunchiness, and patriotic aggression, Billy is starting to question Command's decision-making process and the Strategic Plan more than ever. 

“Another few days and then we get to go back to base for a break,” Frank says. “Can’t wait to call Maria. You really ain’t got nobody to call?”

Billy shakes his head. “Dad’s gone, mom’s…” he scoffs, a hollow, bitter sound, “mom’s a fucking crackwhore who left me outside a firestation —”

“Shit, Billy, I’m so sorry —”

“Not your fault,” Billy says, keeping his eyes locked on the horizon. He can’t look at Frank right now. “Not anybody’s fault but hers. And anyways,” he clears his throat and forces his gaze to meet Frank’s, “I think I’ve done alright for myself.”

Frank wraps an arm around Billy’s shoulders, shaking him a little. “Yeah. Fuck yeah, you did. And you got me. I’ll always have your back, man.”

A warm feeling spreads throughout him. Because it’s true, isn’t it? He’s got Frank and Frank’s got him.

The next morning they head out for another settlement except this time the others have got fucking RPG’s and are waiting for them. Word spreads around, he guesses. He’s crouched behind rubble with Frank to his right, always to his right. The whole thing is cleared hot the second the other side starts firing and then it happens — 

A blinding pain sears through Billy’s head in an instant and he’s knocked onto his back, his neck snapping with such a force he’s never felt before. Frank is on him in an instant, his face swimming into view, clear blue skies above him. Frank’s eyes are wide, and his mouth open, and he grabs Billy’s face and Billy mutters, “I’m okay, I’m okay,” he repeats over and over,  “I’m okay.” Frank smooths his thumb over Billy’s forehead, shaking and trembling. “Am I okay?” Billy says, voice finally wavering.

“Yeah. Yeah. You’re okay, Billy.”

“What the fuck happened?” he rasps.

“You were fucking — you took a bullet to the helmet.”

“What the fuck.”

“Yeah,” Frank laughs, disbelieving and relieved. “What the fuck.”

 

/

 

The brush with death has Billy tingling all the way to the tips of his damn toes. The doc checks him out, clears him, he’s not even got a concussion, if anything his neck might hurt a little from the recoil. Billy can absolutely live with that. 

They’re back at base and everyone clampers to the showers, it’s not exactly dignified, sharing a shower with twenty other men, everyone is eager to get the dirt and stink out of every crevice in their body so no one gives a shit about dignity and decorum.

Billy seeks out Evans the minute he can. Evans is sat at one of the benches with some other marine and is scribbling in his stupid little book, recording device between them, and Billy stops and decides to just watch for a second. He’d much rather have it off with Frank but Frank’s not quite there yet — Billy’s not sure he ever will be and maybe that’s fine too. He will never forget the look in Frank’s eyes when Billy was shot in the head. It was pure panic. No better way to describe it. That’s gotta count for something. Thinking about Frank is an itch, and Billy is filled with a violent need to scratch. It’s gone beyond the mere sexual — that seems to undermine the raw feeling Billy senses. No, he wants to own. And Frank is so good, so fucking good, with his picture-perfect life and Billy just wants to be a part of it, maybe. Maybe he’s just tired of his shitty condo and his shitty mom and his shitty food and everything else that’s shitty in his life — and there’s a lot — and maybe he just wants Frank to care enough to ask him to come over when they’re on block leave and have Maria cook something, something homemade, something made from scratch and then he’ll sit on the porch with Frank, drinking beers, and Maria will sit on Frank’s lap, drinking wine, maybe they’ll even kiss in front of him and Billy will watch and he’ll sense the kiss through them and maybe, maybe he’ll even get to watch them fuck, watch Frank bend his beautiful wife over the furniture and watch pleasure twist her face. Yeah. That’s what he wants. 

“Hey,” Evans’ approach startles Billy out of his dream.

He clears his throat. “Hey. Let’s go.”

“Where to?”

Billy doesn’t answer, just walks. He doesn’t peek over his shoulder to see if Evans is following him. He walks all the way to the furthest mess hall, the one that’s rarely in use, finds the supply closet and drags Evans inside with him.

“Yeah?” Evans asks. “You sure?”

“Fuck yes, I’m sure.”

Evans sinks down to his knees, fumbling with Billy’s fly, and Billy tilts his head back against the door, thankful that Evans doesn’t waste time with kissing or other shit. Billy wasn’t lying when he said he was an opportunist. Problem is that there aren’t many opportunities in his current situation. So a near middle-aged limp-wristed liberal arts cuck like Evans isn’t bad, all things considered. Billy doesn’t really give a shit about who sticks what where, it all feels good. A hole is a hole and a mouth is a mouth and Christ, Evans wraps his mouth around Billy’s cock and it’s the best thing he’s felt in a long time. A quick combat jack with a magazine that’s sticky because all the other guys have had a go too is fine, but man. Having a go like this is incomparable. 

“Fuck — you gotta be — breaking some kind of journalistic code of ethics or something,” Billy breathes as he opens his eyes and stares down at Evans who simply smirks and sucks harder, pressing the pad of his fingers at Billy’s rim and it’s too dry but it’s still so good and Billy keens over, thrusting a little into the warm, wet mouth. “Shit — gonna come,” he gasps and then he does and Evans — the clever man — knows to swallow because there isn’t really anything to clean up with. 

He leans against the door and Evans even tucks him back in, pulls up his zipper and everything before rising to his feet and grinning. “You going to return the favour?”

“God yeah,” Billy says and does. 

Evans doesn’t last nearly as long as Billy had hoped but it’s fine. Billy wipes his mouth with his hand and stares at Evans before saying, “You write about this, I’m going to fucking sue you for defamation or libel or whatever and then I’m going to kill you.” 

Evans holds up both hands and laughs. “Don’t worry. This wouldn’t exactly look good for me either.”

Billy grins. “No? You don’t want your readers to know about your hot homosexual affair forged in the mountains of a righteous and patriotic war?”

“When you put it like that — it would probably sell good.”

“Yeah. Get you that Pulitzer.”

Evans laughs again. “Yeah,” he pulls out his packet of cigs as they step outside again. “You want one?”

Billy nods, Evans gives him one, they look at each other one last time and then Evans heads off. Billy waits a few minutes before following.

He lights the cigarette and stares at the mountains in the distance. The sun is setting and it coats everything in a pinkish hue — a more emotionally inclined person might even call it beautiful. 

Billy sees Frank approaching him and gives him a nod. 

“Didn’t actually take you for a smoker,” Frank says.

“I’m not. Evans offered again,” after I fed him my cock and made him swallow it all Billy doesn’t say though he wants to. He wants to see how Frank would react. Disgusted? Intrigued? Horny? Frank is always so fucking cool and collected — Billy wants to see how to make that façade crumble. He wants to poke the bear until the bear bites back. 

He’s watching Frank from the corner of his eyes and Frank is shifting back and forth on his feet, seemingly nervous. “Don’t worry, Frankie-boy. Cancer won’t get me. I’m sure I’ll die too young for that shit to develop anyways.” He places one hand over his heart and grins. 

“Maria’s pregnant,” Frank blurts.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Billy says. “Or, congratulations. Whichever you prefer.”

Frank gives him a long look before muttering a quiet “Thanks.”

“Wait. How far along is she? When did you see her last?”

“Oh, fuck you for implying anything like that,” Frank gets up close in Billy’s face. “I should knock your fucking teeth out.”

Billy holds out his hands in surrender. “I’m just saying, man —” He barely gets to finish the sentence before Frank shoves him and Billy falls on his ass. Excitement surges through him and he leers at Frank and, fuck, he would love a fight but people are already rushing to them, grabbing Frank by the shoulders. Frank shakes them off, saying he’s alright, that he won’t do it again. He’s staring down at Billy the whole time and Billy is staring right back, seeing the way tension ripples through  Frank’s face and body and it’s so obvious that it actually annoys Billy; of course the tipping point is the man’s wife. How trite.  

Frank extends a hand and Billy takes it, letting Frank help him get up on his feet again. Frank doesn’t let go of his hand though — he holds onto Billy, a steady and strong grip engulfing his hand. Billy meets Frank’s gaze and he can see the exact moment Frank surrenders. 

“Sorry,” Frank mumbles.

“Yeah. Me too,” Billy tells him. 

That night Billy dreams of white picket fences and lush, green gardens and barbecues with the Castles.

 

/

 

Frank finds Billy cleaning his humvee. They’ve apologized a few times by now, Billy saying he didn’t mean anything by it, and Frank had said sure did sound like you were insinuating a few things there, brother, and Billy would apologize again and say, look, man, I didn’t exactly grow up in a normal fucking household, I’m sorry, I’m used to every man for himself. And then Frank had gotten this look in his eyes, real sincere and sad, and then he had said alright, alright. 

“Hey,” Billy says.

“Hey,” Frank says and whistles. “I don’t think you can get that thing any cleaner.”

Billy chuckles. “Need it functional.”

Frank nods and looks very serious all of a sudden and Billy thinks, fuck, he’s about to cuss me out again, but Frank says, “You know, we’ve got leave in a weeks time. You — you going back stateside?”

“Not sure,” Billy wipes his hands on his cargos.

“Well. You should come over. Maria’ll cook something nice.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, man. It’ll be good.”

“You sure your pregnant wife wants me there?”

“Oh, fuck off. She feels like she knows you by now — by how much I talk about you.”

Billy grins. “You talk about me?”

“‘Course. You’re my goddamn brother. Wouldn’t want it any other way. Come over for dinner. Some beers.”

“Thank you. I will.”

Frank smiles big and wide in a way he rarely does and Billy thinks, yeah, he’s got Frank Castle right where he wants him.

 

 

Chapter 2

Notes:

So. I did not plan for this to be a multi-chaptered fic but the comments on the previous chapter were so incredibly encouraging.
Also, I love writing Billy Russo, our beautiful princess with a disorder, our problematic king.

Bon appétit, enjoy, and happy readings.

 

New York — 2008

Maria welcomes him with open arms because of course she does, she’s six months pregnant the first time he sees her back in 2006, got a four-year-old clinging to her legs, but she’s radiant and sweet and Frank fusses over her as she tells him she can damn well reach the fine glasses on the top shelf herself, big ol’ belly or not.

And so Billy comes over each time they’re on leave, Frankie Jr. is still so little but Lisa grows up, calls him Uncle Billy, he goes with them to the park, drinks beers with Frank and Maria in the evenings, Maria can swear like a sailor and run her mouth in a way that makes Frank stumble over his words, she and Billy take great pleasure in making Frank squirm. Sometimes he’ll fall asleep on their couch and Maria will kiss him on his cheek and put a blanket over him. In the mornings he’ll apologise, didn’t mean to, guess I had one too many. Frank’ll say, nonsense brother, you can stay as long as you want, you know we love you.

He’s ringing their doorbell now, warm June evening, bottle of white wine in one hand, six-pack of pilsners in the other. Frank opens.

“Billy. My man.”

They hug, Billy feels Frank’s solid body next to his, lets his hand slide along the expanse of his shoulders. He does it a lot, sometimes more so than other times, and Frank lets him — lets Billy’s hand linger on the nape of his neck, lets him slap his knee when he tells a joke, lets him hold him by the elbow. In return, Frank will wrap his arm around Billy’s shoulders, and it’s just the brotherly way to do it, just some friendly jostling, but Billy will think about it until Frank does it again. 

“Maria’s making chicken parm,” Frank says as they make their way inside.

Lisa runs at him and Billy hoists her up, carrying her in one arm. “You getting heavy,” Billy huffs and Lisa sticks her tongue out at him. 

“Yes, great, thank you, give our daughter body image issues,” Maria’s drying her hands in a tea towel. She kisses Billy on the cheek. 

“I’m just saying — she’s getting bigger every time I see her.”

“Children do tend to do that, preferably,” Maria winks at him and walks back into the kitchen.

Billy moves through the living room and Lisa’s prattling his ear off about school, until Frank tells her, quiet now, don’t wanna scare off Uncle Billy, do ya? Billy puts her down and she runs out into their garden.

Frank hands him a beer. “You put a swing up,” Billy says. 

“Yeah, Lisa kept asking for one, so,” Frank sips his beer and stares at the little plank, fastened to a tree branch with sturdy rope. 

“Looks good,” Billy says. Looks fucking idyllic, looks goddamn pastoral, is what it does.

Billy glances around, there are toys everywhere, Frankie Jr. is sitting in one of those kiddie chairs, some kind of porridge smeared all over his chubby cheeks, looking as happy as a pig in shit. And there in the bookshelf, there it is; Whose War Anyway? Inside The Frontlines of America’s Holy War by Carl Evans. Billy picks it out and flips through the pages. 

“You bought it,” he says. 

Frank snaps it out of his hands, opens the second page, signed by Evans. “He sent it to me,” Frank raises an eyebrow, “He sent you one too?”

Billy nods. “Sure.”

Evans published the book about a year and a half after his little stint with them. Masterson bought a copy and read it aloud for the platoon whenever he got the chance. Billy was sweating bullets when he read it the first time, nervous that Evans’d be stupid enough to hint at anything but thankfully not. In fact, Billy was barely mentioned at all, which in turn almost had the inverse effect of what was probably intended. 

How come he don’t talk about you, Reyes had said, I thought you got along with his pretentious ass, something happen between you? 

Nah, nothing happened, Billy had said, guess he liked you more, and Reyes had responded, yeah he better, I gave him my best MREs.

I don’t like how he writes about us, man, McD had complained, he makes us sound real fuckin’ gay. 

Being a soldier is kinda homoerotic, Reyes had said in a very contemplative tone like he was being sincere, we’re taking showers together constantly, telling each other when we go out to jerk off —

Reyes, do us all a favour and shut the fuck up.

So. Billy has a signed copy at home that he got four months before it was published.

Dinner is good. It’s always good when he’s here. Afterwards, they put the kids to sleep and Billy sits on their porch, staring at the swing, looking real picturesque.

“You know, Billy,” Maria starts as she pours them some more wine, “if you’re — seeing someone… you could bring them over.”

“If I’m seeing someone,” Billy repeats and glances over at Frank, who pointedly looks away and sips at his wine. 

“It’d be nice,” she says, smiles.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not. Seeing someone, that is.” 

Maria fidgets a little and casts a questioning look towards Frank. 

“Frank,” Billy says and leans forward, elbows on the table, “you got something you wanna say?”

Frank shrugs and he tries to play it cool, but Billy knows him well enough to know he’s a little nervous. “Nah. Just… I don’t care what you do when we’re on leave, you know? It doesn’t matter.” He stares at Billy now, clearly hoping to get a point across.

Billy squints, wants to tell him to fuck off. “Well, I’m here most of the time, aren’t I? Haven’t got the time to go around chasing tail.” He can’t imagine ever bringing another person here, doesn’t want to, this is his, this for him, nobody else is allowed to be here, he doesn’t want to share this with anybody. And he doesn’t understand why they’d want to destroy this little piece of heaven by introducing some unknown person into it. 

“We were just wondering,” Maria says and gives him an apologetic smile. “I’m gonna go get us another bottle.” She walks back inside and Frank and Billy follow. Billy sits down on the couch with a groan, holding his glass in one hand, rubbing at his cheeks with the other. When he looks up, Frank is kissing Maria.

Billy’s staring because of course he is, how could he not. He’s seeing the way Frank’s got one hand on the nape of her neck, travelling downwards until it grabs her waist, the other hand cups her face. Maria leans into it, Frank can probably feel her tits against him. Billy’s gaze goes back up and — and Frank is staring at him. There’s an itch along Billy’s spine to do something, anything. He never was good at keeping still. He smiles, keeps eye contact, spreads his legs wider while leaning back and taking a sip of his wine. A quick look of confusion flashes across Frank’s face before he closes his eyes again and then he’s squeezing her ass. Billy exhales slowly and maybe he should feel bad for staring but, well, nothing about what’s going on inside his brain feels bad — in fact it feels very fucking good. It’s not like he wants her. Or wants Frank. At least not like that. He’s perfectly fine just watching, observing. He’s got both of them right here and they care, they keep telling him they care, so they gotta be telling the truth, and Billy’s stiffening a little in his pants. 

He gets up, heads for the nearest bathroom, locks the door behind him. A brief flash of hesitation tells him it’s probably a little rude to jerk off in his best friend’s house but a louder voice in his head tells him he’s got a hard-on that won’t go away by itself. Jacking off here also sends excitement right through Billy’s body, like it’s a proverbial marking of territory, a claiming of land. He suppresses his groan as he comes and he washes his hand, washes his dick for good measure, and flushes the evidence down the toilet. When he enters the living room again both Frank and Maria are looking flushed and her skirt is a little rumpled and Billy thinks maybe he shouldn’t’ve run off. 

“You — you headed home?” Frank asks. 

Billy swallows down nothing and he feels… he feels fucking rejected, is what he feels. “Sure,” he says. “Sure, yeah, I’m headed home.”

 

/

 

Billy closes the door behind him, his feet carry him to the couch where Evans is sitting, reading, and he drops to his knees, takes the book out of Evans’ hands and says, “Fuck me.” 

Evans smiles. “Yeah. Get on the bed.”

Billy can’t get his clothes off fast enough, he’s all keyed up, needs to get his brains fucked out. He’s stark naked on the bed when Evans saunters over, takes off his own clothes and gets on top of him. Billy grins, wide, “Let me suck your cock.”

Evans makes a little noise. “Christ, Billy,” but he doesn’t complain just rolls over and Billy gets down, sucks him in his mouth, enjoys the way his mind goes blank. He can’t let his brain go blank any other time — he always needs to be alert, always needs to be ready, always needs to look out for his marines. But here, well, it’s tough to focus on much else. 

Evans grabs him by the hair and pulls him off, “Get on all fours,” he tells him and Billy does. He works him open but Billy is impatient, thrusts back, says, come on, haven’t got all night. And by now Evans knows him well enough to not question Billy’s boundaries, mostly because there are none, so he slides in slowly despite Billy’s body protesting but fuck, if he doesn’t like it, that little bit of pain. Evans fingers trace along Billy’s side, asking without asking.

“Yeah,” Billy grits out, “harder.”

Evans pounds into him and Billy thinks about — oh, who is he kidding, he thinks about Frank, thinks about the way Frank had looked at him, thinks about the way Maria had touched him, thinks about dinner, thinks about the swing in their backyard, thinks about them kissing. Behind him, Evans is panting, and says, “Fuck, get on top of me.”

They switch positions, Evans on his back and Billy sinks down on him, feels fucking amazing, he likes putting on a show, and Evans always says some porny bullshit like you ride me so well or look at you, drooling for it or come on, fuck yourself on my cock and it never fails to send shivers down Billy’s spine and he can’t help but feel appreciated. 

When it’s over, they’re both sweaty and gross and Billy’s legs are goddamn shaking. 

“You know,” Evans is sitting on the windowsill in nothing but his underwear, smoking out of the open window, “I have a friend who has an exhibition this weekend. Photography. Thought you might like to come too.”

“Now why would you think that,” Billy is still on the bed, eyes closed, sighs, “I’m not going to your fucking gay art show.”

Evans laughs. “I didn’t say she was gay.”

“It’s Justine,” Billy says and Evans makes a sound like he knows that explains it all. “Plus — all your friends are New York liberal-arts, wannabe-intellectual, drag-show-loving gays.” 

“Big words for a guy who just had a dick in his ass.” 

“I’m a complex person,” Billy says and opens his eyes, peers over at Evans. He looks pretty good like that, illuminated by the orange streetlights. “Multifaceted, even.”

“You’re not the first guy to be both homosexual and homophobic. Sorry,” Evans grins.

Billy gets up and moves into Evans’ space, hooks a finger under the waistband. “I take great offence to both of those.”

“Oh I’m sure,” Evans leans closer and kisses him, tastes of tobacco and sperm, Billy moans a little into it, opens his mouth, lets Evans push his tongue inside. Evans pulls back, offers Billy a cigarette which he doesn’t take. Evans clears his throat. “Come on, Billy. You — you’re always here whenever you’re back stateside, you have a key, for fuck’s sake.”

Billy groans and flops back down on the bed. “Do not give me the what are we —”

“Did you hear me say any of those words? You’ve been pretty honest about what I can expect from you,” Evans’ voice sounds bitter all the same, “You’ve been showing up at my door for two years now. I’m sorry if I’m expecting just the tiniest bit more.”

Billy chews on the inside of his cheek, says, “Well what more do you want? Because I’m not going to that fucking art show.”

Evans crawls up on top of him, pins Billy’s hands over his head, and Billy’s dick reacts instantly — traitorous thing. “Fine, don’t come to the fucking art show, I won’t make you, you know I won’t. But at least, I don’t know, talk to me. Tell me how you’re doing. That kind of shit. Let me in a little.”

Billy rolls his hips upwards, their cocks brushing against each other. “Yeah, I’ll let you in, alright.”

Evans chuckles, grips tighter, “You’re so fucking annoying.”

“Better make me shut up then.”

And Evans knows exactly how.

 

/

 

He and Frank and Maria are attending McDonaghue’s birthday party when McD announces he isn’t going back. “I’m done, motherfuckers,” he says and holds his beer up for a toast. “No more tours, no more sand, no more mountains, I’m done-so.”

Billy gives Frank a long look as in no fucking way, Frank chuckles into his bottle and nods. Yeah, he doesn’t believe it either. Once you’re in, you’re never really out. McD seems pretty damn convinced otherwise. 

“What are you even going to do?” Billy asks.

McD shrugs. “Gonna enroll in the police academy.”

Billy looks at him disbelieving. “No fucking way, man. You wanna get paid even less? I’m pretty sure the working conditions are worse too.”

“Hey, at least I’m sticking to the familiar, right?” McD grins, all toothy. He’s from North Carolina originally and he’s never looked more cornfed and hickish than he does now, belly protruding just a little, arms big and strong, goddamn straw-coloured hair and all. But the wife’s from New Jersey so he moved here for her — Billy thinks McD is the type of guy who’d never set foot in a city but complain about it all the same. “It’s gonna be just like over there; me, my back up, and my gun against groups of America-hating gangs that don’t speak English. Except instead of Pashto, they speak fucking Mexican.” 

Frank shakes his head. “Christ, McD, ease it up a little.”

“Yeah,” Billy chuckles. “You gotta expand your worldview a little — some of the gangs are Chinese or Russian or Dominican — I think the Polish are pretty active too. Is the Italian mob still a thing?”

McD waves them off. “It won’t matter. They’ll all meet the barrel of a gun,” he says and raises his hand, pretends to shoot Billy with finger guns and then blows at the imaginary smoke coming from the tips of his fingers.

“May God help us,” Frank mutters.

Billy just kind of sticks to Frank’s and Maria’s side the whole evening as they do their rounds, making meandering small-talk. They know most of the people here, they’ve all served together or still do. He puts a hand on Maria’s shoulder and whispers dirt about the guys, that one, he cried when we watched those Harry Potter films, that guy, he shit his pants one time, and that one, he’s about to leave his wife for a stripper. She laughs and Frank glances over at them. He looks — satisfied, maybe. If they could stay like this, Billy’d be happy forever. He squeezes her waist as he catches Frank’s eye and leans in, says he’ll get them some more to drink.

He’s by the cooler getting beers when someone comes up next to him. Long brown hair, a skirt that somehow accentuates her ass, low cut blouse that shows just enough but still leaves to the imagination. Nothing slutty but still inviting. Billy takes the invitation, holds out his hand, and introduces himself.

“Boudreaux,” she shakes his hand, got a good grip, “Christina.” A strong Louisiana drawl underlines her words and Billy smiles, it’s charming, if a little simple sounding.

“You a marine, Boudreaux?”

She shakes her head, “Was just in the plain, regular army. Nothin’ so fancy as yourself. Marine platoon leader, right?” 

Billy shrugs nonchalantly, clings to one word, “Was?”

She runs a hand through her hair and Billy sees the fancy watch, Cartier, diamond earrings sparkling too. “Yeah. I’m in the private sector now—”

“Private?”

She chuckles. “Nobody ever told you it’s rude to interrupt?” Billy can’t stop looking at her watch, speckled with gold and rhinestones and it might be tacky to someone else but for Billy it’s like watching the toy commercials as a kid, marvelling at all the stuff he knows he’ll never get. 

“I’m simply making conversation,” he says, smirks. “Tell me what’s it like — in the private sector.”

“Oh, I reckon it’s how you imagine; a little wetwork here and there, but mostly it’s security for rich assholes, pays real well.”

He nods. She exudes confidence, the kind of confidence well-off people have, the kind who don’t have to worry about nothing, Billy has seen it his whole life, looked at it from afar, studied it, wanted it. 

He continues talking with her, flirts, because her tits are awesome, sometimes she even says something funny but mostly he’s looking at her watch. They sneak off to the upstairs bathroom and she pounces him the second they close the door, kisses him hungrily, bites his earlobe and whispers, I haven’t been fucked proper in a long time, so Billy lifts her skirt, fingers her until she’s clawing at the sink, she gasps, have you got a condom, and he does, in his wallet. He turns her around and fucks her from behind. It’s a great view, seeing her in the mirror, her tits bouncing with his thrusts, his own face, his muscles, she squeaks, which is — annoying, so he clasps a hand around her mouth to shut her up. Fucks her like maybe he’s making up for something, like maybe he’s overcompensating a little, and not because she asked, but because Evans wants him steady, which is ridiculous. First of all because he simply can’t and second of all because he knows people will respect him less if he’s perceived as an actual faggot. 

He comes, groans into the back of her head, pulls out and throws the condom in the trash, covers it with some toilet paper and prays that McD won’t see it. 

“Hope that was proper enough for you?” he says, a little breathless. 

“God yeah.”

He feels invigorated in a way he hasn’t in a long time, he hasn’t actually fucked a pussy in a while so maybe that’s what’s been missing. He’s mostly been taking it with Evans because it feels damn good and he’s not one to be ashamed of his desires but maybe Evans is getting the wrong idea about what kind of person Billy is, asking him to go to art shows and shit. Maybe he should just bend Evans over for once but even then it’s like Evans always knows exactly how Billy is feeling and what he wants and how to give it to him. 

Honestly, he’s glad he and Frank will never have a go because it leaves him way too vulnerable. Whenever he and Evans fuck it’s as if he’s transparent — all his thoughts out in the open, and he never wants Frank to actually see him like that.  No, they got a good thing going on, the way things are. Frank is his brother, they’re fighting side by side, not for glory and fatherland, but for each other. Billy joined the army because what else was he supposed to do. He was eighteen when the towers were hit, saw his city covered in ash, the stink of burned bodies that permeated Manhattan for weeks, it seemed as good of a time as any. If people asked why he signed up he’d say that’s why, instead of the actual reason; restlessness, the itch to do anything, the itch to put his body to use, the itch to serve.

Both Frank and Maria smirk at him when he comes back down the stairs. “I’m going home. Tired,” he says and runs right past them before they can offer to drive him or something like that. He doesn’t think he can stomach sitting in a car with them right about now. 

He doesn’t return to Evans’ place either, just takes a cab all the way home and massively regrets it when he gets the bill. He keeps to himself the following week, dodges Evans’ calls, sends a message to Frank asking him if they’re still going to park with the kids on Sunday, and then spends every night going to bars and fucking women in the bathroom stalls or getting bad blowjobs in the alley behind whatever club he was in. And he knows he’s definitely overcompensating now, and he’s vaguely embarrassed by it, but he’s got this energy inside him that borderlines aggression and he can’t really face anyone he knows at the moment. 

Friday night, he’s drunk as all hell but there’s this pretty blonde who keeps batting her eyelashes at him so he ends up going home with her, eats her out until she comes and then she rides him with such vigor that he’s afraid she’ll snap his dick in half. He barely manages to come and it doesn’t even feel that good, if he’s being honest. When he stumbles out of her apartment just 40 minutes later he realises he’s in the Village and he’s only about four blocks from Evans’ place. He laughs at the realisation.

The key just doesn’t seem to want to go in and Billy accidentally slams his forehead against the door as well before Evans opens, wide-eyed. 

“Fuck — Billy, what the fuck — I thought someone was breaking in.”

“So you just open the door for them?” 

Billy’s feet are heavy as he makes his way inside. Evans is looking pretty damn sexy and Billy shoves into him and kisses him. Evans kisses him back for a minute before pulling away with a grimace. “You could’ve at least chewed some gum or something — you stink of pussy.”

Billy grins. “How would you know?” 

Evans gives him a cold look. “Just go brush your fucking teeth — better yet, take a damn shower.” 

“You joining?” Billy wiggles his eyebrows at him and Evans just pushes him in the direction of the bathroom. 

The warm water feels good and he stays under the spray a little longer than necessary, hoping that Evans will come in eventually but he doesn’t. When he gets out and crawls under the covers next to Evans, he kisses between his shoulder blades and presses his chest against Evans’ back. 

“Are you mad?” Billy says, he’s still feeling a little loose and drunk. “Don’t be mad, baby.” 

Evans bristles. “I ask you to give me just an inch more and you decide to — what…? Ignore me for a week and then come here after you’ve fucked someone else?” 

Dread creeps up Billy’s body and he wraps his arms around Evans. “Don’t be mad,” he says again but this time it comes out pretty stern. He tightens his grasp and Evans sucks in a struggling breath. “Don’t leave me.”

“Billy — I can’t breathe —”

He buries his face in the crook of Evans’ neck, feeling his rapid pulse against his lips. “Don’t leave me.”

“Billy —” He releases him and Evans inhales deeply, turns around and looks at him with concerned eyes. “Don’t do that again,” Evans says and his voice is very even. Billy’s vision begins to swim a little. “Go to sleep and we’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Billy doesn’t want to talk about it in the morning but sleep settles around him so fast and before he knows it he’s long gone.

When he wakes the next day his head is killing him and he’s alone. His eyes feel crusty and he thinks he can feel a bump forming on his forehead and all in all, he’s feeling pretty sorry for himself. He drags himself to the kitchen and Evans isn’t here either and Billy feels betrayed; he came here drunk, looking for comfort (That’s what he was doing? He’s pretty sure.) and then Evans makes him shower alone and doesn’t want to kiss him and doesn’t want to be there when he wakes up either and Billy should’ve expected as much from a fucking thirty-eight year-old loser and Billy’s twenty-six, he could probably find someone fitter, like that crazy blonde from last night that he has vague memories about.

Billy’s so caught up in his thoughts he barely registers Evans entering the apartment. 

“Brought you breakfast,” Evans says, voice a little distant and cool, and Billy looks at him — really takes him in as he starts unpacking his grocery bags, his shaggy hair, and his loose jeans, his muscles straining his t-shirt.

“Don’t leave me,” Billy says again. He wants to dig a hole in the ground and disappear into it.

Evans turns around and he’s got a startled look on his face. “What —” he sighs. “I’m not. I’d just rather you talk to me than pull whatever bullshit you just pulled. I get you have your hang ups, don’t we all, but don’t fucking take it out on me like that. Don’t ever come banging on my door at fucking three in the morning reeking of someone else, don’t fucking do that, or, I swear to God, Billy, I will leave.” 

Billy straightens his back. He closes his eyes. There’s a very perverse part of his brain that likes being told what to do, that likes being scolded. Maybe it’s the army, maybe it was the years of foster homes, clear cut instructions always served him best. He opens his eyes again, stares directly at Evans and says, “Yes.” 

Evans seems confused, “Yes? ‘Yes’ what?” 

“They’re shipping us out again next week —” Billy says and tries to keep his voice steady. 

“Yeah,” Evans sighs and drags a hand across his face.

“— so I’ll come to the fucking art show tonight,” he feels himself coming to, he feels that spark coursing through him, that restless energy that’s always in him. “I’ll go there for you,” he stands up and crowds Evans against the counter, “I can do so much for you. I’ll be loyal for you . You say heel, I’ll fucking heel.” He feels a little crazy saying these things out loud but God help him, it’s the truth. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

Evans is looking at him, a little perplexed. “I’m not going to order you around like I’m your damn drill sergeant —”

“I just need to know what to do.” 

Maybe he sounds desperate enough — and isn’t that a terrible thought — because Evans’ gaze seems stricter, but not unkind. “Sit down and I’ll make something for us to eat.” 

He sits, waits, eats when there is food, goes for a run some time afterwards to sweat the alcohol out of his system and then takes another shower. Evans comes up behind him as he’s combing through his hair, and strokes along his back. 

“You’ve always liked being told what to do, huh? Haven’t really thought about it but I guess it fits…” he kisses the junction between Billy’s shoulder and throat. 

“It’s not — it’s not a sexual thing,” Billy croaks and leans back into him.

“It’s also a little bit of a sexual thing,” Evans smirks and kisses him again, licks along the side of his throat. 

“Yeah, yeah, okay, maybe,” he gasps as Evans presses the heel of his hand against Billy’s cock. 

“You’re gonna let me fuck you.”

“Jesus — yeah —”

Evans peels off Billy’s boxers and goes down on his knees and then — then his tongue presses against Billy’s rim and he takes his time, really opens Billy up and Billy is dizzy with it despite his shoulders being all tense. Evans has got his other hand wrapped around Billy’s dick and he’s stroking it goddamn leisurely.

“Come on,” Evans says and gets up. He tugs Billy along until they’re on the bed and Billy lies down on his stomach, Evans kisses along his spine, opens the lube and presses his fingers into him again and Billy nearly has to bite the pillow.

“Christ — you need to relax,” Evans whispers. “You want something?” 

Billy wants nothing more than to feel it, to sink into the mattress, says, “Yeah, you — you got any?” 

Evans rummages through his drawer until he finds the small brown bottle. He uncaps it and holds it to Billy’s nose and Billy takes a deep breath. The head rush is instantaneous, his skin tingles all over, and he feels fucking incredible.

“I never got to fuck you in that uniform,” Evans whispers against the shell of his ear and Billy shivers.

“Guess I’ll — know what to look forward to — the next time I’m on leave.” 

“Fuck — yeah, I’ll bend you over the second you’re home —”

Billy nearly comes then and there at that word — home. Is he home? Maybe. Yes. No. Who the fuck even knows what a home is. Evans is sliding into him, little by little, a heavy weight on Billy’s back and it feels way too fucking good and then he’s buried deep inside and it’s a little hard to breathe. Evans is grinding while inside him and he feels so full and relaxed and his head is buzzing. Evans pulls out and sinks all the way back in, fucking him for real, and Billy arches his body, letting himself make noise, knows that Evans likes hearing it. 

“Shit — you’re so hot, Billy,” Evans says and pulls out, jerks off, a fist in Billy’s hair, forcing his head back, and comes on Billy’s ass. Billy moans at the feeling of it (a marking of territory, a claiming of land) and Evans flips him over, sucks his cock wet and eager until Billy comes down his throat. 

 

/

 

Billy borrows a button-down from Evans that’s too big on him — Evans looks like he’s perpetually stuck in 1998 clothing-wise, looking like the washed-out frontman from some British rock band past its heyday. So even his more dressy shirts are baggy and Billy frowns as he tries to tuck it into his jeans but that ends up looking worse somehow. 

“You don’t actually have to come,” Evans says. “I understand, you know… politically, socially, why it might be a bad idea.” 

Billy pulls the shirt out again. “I think if I see another person there from the army, they’ll be just as inclined not to say anything as I am. Considering the kind of photography Justine does.”

Evans smiles so his eyes crinkle. “Let’s go then.”

Billy wasn’t lying. Justine is the kind of lesbian who calls herself a dyke and seems to have a harem of women surrounding her. Her photographs are borderline porn but apparently you can just slap the words feminist, emancipation, and patriarchy in front of it and then it’s considered art. He has only met her twice before and is absolutely afraid of her. 

He sticks to the sidelines while Evans socialises, he stares at the hairy pussies in the photographs, slightly disgusted, he prefers clean shaved or trimmed at least, stares at the saggy tits of old women, and thinks maybe he should’ve stayed home anyway. He thinks about the gold watch of that girl from McD’s party — pays real well, she’d said. The army certainly doesn’t pay him real well at the moment. He thinks about what he’d do with that kind of money. Get a nicer apartment, that’s for sure. Quality clothes. A fast car. Respect. Fuck yeah, he’d get respect. Adoration. Repute. 

He wouldn’t wear a big gold watch — that shit’s tacky. He’d keep it simple, elegant, you’d see it in the stitching of his suits, the leather of his shoes, his pristine haircut. You’d smell it on the soaps he’d use, the perfume he’d wear — nothing too overpowering, not fucking Hugo Boss or whatever a fourteen year-old might perceive as fancy. No, only real shit, the kind of shit he doesn’t even know about yet, shit that’s out of his tax bracket.

Billy feels eyes on him and turns, expecting Evans, but it’s some effeminate dude looking at him lustily and Billy scowls and all but runs outside. He asks for a cigarette from the couple next to him, and inhales deeply, really letting the smoke fill his lungs. Is this what he can expect if he stays with Evans? Gay performance art, twinks, bleached assholes and poppers, all in the name of —

“You having a little fun, at least?” Evans comes up next to him, lights his own cigarette. 

— loyalty. “Yeah, sure. Kinda want to get out of here soon, though.” 

“Of course,” Evans puts a hand on Billy’s neck and twirls strands of his hair, “let me say my goodbyes and we’ll go, alright?”

Billy nods. “Evans,” he says and I’d do anything for you, let me do anything for you and I love you are just on the tip of his tongue. 

“I really wish you’d call me by my first name,” Evans laughs and heads back inside.

 

/

 

It’s Sunday when he sees Frank and Maria again. He briefly wondered if he actually could take Evans along but quickly squashed that idea, considering he doesn’t want to put Frank in any situation if somebody does choose to ask him about Billy. Most of the men have named him Pretty Boy already and really, sometimes it feels like they’re just one day away from calling him a fairy or something with enough plausible deniability. 

Also, as far as Billy is concerned, things are perfect when it’s just the three of them.

 

/ 

 

Afghanistan is the same as it ever was. Maybe McD wasn’t too far off in his assessment. At least Billy’s got Frank. He clasps a hand on Frank’s shoulder and says, “Glad you’re here.”

Frank gives him a sincere smile, somewhat boyish and mischievous. “It’s good to be here with you, brother.”

New York’s good but this will always be better.

Chapter 3

Notes:

Fair warning: This chapter is mostly Hurt/No Comfort. There is some dubious consent in there as well.

Click here for further details

The dub-con is between Frank and Billy.

New York — 2011

He picks Billy up from the airport for the first time, because they can now, Billy was even the one to suggest it, but he doesn’t kiss Carl which is — fair. It’s not like the military as an institution suddenly became progressive overnight. Or as Billy had said so eloquently on the phone; it’s not like they’re gonna throw a parade for me just because I take it up the ass and some dude in the Oval Office deemed it okay now. 

Billy, Carl had said, laughing, Billy, this is a good thing.

A good th—, Billy had stopped and took a deep breath. Sure. Yeah.

I was expecting a little more enthusiasm.

Yeah, gimme a minute and I’ll bring out the rainbow flags. Let’s call Elton John and have him put on a show to boost combat morale —

Elton John? What are you? Fifty?

No, that’s you.

Carl, smiling in spite of himself, had said: Hey, I still have my good ten years left.

Well, it’s not like it’s going to change much.

Of course it’s going to change things. Billy, you could — we’d be —

Yeah. Whatever you want.

He had sighed, a little exasperated. It’s going to take some time before it’s implemented. But it’s —

Promising?

There’s a beat where neither of them say anything. Then, I miss you, Carl had said.

I miss you too, Billy had whispered.

So, they hug when Billy arrives and Carl is briefly introduced to some of the other men who also land in Newark, sees the fabled Frank Castle again. It hits him hard how long ago it was that he was in Afghanistan. He shakes Frank’s hand and Frank gives him a nod and a warm smile, his wife and kids run into his arms. 

Billy is always a minefield to be around the first few days he’s back from deployment. Carl isn’t really sure what to do with him. Billy puts these walls up, like he’s unaffected by everything, like everything is just slightly funny, but Carl feels it in the way Billy curls up next to him at night, the way Billy jerks awake in the mornings, and it’s in moments like those that Billy looks so young and Carl wants nothing more than keep him here. But suggesting that maybe Billy has seen enough action for two lifetimes is a sure fire way to a break up so he bites his tongue and kisses Billy whenever he gets the chance instead.

Carl doesn’t think himself a particularly boring person but Billy is like a shark; he needs to keep moving at all times or he’ll die. They go for runs together, work out together, he forces Billy to go to exhibitions and jazz concerts and comedy shows just to do something, they go to bars and drink until the world around them is hazy, Billy has a far-off kind of look in his eyes, like he’s not really here but he seems to like to listen to Carl’s ramblings and the music. He’s always skinnier when he gets back so they go out to eat, Carl cooks, makes hearty breakfasts and Billy looks all dopey and sweet at him when he does. 

It typically takes three or four days for Billy to settle back. Then the restlessness as much as everything else returns. Carl has accepted that that restlessness is just part of who Billy is — three years ago he’d said just tell me what to do and maybe Carl should’ve seen it as the cry for help that it is. But. But Billy genuinely seems to just go along with pretty much anything and it’s not a sexual thing, and it’s not like Billy is this docile creature that doesn’t bite back. But. So many buts and ifs when it comes to Billy Russo — so many contradictions — and Carl loves him all the more for it. 

Carl is sitting on the bed, his back against the headboard, and Billy is on him, grinding, pushing, Billy leans forward, catches his mouth in a filthy kiss. He groans into Billy’s mouth, the tight squeeze of Billy around him is perfect, he grabs Billy’s hip with one hand, slides the other into his hair and Billy rolls his body in a way that makes Carl see stars. Billy is always a little crazy for it, the first few days, but after, when he’s used to sleeping in a proper bed and used to the noise of the city and used to being just two men instead of thirty, he’ll calm down, they’ll fuck slow and easy and Billy’ll cling to him like Carl will fly away if he doesn’t. 

Billy buries his face in Carl’s neck, his whole body shakes as he grinds his hips, dick trapped between their bodies and he makes this broken sound as he comes. Carl kisses his temple, wraps his arms around him, “You’re so good, so good, Billy, keep going.” Billy shudders, does what’s asked, and Carl is losing his mind. He digs his heels into the mattress, holds Billy to keep him in place, and thrusts up into him and Billy gasps beautifully. He comes and kisses Billy while he does. 

“Fuck — Evans,” Billy says breathlessly when they’re lying side by side. Carl’s got a cigarette between his lips and tries to not linger on the fact that Billy still can’t seem to say his first name. He wonders when he’ll get that honour. Billy sure was quick to call his shooter Frank.

It begins to rain outside, cold wind smacking against the window. “You home for Christmas?” Carl asks.

Billy picks the cigarette out of his mouth and takes a drag, shaking his head, “Didn’t really see the point. It’s not like I got—”

“You could spend Christmas with me — my family. You know this. Caddy wants to meet you.”

Billy’s mouth twitches, a minuscule frown before he gives Carl a crooked, carefree smile, says, “I don’t care much about Christmas anyway.”

Another piece of the puzzle that Carl has meticulously put together throughout the years; no family hence holidays become a sore topic. He strokes through Billy’s hair. “Maybe next year,” he says, like he’s said for the last five years. 

“Maybe,” Billy responds, like he has responded for the last five years.

 

/ 

 

They’ve just gotten back from a run and Billy has been uncharacteristically quiet the whole time — no snarky remarks, no politically incorrect comments, no nothing. Carl observers him from the corner of his eye, watches as Billy wordlessly floats to the bathroom and showers. It’s not unheard of, God knows he needs to decompress when he’s home, but still. 

He’s making coffee, turns on the TV; a complete withdrawal of US troops in Iraq has been announced. He stares at the banner text, scrolling underneath the newscaster.

“Took them long enough, huh?” Billy says, his hair wet. He gives Carl a long look before telling him, “Don’t ask me how I’m feeling about it.”

“You just rarely talk about Iraq.”

Billy pours himself a cup of coffee. “Not much to say. It was a complete shit show, from beginning to end. Never should’ve been there in the first place. I swear, some of the guys I served with were convinced they were gonna find Saddam’s WMDs themselves.” Carl can’t help the small smirk on his face as he imagines over-eager young men pumped with testosterone and Billy who dutifully rolls his eyes at each one of them. He sits down at the table and Billy gives him a cup. “You should shower too,” Billy says, gesturing at Carl. He clears his throat and looks at the TV screen showing footage of soldiers. “I was there — in Baghdad, you know — when Bush held his Mission Accomplished speech. I remember thinking, it sure doesn’t feel like we’ve accomplished shit.” 

“It’s been contested,” Carl murmurs into his cup. 

“Don’t give me that. I was there, sent on a wild fucking goose chase. Seven months after that speech they get Saddam, hiding in a goddamn spider hole, so we think surely now it’s done. And look. Eight years after that someone with enough pull thought to put an end to it. Who knows how long they’ll keep us in Afghanistan. I’ll be sprouting grey hairs, I’m sure.” 

He can’t stop himself even if he knows better. “Why even bother? If you don’t believe in what you’re fighting for?” 

Billy’s jaw clenches visibly. He takes a long pull of his coffee and looks away. “Frank asked us if we wanted to come over for dinner.”

It almost gives Carl whiplash. “What — when?”

“Tonight.” Billy won’t meet his eyes.

“Tonight. When did he ask.”

Billy shrugs. “Few days ago.”

“And you tell me now.”

Billy stands up. “Yes, I’m telling you now. Alright? You want to be there or not?” his voice is tight. 

Carl just glares up at him for a moment. “Yeah, of course I want to be there.”

“Good. I’ll let him know. Hope you like kids ‘cause they got two of the things.”

“Billy —”

“Take a fucking shower so I can suck your dick.”

Carl is left at the dinner table staring at Billy’s back as he leaves the room. The bedroom door slams shut. 

He enters carefully after a long time under the water mostly spent staring at the tiles. Billy is on the bed, book in hand, but it didn’t look like he was reading much. 

He shoots up. “I’m sorry, Evans, don’t —”

“It’s okay. I understand,” he climbs onto the bed next to Billy and kisses him on the mouth. “I’d like to remind you that I’ve met Frank, in fact I’ve met most of your guys.”

Billy’s face goes very flat at that. “Not a lot of them left. Of those you met.” He doesn’t talk a lot about that, mentions an IED here, an ambush there, shot through the neck, or the worst ones; drug overdose or suicide, he’ll say it briefly, in the same sentence he’ll ask what’s for dinner. Carl found out that Billy had been in a humvee hit by an IED in passing, oh yeah, the guy on the turret had a metal rod through his stomach and the driver had gone through the windshield, Billy had said, crazy shit, I only had a minor concussion. 

“I’m sorry,” he says because what else is there to say. Billy shrugs and it breaks Carl’s fucking heart. He kisses him again, nuzzles against him, and Billy sighs into it. “I want to take care of you,” Carl says between kisses, “Will you let me?” He stares into Billy’s eyes, slightly glassy, before he remembers. “Let me take care of you,” he says and Billy closes his eyes and nods. He kisses down along Billy’s body, takes his underwear off slowly and puts his mouth around him, takes his time, until Billy falls apart.

 

/

 

“So,” Billy says, “when should we say we got together? Was it when you sucked my dick in the barracks —”

“— pretty sure it was a supply closet —”

“— or was it when I showed up at your place the first time —”

“— yes, how did you know my address —”

“— or was it when you gave me a key?”

Carl smiles and squeezes Billy’s thigh briefly. The cab driver gives them a quick look through the rearview mirror which he dutifully ignores. They pull up at the house, American flag hoisted and everything, and Billy keeps giving him these odd glances as they step up to the door. 

It’s weird, seeing Billy like this. They’ve spent most of their time holed up in Carl’s apartment and now — it takes him back to when he was in Afghanistan, how self-assured Billy was. Still is, but different. Different in New York than over there, Carl had always just assumed, but seeing him now with Frank… It makes him wonder. 

“I liked your book,” Frank says, a little awkwardly, over dinner. 

“Ah. Thank you,” Carl responds. “It wouldn’t have been possible without any of you.” He gestures between Frank and Billy with his knife.

“Well,” Maria wipes her mouth with a napkin, “I don’t know if I fully agree with some of your — ‘political’ statements. The invasion in Afghanistan was, sorry, is legitimate. It was necessary and it was needed. What were we supposed to do? Let the attack go unanswered?” 

Carl nods slowly. “Sure,” he says placatingly because he’d rather not get into an ideological debate with an army wife. Frank thankfully steers the conversation in another direction, talks about their kids, school, Maria mentions her job — paralegal — and it’s all very nice and normal. Frank puts a hand on the back of Maria’s neck, stroking gently through her hair, and Billy is staring intently at it, following the minute movements with his eyes. “Is it alright if I smoke on your porch?” Carl asks as they’re putting the dishes away. 

Knock yourself out, is the answer he gets so he goes outside, lights his cigarette. The rain of the last few days has stopped, but the autumn chill has sorely set in now so he puts his arms around his chest and takes a deep drag. Light from the windows flows outside — golden and mellow — and he peers in, seeing the three of them so achingly familiar with each other. Billy’s got an arm around Frank’s shoulders and Maria is leaning against the kitchen counter, throwing her head back in laughter. He wonders if he’ll ever see this side of Billy on his own — a Billy that is easygoing, loose, and warm. He supposes he’ll never be a part of that kind of camaraderie forged through blood and sweat. Billy isn’t that far off when he criticises Carl for sitting in his ivory tower of journalism. There’ll always be a distance of lived experience between them no matter how hard they both try to pretend there isn’t.

Feeling like a voyeur, he watches them until it becomes too much and he ventures back inside. Billy’s arm stays around Frank and Carl is sure he sees a flicker of something in Billy’s eyes; something possessive and profane.

When they get home it’s quick and dirty, Billy’s practically begging for it, and Carl tries not to think too deeply about the timing of it. He’s got Billy bent over the back of the couch, holding his wrists behind his back, Billy’s pushing his ass out, moaning deliriously, and Carl grabs him by the shoulder so he’s upright, wraps an arm around him and grabs his dick with the other, Carl’s mouthing at the back of his neck, kissing, and then  — then he’s thinking about it. He slows down, pulls out so gently and slides back in just as deliberately.

“Harder,” Billy says and Carl bites his shoulder, says: No, I want you to feel me. I want you to know it’s me. Says: Say my name, come on.

“Ev—”

He bites Billy again. 

“Fuck — Carl —”

He doesn’t speed up, it’s still torturously slow, makes Billy say his name again, strokes him until Billy’s trembling and comes hot in his hand, gasping his name.

 

/

 

Ten days go by ridiculously fast. They always do. They say their goodbyes. Months go by. Carl picks him up from the airport. 

Rinse, repeat. 

Somehow Billy keeps coming back.

 

New York — 2012

Carl’s on the phone with Caddy, weaving through the crowds on his way down the subway.

“I don’t have to be there, you know?” he says, phone wedged between shoulder and ear.

“The fuck you mean? Of course you need to be there. You’re the uncle. The guncle!”

“That sounds gross, don’t call me that.”

“It’s ‘gay uncle’.”

He groans as he sits down in the stuffy train car, the seat plastic and warm, it smells so much of sweat everywhere, it’s overwhelming. “Yeah, that’s awesome, Caddy. I just meant; isn’t it usually more of a girls’ thing?”

“That’s bachelorette party. Baby showers are genderless.”

“If you insist,” he chuckles. 

“You have to be there… Is — is Billy home then?”

“Billy? No, no, he won’t be.”

“I’m starting to think he doesn’t exist.”

He takes the phone away from his ear and taps it against his forehead, once, twice, puts it back. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Caddy sighs. “It’s not your fault. I just don’t want him to keep jerking you around like this.”

“I know.”

“Well. I look forward to seeing you, yeah? You’ll be there?”

“‘Course. Love you.”

She says it back, hangs up. The subway rattles and the air is musty and moist and he can’t wait to get out. He checks his watch, 6.47 PM. He’s already imagining getting his feet up and sitting down with a cool bottle of beer. He’s been out and about the whole damn day. 

Not like the city is any better. Summer enhances every single smell — good and bad but it seems in particular the bad. 7.12. The sun gives it all a golden hue though, so maybe it’s not so bad after all. He had lunch with Urich which is always entertaining. He’s got a dinner thing with Sam and Arnie tomorrow and then there’s another photography exhibition for Justine Saturday and he’s getting exhausted just thinking about it. 7.18. 

He turns around the corner, cars whizz by, people all the same. Maybe he’ll order Indian for dinner. Chana masala. He’s getting hungry and it distracts him and he bumps into a woman, apologises profusely, naan or rice, that’s the real question. 7.25. He should probably call his dad as well, figures it’s about time. Sam told him that Arnie has bought shrooms and maybe it’ll be fun or maybe he’s getting too old. He has interviews lined up next week for soldiers who returned home, wants to do a report on drug abuse amongst veterans, can’t help that his mind drifts to Billy but Billy seems so opposed to drugs (except poppers, which, well.) that Carl can’t help but think there’s a deeper story there, something with the mom, Carl would bet money on that. 7.27. Always is with Billy, fucking jigsaw puzzle of a person. 

Another corner, he remembers he needs to buy laundry detergent, milk, and

Afghanistan — 2012

They’re in the barracks, waiting around. Frank’s playing the guitar, strumming chords mindlessly and Billy’s on a cot, reading. Masterson is… somewhere complaining about the food. They’ve got a new medic on the team after the last one — was shot. Curtis Hoyle. Frank instantly likes him. 

“Russo, phone for you,” one of the other LT’s shouts. Billy gets up and leaves.

Curt throws a peanutbutter bar at Frank. “You’re getting skinny, Castle. Your woman doesn’t feed you enough?”

Frank grins and unwraps it, takes a big bite and chews it mockingly, loudly. “Maria feeds me plenty,” he pats himself on the stomach.

“He means your other woman,” Masterson says as he comes up next to Curt. “You know, the one with a thick five o’clock shadow and dark hair, annoying as hell. Where is she anyways?”

“Phone call,” Frank says, mouth full as he shoves the last bit of the dry, crumbling bar into his mouth.

“Speak of the devil,” Masterson smirks as Billy walks through the door, walking in a straight line, arms hanging unnaturally by his sides, eyes unfocused. 

“Billy?” Frank puts the guitar away and Billy sits down on the edge of the bed, gaze flicking back and forth, breathing staggered. “Billy?” he says again.

“Carl—” Billy swallows thickly, jaw clicking. It takes Frank a second to realise he means Evans. “Carl’s in the hospital.”

Frank sits down next to him, he’s not sure if he should put an arm around him so he settles on a hand on his shoulder, his thumb grazing back and forth. Billy doesn’t react. “Shit — he okay?”

“I — no. No, he’s in a — induced coma. Got hit by a car. They don’t — his sister called me, I’ve never even met her before. They don’t know if he’ll be okay when he wakes up. Schoonover—”

Frank hugs him, hugs him tight. The rest of the men go quiet and Frank sees Curt watching and he shakes his head, wordlessly telling Curt no, don’t approach. Curt nods slowly and quiet murmuring starts again. 

Billy clears his throat, pulls back. “Schoonover is giving me a week off to go home, I guess.”

“You oughtta visit him.”

Billy nods, though every movement seems as if he’s just going through the motions. Nothing seems deliberate. He seems very far away. “Yeah — I should do that, huh?” 

“Yeah, Billy,” Frank says softly. God, he can’t imagine what this must feel like. 

 

/

 

Billy’s eyes are glassy, his body oddly slack. He hasn’t been himself since he got back and Frank doesn’t blame him one bit. He imagines himself in that situation, if something happened to Maria… he isn’t sure he’d ever truly be himself again. Billy has barely said a word since he came back and he’s scary like this. He’s all distant when they’re at base and when they head out Billy’s tense like a bowstring, he’s a goddamn machine, doesn’t miss a single shot, barks orders and he’s never been a better marine — on paper, at least. Frank knows the hurt that’s buried deep down. 

War seems to stay the same. They wait around, then they go out, clear some compounds, head back. Sometimes they’re stationed at a school or a hospital or something to keep the Taliban away but the second they leave, control’s back in enemy hands so who the fuck knows. Everything looks the same too and he’s been in and out of here since 2001 — eleven fucking years. At least he was in Iraq in between, change of scenery and all that. Not like anything they did there seemed to matter in the long run either. Jesus, Frank thinks, he’s starting to sound like Billy.

And maybe Billy’s onto something. Frank is feeling more and more out of control of the whole damn situation. He started out feeling — knowing — he was doing the right thing. He understood his place as a little piece in the counterinsurgency, but the thing is — the thing is that now he feels like a little piece of a game and he’s unable to see the board. There’s constant tension and pressure and artificial thresholds and micromanagement from the suits in fucking Washington.

We’re taking fucking rockets from people who fight with AK47s and flipflops, how the fuck is this a losing battle, Billy had shouted at another LT last time they were out. Frank would have told Billy to not shout at a superior officer if not for the fact that he was pushing Reyes’ organs back inside the gaping hole in his stomach. 

He’s dead, Frank, let him go.

So Frank let him go. Like he has let so many others go.

Billy’s outside in the dark, leaning against the far side of the building, far away from everything, smoking. Frank swallows as he comes up next to him, says, “Hey,” and Billy raises his head at him. “You wanna tell me how it went?” he asks, probably two weeks too late. He had thought Billy would breach the subject himself but he never did.

Billy’s mouth twitches and he takes a drag. “It’s nothing. He’s alive,” Billy says, voice tight.

“You said it was a car accident?”

“Mhm. He has — yeah, he has brain damage. Pretty… extensive,” there’s a flicker of agony that flits across Billy’s face. “He just looked at me, Frank, for a solid two minutes before he recognised me. And then — he kept just sort of floating off mid-sentence. He was always so fucking quick and smart and now he needs someone to tell him what day of the week it is. And I can tell that he remembers how he was before because there was this anger when he forgot words and —” Billy sucks in a breath, shakes his head, and focuses on smoking.

Frank watches him, silently, and Billy tenses, clenches his jaw, and faces Frank. “I don’t understand — I mean, I’m here , and he’s the one who — he was so fucking funny and sharp and everything came so easy to him and he looked at me and he didn’t fucking recognise me and I could see it — how he struggled to find the right words and he —” Billy turns away abruptly.

There’s no need to ask how he’s doing, no need to ask if he’s okay. It would feel disrespectful to do so. Instead he plucks the cigarette out of Billy’s hand, throws it on the ground, and wraps his arms tightly around Billy. Billy goes rigid until he slowly, slowly melts and lets out a shuddering exhale. 

“You’re gonna be okay, brother,” he whispers, mouth against Billy’s hair. Billy laughs once, and it’s a horrible, terrible sound. Frank tenses and hugs Billy tighter. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “Jesus fucking Christ. I’m so sorry.”

Billy nods sluggishly, hands coming up around Frank’s shoulders and he turns his head and — and Frank can feel his lips against his throat. “Billy,” he croaks as Billy presses his lips against the skin. He should pull back, should shove Billy to the ground, Billy’s not thinking straight, should do something instead of saying, “I’m married.”

Billy crowds him against the wall and his hand cups the back of his neck as he mouths along Frank’s jaw and it’s getting more frantic and Frank sucks in a breath, tries to sound resolute, gives him a stern “Billy.”

Billy stops, moves his head back, intensely gleaming eyes watching — searching — Frank’s face. His hand travels down, gazed fixed on Frank, as he opens his pants. Frank should stop him, grab his hands or slap them away. Instead Frank’s hands shoot up to Billy’s chest, grasping at his shirt, scrunching the fabric.

“Billy.”

Billy shoves his hand down Frank’s boxers and Frank grips his shirt tighter and it’s like he’s on a knife’s edge of wanting to punch Billy in the face and — something else. Billy’s stroking him, eyes fierce, and he’s not hard but he’s also not not hard and Billy just keeps looking at him and he’s clutching Billy and Billy’s eyes are wide and Frank feels it building in him, heat and shame and confusion, and Billy’s got a strong hand on his shoulder, keeping him in place, slightly pressing him against the wall and Frank’s looking at him like looking at a wild animal, it’s almost as if Billy’s snarling and Frank shudders as he comes. He barely gets time to register what happened before Billy’s pulling his own dick out and jerks off — and he hasn’t looked away once — and Frank can’t help but stare at his dick, hard and glistening, and Billy comes into his hand. 

The entire tension seems to leave Billy at once. Frank’s still standing there with his dick out so he quickly zips up and Billy eases his shoulders back, cracks his neck, wipes his hand on the wall, and pats Frank on the shoulder. 

“You need anything?”

Does Frank need anything. He needs to rewind time. He needs this to not wreck him. He needs to understand what the fuck just happened — no, scratch that, he does not need to know. 

“Alright, brother,” Billy says, easy as can be. “We should probably head back, Schoonover’ll want us bright and early.”

And just like that he’s gone.

 

Billy doesn’t glance back at Frank, doesn’t need to. He needed life to fall back into place and sometimes a man needs to take possession of the things he wants and God knows he wants Frank. He loves Frank and everything was just slipping through his fingers like sand. So, he pushes them back to where they’re meant to be. He pushes Frank right back to where he belongs — under his thumb.

 

 

Chapter 4

 

Afghanistan — 2013

Billy squints up at the sun. It’s harsh here in a way it isn’t back home. They’ve been up in this godforsaken mountain for days now but at least Frank’s body is solid next to his. He taps Frank’s foot with his own. “I can’t eat all this,” he says and holds the MRE out for Frank. 

Frank’s staring down his scope and glances at the sorry excuse of a meal. “Yeah, alright. I need a break anyway, my eyes are getting goddamn tired.”

In exchange for the food, he hands Billy the scope and Billy flips over to lie on his stomach, looking at the man they’re surveilling — and the guy’s just feeding his fucking chickens. “Does he ever do anything interesting? Jesus Christ, I’ve never been so bored in my life. Watching paint dry might be more stimulating than this.”

“Intel’s good. He’s supposed to meet with a person of interest. We just don’t know when,” Frank says as he shovels the food into his mouth.

“You don’t need to convince me, Frankie-boy. Just because I understand the ‘why’ doesn’t mean I’m not still bored stiff.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Billy sees Frank grinding his jaw. “I’m starting to question the ‘why’,” Frank mumbles. “We’re fucking lieutenants monitoring this dude who’s doing nothing. Tell me what we’re doing here.”

Billy grins, surveilling the guy who’s now taken to watering his goddamn plants. “Well, you and I were one hell of a team, back in the day. Best damn Scout Snipers they ever had. I guess they really want this dude dead.”

Frank scoffs. “You’re too chipper, Billy. What happened?”

Everything and nothing at all. Billy’s one shot at normalcy might as well be dead and buried. Billy shrugs and says, “Maybe I like the simplicity of it — you, me, a mountain, keeping our eyes on a target, shitting under the clear blue sky—” 

Frank barks a laugh. “Yeah, alright, I can’t argue with that.”

Billy smiles. This is good. 

 

/

 

It only takes a few more days before they get to do what they came here for. Frank shoots both of the men clean in the head, Billy spots like in the beginning of their partnership, and blood splatters on the white feathers of the chickens, the shots ring out, echo back and forth in the valley, and then it’s quiet, like they were never even there. Frank and Billy pack up, sleep another two nights in their tent while on their way to the extraction point, taking shifts keeping watch. Frank’s a little too quiet, apprehension practically seeping out of him. When the bird finally arrives, they sit opposite of each other, the blades whirring loudly as they lift off. Billy forgets any troubles and it might as well be heaven. 

Back in camp, Schoonover awaits them in his office, hands resting on the table as he leans over it, shifting through documents he quickly closes when Billy and Frank enter. 

“Gentlemen,” Schoonover greets. He stacks the papers neatly and puts them into the folding cabinet 

Frank’s standing at attention like the good boy he is but Billy can see the agitation in his jaw. “With all due respect, Sir, Russo and I were both overqualified for the mission—”

“With all due respect, huh?” Schoonover sits down in his chair and leans back. “It sounds more like you’re questioning my ability.”

“No, Sir,” Frank says, hands clasped behind his back.

“Good. I’ll let that little misunderstanding slide, then.” Schoonover taps his knuckles on the desk, looking at the two of them. “I’m glad to see it was a job well done,” he says after a moment. “Quick and efficient, as was expected from the two of you. This wasn’t without reason, Castle. You’ll find out soon enough.” 

They’re dismissed and head out into the settling dusk. Billy gets a sudden vision of Evans leaning against one of the buildings and smoking and he inhales sharply. He glances over at Frank; Frank with his eyebrows drawn together, eyes squinting, mouth in a narrow line. 

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this, Billy.”

Billy’s heart nearly jumps out of his chest. It is suddenly very hard to breathe. “What do you mean?”

“I miss my family, man. I want to kiss my wife. I want to hug my kids.”

“You see them—”

Frank cuts him off with a scoff. “Not nearly enough.”

“But what about—” Billy’s mouth is very dry. “Seems like Schoonover has something planned,” he fumbles with his hands before stopping himself. 

“Sure,” Frank sighs. “Maybe. I don’t know. I guess we’ll see what I do.” They make their way back to the barracks in eerie silence. Fuck, Billy could use a cigarette right about now. Frank stops, face suddenly very pale. “Those two men were unarmed, Billy.”

“Frank—”

“They were unarmed and I shot them. We were there for two fucking weeks and they were unarmed.”

“We have to trust Command,” Billy says through gritted teeth. “And keep your voice down.”

Frank shakes his head. “It ain’t right.”

 

/

 

Billy wanders between the buildings, antsy and sleepless. His hands tremble as he takes a cigarette out of the packet and he stares at them in horror. He’s no use to anyone if he suddenly gets the shakes. It’s a thought that quite literally disturbs him and fills his stomach with lead. 

He and Frank have been good. They’ve not mentioned it. Which is good because Billy doesn’t want to talk about it. Really, what is there to say? Maybe Frank’s been a bit more accommodating since but not much has changed. Maybe Frank has been touching him more but it’s hard to tell because Frank’s always been touchy. Sometimes Frank’ll give him this kind of look, this intense look, when he thinks Billy isn’t watching but they don’t talk about it. Doesn’t mean Billy isn’t jacking off to it every now and then.

There’s light coming from Schoonover’s office and Billy doesn’t think about it when he heads inside, walks along the hallway with the single-minded purpose of asking Schoonover what the hell he was talking about before. He opens the door without knocking and Schoonover, sitting behind the desk all authority-like, arches an eyebrow at him. 

“Russo..?” he says and Billy notices the other man in the room. 

Billy straightens up immediately. “Sorry, Sir. I’ll just—”

“Billy Russo,” the other man gives Billy a once over. “Please, take a seat,” he says as if this is his office. 

Billy swallows as he sits, feeling a certain tension in the air. “We haven’t met before,” Billy says.

“No,” the man grins.

“Well, you have me at an advantage — you know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“You’ll find out, if I deem it appropriate,” the complete control and command in the man’s voice makes Billy feel like a shiver runs through his body. The man stands up, shoulders strong, arms muscular, and leans against the desk. “Schoonover and I were discussing something which might require your involvement. I’ve only heard praise in regards to you, Russo. You’ve got an impressive track record.”

“Thank you,” Billy looks over at Schoonover who doesn’t seem the last bit bothered by this man. 

“You seem like the type who doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty. For the greater good.”

“For the greater good,” Billy repeats, somewhat dazed by the man’s sheer presence. Something about his gaze makes Billy feel like he is backed into a corner.

The man smiles and turns to Schoonover. “He’s a solid pick, Ray.” Schoonover nods slowly. “What about that Frank Castle? What do you think, Billy?”

“He’s dependable. One of the best.”

“But he’s not quite like you, is he?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

The man’s eyes bore into Billy and Billy fights the instinct to look away. “Operation Cerberus,” he says and holds a hand up to quiet Schoonover’s noise of protest and a thrill works its way through Billy at the thought he’s being let in on a secret. “You will join after your next leave. It’s a black op — no questions asked, high value targets, enhanced interrogations. Are you up for that?”

“Yessir.”

“Good. And Castle?”

I don’t know how much longer I can do this. “He’s solid too.”

“Excellent,” the man roves his eyes over Billy’s body. He extends his hand, “William Rawlins.”

 

 

New York — 2013

It doesn’t feel good, being back in NYC. There's been something poking him in the back of his head, a little voice whispering words he can’t make out, that undeniable itch, since he met Rawlins. Billy looks him up, sure enough, he’s CIA with a pretty decorated record. Makes Billy respect the man. 

He has avoided going back to Evans’ place and Evans has stopped trying to call him. Billy got letters, for a while — Evans’ handwriting barely legible anymore — and Billy never responded so eventually the letters ceased too. He used to get angry voicemails from Evans’ sister in the beginning and then he just deleted those before even listening to them. He’s still got the key, keeps it in his dresser by the bed and sometimes he’ll wake up in the middle of the night and reach for it, hold it in his hands until the metal gets warm. 

He stays with Frank and Maria sometimes, showed up at their door real fucking drunk the first time they were on leave after the accident. All he wanted was to curl up in their bed, have them tell him everything was okay. He slept on their couch instead and was woken up much too fucking early by the kids. 

He had gone to a gay bar before he showed up and found a man who ticked all of Billy’s boxes; masculine, a little rugged, strong, confident. Billy introduced himself as Carl which isn’t really something he wants to psychoanalyse too much and went home with the guy, tried to remember the guy’s name as Billy fucked him, ultimately decided that it didn’t matter. 

He’s in their garden now, pushing Lisa on the swing. She’s chatting his ear off until Billy picks her up and blows a raspberry on her cheek and she shrieks in delight. Maria is celebrating her birthday and he is introduced to one of her childhood friends — a psychologist named Claire Spencer and Billy can’t help it, he kind of likes her. She’s smart and quick, ambitious, has that particular brand of confidence he likes. Of course, she is stunning, which helps. He flirts shamelessly and she gives him coy looks and smirks but then she goes ahead and leaves and simply says goodbye without so much as giving him her phone number. 

“Maybe you’ve lost your groove,” Frank says.

“— lost your mojo,” supplies Maria. “Maybe your good looks aren’t enough anymore.”

“Now what the fuck,” Billy says, exasperated and a little insulted.

He goes home alone and he feels hollowed out in a way he hasn’t in ages and he’s not sure why. He’s standing on a precipice of uncertainty and he hates it — he fucking hates it. He needs his life back but he can’t figure out when he lost it in the first place.

Two days later he sees her while he’s on a run. He can’t believe it. 

“Hey there, stranger,” he says and she looks like she nearly jumps out of her skin. She removes her headphones and smiles — she’s wearing workout clothes as well so Billy says, “You a runner too?”

She hesitates briefly. “Yeah, yes. Hi Billy,” she smiles again. She has dimples. Her dark brown hair is in a high ponytail and her cheeks flushed red.

“Shit, sorry. I didn’t scare you, did I?”

Claire laughs. “Just a little. Is this your usual beat?”

“Yes and no. I just moved to the area. From Williamsburg. This is much nicer,” Billy chuckles a little breathlessly and puts his hands on his hips.

She nods. “You — you wanna get a coffee or something?”

They find some coffee stand and she insists on paying and Billy’s a modern man so he isn’t about to deny her that. Small talk is surprisingly easy, she asks how long he’s been in the army, those sort of things. 

“Shit. Enlisted in 2001—”

“You and about a million other young men,” she says and blows air into the little hole on the lid of the cup.

“Well, can you blame them — us?”

She shakes her head, certainly can’t, she says placatingly. They’re leaning over the railing, overlooking the East River, gentle waves lap at the wall and Manhattan seems very far away. Billy lifts his shirt and wipes the sweat off his forehead with the hem of it and sees her eyes go wide. He forgets most people don’t see bodies with gunshot wounds in them. 

“It’s really nothing,” he says. 

“I think my life is very boring compared to yours,” she laughs.

“Well, isn’t that why I do what I do? So that other people can live normal, comfortable, ‘boring’ lives?”

She regards him for a long while. “I don’t know, Billy. You tell me — why do you do what you do?”

There are so many reasons he could tell her, so many lies. “Ah, you know. I’m a patriot. I’d do anything for Uncle Sam.”

Claire sips her coffee carefully and smirks, “You could at least try to make it sound convincing.”

“What, you don’t believe me? I love this country,” he says deadpan.

“Land of the free,” she muses.

“Because of the brave,” he turns towards her, the morning sun hits her, pale golden light enveloping her, highlighting her pink cheeks. He brushes a lock of hair away from her face with his thumb and she places a hand on his stomach where the bullets hit him. “Price of being brave,” he says, a little smug. “Don’t worry about it — I took two slugs but they didn’t hit anything of importance. Just hurt like a bitch.”

“I think,” she nods, grazes her fingers back and forth over his t-shirt, “I think that you want someone to worry.”

Billy swallows thickly. “You think that you want to be that someone?” Didn’t go very well for the last person who took him in as a charity case. Because isn’t that really all he can be?

She laughs and it’s more shrewd than anything else. “I think I’d do nothing but worry.”

“You free tonight?” 

She is. 

Later, after drinks he takes her home, kisses her against the wall, she grins when she feels how hard he is as she cups him through his pants, undoes his fly and sinks down on her knees right there in his hallway and it feels all kinds of wrong because she’s so pretty and proper and intelligent. She takes him in her mouth and he wants to be nice about it, strokes through her hair and doesn’t thrust his hips forward like a real gentleman. She leans back, smiles in a sly way and asks if they shouldn’t take this to the bedroom. 

She pushes him on the bed and straddles him as he rolls on a condom and then she sinks down on him. Billy surges up, wraps his arms around her and kisses her, licks at her breasts, while they rock back and forth together. She grinds her hips until she comes and Billy is — enamoured. She’s so beautiful with her brown hair and her sharp nose. She makes him fuck her doggy-style and he snakes his hand over her back and he really appreciates that she works out because he can tell. He comes while leaning over her, gasping into the crook of her neck.

She falls asleep in his arms and he makes breakfast for her in the morning. 

“Look, Billy,” she starts. “You’re very nice. And this was great. But I’m not sure… you’re gone most of the year — and I’m looking for something serious, you know?”

“Right,” he says, numbly. “Right. Of course.” 

 

/

 

Billy sits in his kitchen, staring at the clock on the wall. Frank and Maria are busy, and… he is… huh. He thinks about calling Curt but he’s still in rehabilitation and last time he saw him, Curt was all loopy from the pain meds and it reminded Billy too much of the last time he visited Evans in the hospital. Billy is suddenly filled with an empty dread that spreads from his stomach, grabs his heart and crushes his windpipe. He’s petrified. There’s nothing to do. Nothing. It’s a terrifying thought and it rattles inside his brain for hours. He goes to the gym and it barely does anything to ease the way he feels; fidgety, agitated, on edge. He paces his apartment. Back and forth. Back and forth. He can’t wait to get back. It’s better there. There’s purpose, there’s meaning. 

His mind wanders to Rawlins again. Operation Cerberus — now there is purpose, if he’s ever seen it. He googles him again; he’s old money, went to Yale and Harvard, for some reason, has several estates throughout the country, and one very fancy penthouse in Manhattan.

And that is how Billy finds himself sitting in some fancy café across Rawlins’ apartment complex. He doesn’t even know if Rawlins is in New York. But it’s something to do. It’s something to occupy his time and thoughts with and Billy calms down while sitting in the coffee shop for hours staring at the door with a concierge across the street. The bell above the door jingles.

“You know,” Rawlins sits down next to him, “you should know better than following a CIA supervisor.”

Billy shrugs with one shoulder and tries to keep his gaze fixed on the street. 

Rawlins pats him on the back, “Come on,” he says and when Billy doesn’t move, he grips his shoulder hard. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Rawlins’ penthouse is spacious with expensive-looking furniture, obviously, art on the walls, and Billy wanders along, taking it all in. “Sit down,” Rawlins says and gestures at his sofa, so Billy sits, an imperceptible quiver runs down his spine. Rawlins hands him a glass of whiskey. “It’s almost admirable that you think you could get the drop on me,” he says, amused. “If only it wasn’t so cocky.”

“I wasn’t trying—”

“Shut up,” Rawlins orders and Billy’s mouth snaps shut, “Drink.” Billy takes a sip and holds Rawlins’ gaze in what he hopes Rawlins reads as defiance. “What do you think?” 

“It’s good,” Billy says slowly.

“Just good? This is a Gordon and MachPhail single malt from the year 1968. It is the oldest expression from the Caol Ila distillery. Trust me when I tell you — it’s more than good. It’s lucious. It’s silky. It has structure. If you’re smart about this, Billy, and I know you are, you could be drinking shit like this every goddamn day for the rest of your life.” Billy nods and Rawlins disappears into his office before returning with a manila folder. He throws it onto the table in front of Billy. “I like to do my due diligence about anyone I might work with. So I know, Billy, that you’re good at what you do. I know you’re clever, and I know you know an opportunity of a lifetime when you see one.” 

Billy swallows roughly. “Yes, Sir.”

Rawlins smirks and rounds the table so he’s standing in front of Billy. Billy has to crane his neck to look up at him and — and Rawlins strokes through Billy’s hair. He inhales sharply and his eyelids flutter instinctually. “You and I, we’re gonna have a fruitful relationship, I can feel it. Can’t you?” 

Billy nods again, because it’s true; he can feel it.

“I could make you a lot of money. All I want in return,” Rawlins grabs Billy by the chin with his thumb and index finger, “is loyalty.”

Loyalty. It echoes around in Billy’s head, quite literally reverberating inside his brain, the ghost of a memory, the ghost of an image, of a person—

Rawlins resumes smoothing his hand through Billy’s hair and it’s oddly soft, oddly comforting. “You’ve got ambition. Tell me, what are you going to do after Cerberus?” 

“Private security,” he says and almost surprises himself with it because he hasn’t really thought about life after the army too much but if it were to end that’s what he’d do. 

“I can see that for you. I want you to have that. Maybe I’ll even be your first customer.” 

“Thank you, Sir,” Billy’s voice is uneven as he speaks. 

Rawlins’ hand travels down along Billy’s face and he strokes his knuckles gently over Billy’s cheek before slapping him twice across the face. Not hard, but paternal, perhaps, or what Billy thinks might be paternal. Anger still flares up and Billy tenses, wants to get up and punch him in the mouth, but Rawlins places a firm hand on Billy’s shoulder, presses down, keeps him in place. “Look at you,” Rawlins says, “so good, so eager. I say jump and you say how high. I say heel and you heel —” Billy’s eyes shoot up to meet Rawlins’ “— where have you been this whole time, hm? You’re fucking wasted on the Marines, should have been by my side.” 

Billy opens his mouth to say something but “Sir,” is all he manages and Rawlins looks immensely satisfied.

“So much wasted potential in you. You’re too good for the army and that boyfriend of yours made you complacent, made you too comfortable—” Billy stands up so abruptly that Rawlins has to take a step back. He sneers in Billy’s face, “Sit back down, Billy, and listen to what I have to say.” 

Billy can hardly breathe and his heart thunders in his chest. Yet, carefully, he lowers himself back down, keeps his eyes locked on Rawlins. 

Rawlins pats him across the face again. “I can raise you. I can take you to great heights. I will lead you to your full potential. You only have to ask.”

Billy digs his nails into his palms, his nostrils flare, his throat closing. “Please.”

“Good,” Rawlins’ breath shudders. “Very good.”  

 

 

Afghanistan — 2014

“Close the door behind you,” Rawlins says as Billy enters his make-shift headquarters on their blacksite. “And sit down.”

Billy sits. It’s not the most comfortable chair but nothing has been particularly comforting or homely in the last few months they’ve been here. Things have been harder around the edges, literally and metaphorically, since Cerberus began — not that Billy’s complaining. Quite the opposite. He’s never felt more alive. 

“The target has been detained,” Billy explains as Rawlins hands him a glass of whiskey. “He’s in our custody. But, if I could speak plainly…”

Rawlins sighs and sips his own drink. “Go on, Billy.”

“Reports are contradictory. We can’t be sure of his affiliations.”

Rawlins sets his glass down and moves so he stands behind Billy, placing his hands on Billy’s shoulders, digging his thumbs in ever so slightly. “Those aren’t your worries to have, are they now? I say jump, you say..?”

“How high.”

“Don’t forget your place,” Rawlins leans in, practically whispering the words in Billy’s ears. 

“No, Sir.”

That earns Billy a pat on his back. “Take me to him. And bring Castle, too.”

They make their way to the bunker that functions as a prison cell. Billy and Frank are instructed to stand in the corners while Rawlins interrogates the man. They’ve already starved him and deprived him of light and sleep. Rawlins sighs. The man is hooded and handcuffed and Rawlins removes neither of those things when he starts beating him. Billy sees the way Frank flinches when Rawlins hits the man. Billy on the other hand is both present and somewhere far away. He can’t take his eyes away from Rawlins and his display of raw strength but his thoughts are empty, floating, relaxed. There’s a fan above them that whirs quietly, a repetitive hum, and a single lightbulb flickers through it.

Rawlins, fluent in Pashto, speaks to the man, repeats himself. Billy is pretty sure the man is crying but he isn’t really paying attention. Rawlins sighs again and rolls his sleeves down and turns to them. His knuckles are split and bloody and he uncovers a handkerchief from his pocket and runs it over them. 

“Castle,” he says, “do we still have those AK47s?”

“Sir?”

“Get me one.” When Frank hesitates, Rawlins steps up close. “Are we going to have a problem?”

Frank tenses but ultimately leaves. Billy grabs Rawlins’ wrist and takes the handkerchief out of his hands and gently pats it over the bloodied knuckles. Rawlins smiles, “Thank you.”

“What’s he saying?” Billy glances over at the man, lying on his side, curled up. He folds the handkerchief over Rawlins’ hand and traces his thumb back and forth.

“Unfortunately nothing we don’t already know,” Rawlins rubs the bridge of his nose with his free hand before grabbing Billy by the back of his neck. “Is Castle still in this?” he asks, voice deep and irritated. 

Billy swallows. “Yes.”

“I don’t need another like Henderson — I don’t need another one questioning me,” Rawlins grip is hard and his breath hot against Billy’s face.

“He’s just tired,” Billy says. “A lot of the men are.”

Rawlins’ lip curls into a scorn and he releases his hold on Billy. “Tired,” he belittles. “You are fucking elite soldiers. You don’t get tired.”

“I am not.”

“Oh, I know,” he strokes over Billy’s cheek with a finger. “I can always count on you.” They’re interrupted when Frank knocks on the door. Billy opens the heavy latch and Frank holds the semi-automatic securely in front of him. 

“What’s the plan?” Frank asks. “Sir.”

Rawlins hauls the man up on shaky legs and removes the hood. His face is barely recognisable, beaten to a pulp. “We shoot him with the AK47 and dump him somewhere in the desert. Make it look like friendly fire on their part,” Rawlins explains casually and glances over at Frank. “Go on.”

Frank lifts the weapon. The man is trembling and Billy knows — he knows Frank can’t do it. 

“Come on, Castle. You shot Zubair. What difference does one more make?”

Before Frank can do anything else stupid, Billy snaps the semi out of his hands, aims at the man and puts several bullets in him. The room is quiet. Rawlins’ mouth forms a thin line.

“You’re dismissed, Castle.”

The air is cold and stale and Billy just stares at the body lying motionless on the floor, dark blood steadily pooling around it. 

“You shouldn’t have done that, Billy.” It’s almost sing-songy, the way Rawlins enunciates it. He joins up next to Billy, looking down at the corpse. “I trust you to take care of the rest.”

Billy nods. 

“Look at me,” Rawlins drawls and Billy turns his head so their eyes meet. “You have a choice to make here. Frank Castle is a good soldier. But he is slipping. I know it. You know it. You can either let him drag you down. Or you can stay by my side,” Rawlins strokes hair away from Billy’s temple, “Which one will it be?”

There isn’t a doubt in his mind.

Notes:

owww ow ouch but we all knew how this was going to end

Thank you for sticking with me! I loved writing this (though at times I absolutely did feel like this was a trust the vision kind of process). Thank you to everyone who left kudos and especially to those of you who took your time to comment as well — it means so much!

And let’s not forget the very real war crimes committed by the US army.

Notes:

Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think!

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Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of cathedrals