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Your lip falls victim to your anxiety, teeth nipping and chewing along the soft skin until the metallic twinge of blood hits your tongue. You swipe it away as you shift in your spot on the floor, jeans catching on the rough unforgiving timber.
The little body sniffing along the corridor perks up at your movement, little claws scratching lightly at the old flooring as she pounces over and into your lap, her little warm tongue lapping softly at your cheek. You take her affection with a smile, nuzzling into her short fur and placing a loud kiss on her head.
He hadn’t been happy when you bought her home, and the remnants of his annoyance sit above your brow, a dull throb hanging behind your temples, but at least you could keep her. She made you feel a little less isolated in the world.
“She’s your fucking problem, got it?”
Something easily agreed to with a quiet yes sir, and then it was over. He returned to the couch, lit up another cigarette and kicked his filthy boots onto the coffee table, and you slinked off to the bedroom with your new friend, pulling an old sock from your drawer and playing tug of war for the rest of the evening, ensuring to keep the noise to an absolute minimum.
The environment was still new to her, the sounds and smells so different from what she had been previously left in. She was restless, intrigued by her surroundings and making her discoveries known with a loud voice. You’d paid for that, too. It’s like she just knew after the incident, her low whine soft as she crawled into your lap and licked away your tears, almost as if it were an apology. She didn’t make another noise after that.
“I see I got a new neighbour.”
You’re dragged from your thoughts when the familiar low gravel of your neighbour perks up from the end of the hall, his boots creaking along the floor as he makes his way to his apartment opposite yours. You stumble to stand and tuck the puppy against your chest, smiling shyly.
“Yeah. I’m sorry if she made too much noise last night, Pete.”
His dark eyes fall to the puppy, a small smile tugging at his lips beneath the thick beard—the most of a smile you’ve ever seen from the man who always seemed to have a deep frown dug into his strong features.
“Nah. I ain’t hear a lot when I’m here.”
He takes a step closer, holding his hand out and letting the pup sniff curiously at his fingers before scratching behind her ear. She takes the affection easily, tongue lolling from her mouth when he hits a particular spot along her neck. He huffs quietly in amusement, lips curling into a wider smile for a brief second before it smooths out and the usual passive press of his lips returns.
“She got a name?”
“Bullet.”
His brows twitch up in question and you shrug lightly, smile timid.
“You should see her run when she’s let off her leash. Shoots through the air—”
“—like a bullet.” He finishes for you quietly, giving her one final pat before stepping away and closer to his door, keys jangling as he digs them from his pocket. “She’s a little sweetheart.”
“Yeah, she is.” You beam at Bullet, grinning when she licks at your jaw. “I found her in a dumpster. Can you believe that? Someone just left her out in the cold. I couldn’t just leave her there, especially with the weather being what it is so I bought her home…”
It becomes obvious that you’re keeping him from entering his apartment with your quiet ramblings as he hovers in his doorway, dark eyes flicking between yours, and a flood of embarrassment washes up from your chest and along under your cheeks. Your head falls, gaze dropping with it, and you shift in your spot, hold tightening around Bullet.
“Sorry. I’ll just—I’m sorry… um, have a good night, Pete.”
“You fall or somethin’?”
“What?”
His eyes flicker to the noticeable swollen mass above your eye where a fresh scab builds along the split in your skin. Your hand automatically flies to cover the area, the pads of your fingers delicately tracing the tender wound, and Bullet shifts restlessly in your arms.
“Oh, right. Yeah, I—uh, I fell and hit my head on the door. New heels—haven’t worn them in yet so I’m still a bit shaky.”
He nods, almost as if he were expecting your bullshit answer. His eyes move to meet yours before he nods once more in goodbye, his door closing quietly behind him. You linger for a second longer, teeth once again gnawing at your lip as you study the chipped paint of his door.
Pete was… nice.
He goes by his days, sticking to the same routine developed from the day he moved in.
You had no idea where he came from.
He had moved in with practically nothing—no boxes, no furniture… only the one single duffle bag slung across his back.
Though he kept to himself and remained quiet, you knew it wasn’t born from shyness. He stood tall, looked everyone in the eye whenever they would cross his path, and remained unbothered when a few of the sketchier occupants tried to intimidate him. He brushed those who tried to initiate a conversation with him off, and they soon learnt to leave him be.
Sometimes you wonder why he didn’t do that with you.
There was nothing stopping him from slamming the door right in your face the day you showed up with a freshly baked treat and a gentle smile of welcome. He had stood there while you rambled away, stuttering over how you lived opposite and if he ever needed anything, you were only a step or two away.
He was slow when he reached out, almost cautious, a large hand curling around the base of the warm dish with a barely there nod of thanks. You had turned back to your apartment, only just catching his voice grind out a quiet ‘Pete.’ before the door had closed.
A couple of days later, the clean and empty dish had appeared in front of your door, and after that there was always a gruff hello in passing reserved only for you; the days and weeks passing slowly lengthening the greetings into generic comments about the weather, before morphing into questions he seemed genuine with, listening attentively to your answers each and every time—how are you, how’s work going, did you end up finishing that book…
It was nice to have someone to exchange a few words with every day. It made everything feel a little less isolating, like you weren’t actually alone in this big wide world. You slip quietly into your apartment, ensuring to close the door silently so as to not disturb Brad snoring on the couch.
—
The cold remained biting at Frank’s cheeks when he eventually enters the building after a long day at the site, the ache conjured by working that damn hammer all day stirring and settling deep in his muscles as he pushed himself to move.
It could drive anyone crazy, this same day in, day out routine bullshit, but it was the only thing keeping a lid on the carefully restrained pull of darkness creeping along the edge of his mind. He had left the Punisher behind, his quest for revenge now fulfilled and put to bed, but the shadow of the skull still lingers, threatening to break free with every piece of shit that crosses his path.
He hears it just after he slides his key into the shitty aged lock on his door, his attention automatically pulled to it. A tumble, maybe a chair or something falling and hitting the ground with a clatter in your apartment. He thinks nothing of it until the following sounds melt into his ears.
It’s barely there, muffled by the wall and door blocking the scene, but he knows the yelp of a dog in pain when he hears it. It cuts somewhere deep within him, having always been softer on those who are far too good, too innocent, for humanity and its constant ever growing bullshit… but it’s your following tearful pleads oozing through the old, cracked drywall that have him turning fully towards your apartment.
His frown deepens as you increasingly get louder, your pleads of no and please don’t hurt her driving him closer and closer towards that inevitable edge of no return. He stands in front of the door, fingers twitching at his sides.
It would be easy, so fucking easy, to kick the door in and deal with that shithead you paired yourself up with. He doesn’t know your story, and doesn’t really care to know the ins and outs, all he knows is that you deserve much better than the woman beater taking up space in your apartment.
You were a good person, he could feel it flowing from you the moment he met you. A truly decent person, stuck in this shithole he refused to call home. All smiles and sunshine, even with a face that clearly had taken a beating. How many times did you expect people to accept the door story? He’d lost count of your excuses—I fell over, I slipped on the rug, I tripped over a chair, my heel broke.
Fury burns along his nerves, the muscle in his jaw straining as his teeth grind in aggravation with the more sounds of a struggle. He could have it over and done with within mere moments. He could make it quick—he would make it quick, what with you as a witness.
But then what? Where would that leave you? He wouldn’t expect you to lie and cover for him, and he wouldn’t even bother lying if the cops came to his door—he’d own up to it without a twinge of regret. Nah. He wouldn’t make you witness it, not after everything you’d already been through. Your mind would be troubled enough without him adding witnessing a murder to it.
It takes every fibre in his being to turn his back to your door, to unlock his own and slip into the black of his apartment.
—
It was unusual.
It was normal for him to disappear from time to time, wrapped up in parties or clubs or deals, but to not come home at all? It was unlike him. You wait at the door, Bullet curiously sat at your feet, ears perking and dropping with every new sound echoing from the streets.
An hour passes, and still nothing.
Your phone remains bare of notifications, not even a single voicemail of him drunkenly slurring that he was busy. Something stirs in your gut, but you’re unable to identify just what exactly it is that you’re feeling. A mixture of curiosity and dread maybe, your mind caught up in wondering where he could be, but also worrying about what you’d be faced with when he eventually does come home.
The end corridor door slams open and you startle slightly at the noise of it, braced for whatever was coming, but your eyes come to focus on Pete. No Brad. Your shoulders drop, a small shaky exhale blowing past your lips before forcing a small smile for your neighbour. Maybe he’d seen him somewhere?
“How’s she doin’?”
Your smile turns into something more genuine, your gaze falling to Bullet. Her small body shakes in excitement, her tail wagging through the air as Pete bends and drops at the knee to give her some attention.
“She’s good. She’s a snuggler.”
“I bet.” He replies quietly, delivering one final ear scratch before standing and digging for his keys.
“Hey, Pete?”
He grunts, turning before entering his apartment. You stand in your doorway, fingers tangling nervously.
“Have you seen Brad anywhere?”
He pauses, hovering at his door as his fingers subconsciously rub together.
He could still feel the ache in his knuckles, the chafed skin freshly scabbed and healing; could still hear the pathetic little begs for mercy ring in his ears, the lies that he had never laid a hand on you or ‘the mutt’.
Frank wasn’t an idiot—he knew what that prick was doing to you and the dog and made that fact known, voice hoarse with rage as he recounted the times he had heard you sobbing and crying out through the walls. He was damn sure the dick never showed you or the dog any mercy, never batted an eyelid to your cries, or gave his cruelty a second thought.
No more.
A piece of shit like that would never change.
He shakes his head with a look of disinterest. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
You smile softly, “Thank you.”
Brad doesn’t come home.
You toss and turn all night.
Sitting at the small table in a quiet apartment the next day feels surreal. No television roars through the room, no cigarette smoke hangs in the air. You cook breakfast—just in case—but it sits on a plate untouched for the day. You watch the door for a while, expecting him to come tumbling in and smelling of a bar, babbling about whoever he disappeared with… but the door remains shut.
You go to work, a shadow of uneasiness tugging at the back of your mind. Would he be home now, waiting for your inevitable return? Would you be walking into a lions den? Would he be in a bad mood because you weren’t there to welcome him home?
The apartment is as you left it hours before, Bullet welcoming you without a trace of fear. It’s the first time in a long while you don’t have to hand over your tips. You tuck the money into the small space behind your bedside table and go to bed.
He still doesn’t come home.
You stare at the ceiling for most of the night, almost too afraid to close your eyes should he return in the early hours of the morning. It’s like with every minute that passes, your body winds tighter and tighter, braced for the oncoming storm that would cross the threshold at any time.
The sharp knock on the door the next morning pries you from the warmth of your bed and confusion warps your mind as you stumble to the front of the apartment, legs tangling in the blanket in your hurry to answer whoever it was.
You wrench open the door, faltering only when the two police officers standing on your doorstep turn to greet you with sombre expressions. You welcome them in with a frown of concern, worried about the stashes of product Brad had hidden in various spots around the apartment, but they didn’t seem to be interested in searching anything. They didn’t slam a search warrant in your hands or slap cuffs around your wrists.
The words fill the air but they don’t quite penetrate your mind. You hear them, take them in, but don’t let them settle. Your eyes remain fixed on the coffee table, following the small trails of condensation sliding down their untouched glasses of orange juice you had offered as their voices fill the room.
Deal gone bad. Beaten. Shot in the head. No suspects. Sorry for your loss.
You blink, vacant eyes rolling up to the officer’s. “Thank you for coming by.”
They’re kind as you walk them out, offering to keep you in the loop should the case change and any suspects come up, but you barely listen.
The door is solid against your back when you close it and turn to rest fully against it, slowly letting yourself slide down the surface until you’re sitting on the floor. Bullet worms her way into your arms until they lock around her, settling in your hold and heaving a soft sigh of content.
Gone.
Gone.
He’s never coming home.
You’ll never see him again.
Your mind races, whirling through the last year of falling into the relationship—the first night, the quickly extinguished ‘honeymoon’ phase, the shouting, the guilt tripping, the money, the pain, the injuries and the excuses you conjured to explain them, hell—the excuses you told yourself to justify it all… it was over.
Just like that.
Done.
Tears grow along your edges of your vision, bile rising along your throat as the whirlwind of emotion hits you. Grief, confusion, fear, relief. You cry well into the day, not moving a muscle from your spot on the floor as your sobs shatter your chest and birth an ache in your temples.
—
The cool evening air nips at your cheeks as you burrow into your jacket, the smoke harsh and heavy down your throat and bringing a soft nicotine rush to your mind. It tempers the race of thoughts, and gives you something to focus on, your fingers gently tapping the cigarette and watching the small bits of ash float to the ground.
It still hadn’t quite sunk in, but your mind was slowly digesting the fact that he wasn’t around anymore.
A sharp little whistle brings Bullet bouncing back to you from where she was sniffing along the empty street, her little tail whacking against your legs as she jumps to lick at your cheek.
“Good girl,” you whisper softly, scratching behind her ear.
“It’s late.”
You jump at the sudden voice, blinking up at Pete as he comes to stand behind you, hands buried in his jacket pockets. His face is void of expression like always, but something close to concern shines in his dark eyes.
“Everythin’ okay?”
“Brad’s dead.”
He doesn’t look surprised, and you don’t even bother to take notice, too busy turning back around and gently inhaling at the tip of your cigarette. He gives no words of sympathy and it doesn’t surprise you—he’d never been interested in holding conversations with Brad, instead fixing him with a glare and brushing past him.
“How’re you holdin’ up?”
You let his question settle, carefully deliberating your words and wondering just how honest you could be with him. You’d already gone through the various consolations from other neighbours, but with every new interaction, it felt more and more like an act, like you were forcing yourself to play the mourning girlfriend when in actuality you weren’t nearly as upset as you should be.
There’s no heartbreak, no sorrow. Any panic stems from suddenly finding yourself alone, overwhelmed with thoughts of what to do next. It was the first time in a long while you could think your own thoughts and make your own decisions without suffering punishments and it’s a shock to the system.
Does that make you a bad person? You frown at the ground, picking at the sleeve of your jacket.
“I’m devastated.”
The words hold no emotion.
Pete steps down the curb beside you, exhaling quietly when he lowers to sit next to you. He doesn’t say anything. He only gives you a look, a mere glance from the side of his eyes with a brow raising just the slightest millimetre and it’s enough to know that he’s calling you out on your bullshit.
You sigh, huffing in wry amusement. “Okay. That’s a lie. I don’t—I don’t feel anything. I feel something, but I’m trying to not acknowledge it.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because it’s not—I shouldn’t—” you sigh, frown deepening as you struggle for words. “It’s awful.”
Pete lets you work out your words, seemingly content to wait it out until you are ready. His arms open for Bullet, who jumps up against his chest and nips curiously at his beard.
“I’m not sad. At all. If anything, I feel… relief. And I know how that makes me sound—I’m awful, but I just—I get to come home and not worry about walking on eggshells. I don’t have to have my hair a certain way, I don’t have to watch my words, my breathing…”
He nods slowly. “Yeah. I know what he was doin’ to you both. I’m sorry you had to put up with that shit.”
A soft smile curls your lips.
“Thanks. Y’know, I used to believe the only way I’d leave that relationship was in a body bag—whether it was by his hand, or my own. That was my only out, and I made peace with that, but not anymore. I’m free.”
“Yeah you are.”
“He never used to be like that.” You crush the cigarette under your shoe, watching the remaining tobacco and paper smear over the ground. “He was nice—at the start. I suppose that’s how it always starts. I didn’t even realise what was happening. The first time he hit me, a few months in, he said it was because I drove him crazy, and that he loved me more than anything. You know what I said? I said sorry. Like it was my fault he hit me.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I know that. I’ve always known that deep down, but I don’t know… he just had this way of worming into my head. I made excuses. I said the wrong thing, I looked at him the wrong way, I breathed too heavily. He started taking my money, he kept me from my friends… I had no out. He always said he would find me if I ran. I just—I just lived with it.”
Silence fills the air and you breathe a sigh of relief at speaking your thoughts. It feels wonderfully freeing. You move your gaze to Pete, waiting until he turns his head to meet your gaze before smiling warmly.
“Thank you, Pete… for listening. I appreciate it.”
It’s barely there, but you see the way his face softens, his bearded cheeks creasing with what you expect is a small smile.
“I got you, sweetheart.”
—
It takes weeks, but eventually it happens. Your application for an apartment in the city is approved, and you buzz at the realisation that you’re leaving this all behind. You’ll be out of what you had called home for far too long, away from where you had cried and cowered and suffered. You’d be free of the shadow hanging over the apartment.
Thankfully your stuff doesn’t require too many boxes, so the trip can be made in one trip with just a cab. You’re packed and ready to go by lunchtime, Bullet waiting patiently in her new harness attached to the lead in your hand, and yet you wait. Your new keys rattle in your pocket, the promise of a new space free and untouched by memories of him swimming at the back of your mind, but you still wait, sitting on the curb with your few boxes stacked neatly next to you.
It’s Pete that keeps you hanging around your old apartment building. You didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye. A proper goodbye, not some hastily scrawled note jammed under his door. You wanted to give him more than that, especially after all he’s done.
After that night, he made it a habit to check in whenever he was coming or going from his apartment. He stayed for only a few moments, but you were thankful for his efforts each and every time.
It’s when the sun starts to set that you see him coming, and you hurriedly stand, dusting your hands off on your pants.
“Hi,” you breathe, smiling as Bullet bounces around his feet.
“Hey,” he returns quietly, hands dug in the pockets of his jacket. “You get a place?”
“Yeah—an apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.”
He huffs something close to a chuckle, chest briefly jumping with the force of it and he nods. “You’ll be safe there.”
“Because of that guy in a onesie? What’s his name? ‘Devilman’, or something.”
Pete snorts in amusement, “Yeah, somethin’ like that.”
A bigger smile stretches his lips and the wide curve of it warms your chest. He doesn’t smile nearly as much as he should. It suits him. You find yourself grinning back, something stirring your stomach the longer he smiles at you.
“I wanted to say goodbye… y’know, before I left.”
His frown returns. “You were waitin’ for me? You didn’t need—”
“No, I know. I wanted to. I wanted to thank you, you’ve always been very kind to me. And I appreciate you being there for me these last few weeks. You mean a lot to me–I mean, everything you’ve done… it means a lot. I just wanted you to know that.”
Shifting on the spot, you drop your gaze to the floor and reach for the folded up bit of paper in your front pocket. The paper is smooth under your touch, and you brush a thumb over it before speaking.
“Uh, if you ever… I don’t know… want to talk, or catch up or something, this is my new cell number. I’d like to keep in touch. I—if you want, of course.”
You don’t know why, but you half expect him to ignore the small slip of paper you hold out to him, but instead he takes it carefully, dark eyes falling to cross over the numbers scrawled down before moving back to meet yours.
“Hey listen,” he starts, “I uh–I got a friend. He’s a real good guy. He does this group circle therapy thing—it’s for vets… but I can see if he knows anyone in the DV ring. It might be good for you.”
“Oh. Yeah, I’d… I’d actually really appreciate that. I wouldn’t know where to start with that kind of stuff.”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks. Um, well… okay. I guess I should get going.”
You take a small deliberate step forward, making your next move absolutely clear should he want to move away. He doesn’t. You curl your arms around his thick torso, breathing in the scent of his jacket and holding your breath when you feel him start to shift in your hold.
Careful arms wrap around your back, keeping you tucked into his chest and you hide a smile, enjoying the way your heart thuds heavily against your chest. You keep close, tilting your head back to place a soft kiss of thanks to his cheek.
The moment holds, and you can’t help but linger, lips ghosting the corner of his mouth. Your eyes shyly roll up to catch his, briefly wondering if this was too close or pushing any boundaries. His eyes move over your face, flicking between your eyes in uncertainty before he tips his head the slightest towards yours, his lips pressing carefully against yours.
A hand cups your cheek, his palm hot from where it had been stashed in his pocket, and it warms your cool skin, the rough feel of it sending a pleasant shock along your nerves. Thoughts dissolve from your mind, the worry at potentially ruining whatever close little relationship you had developed with him fizzing out with the brush of his beard.
The kiss is soft, hesitant, but slowly builds in pressure with the longer you stay pressed up against him. It lasts only a moment, Pete gently pulling away to break the kiss but he stays close, keeping his hand curled tenderly over your cheek as his nose brushes yours.
“Thank you for everything, Pete.” You whisper softly, fingers tightening their hold on his jacket.
“Frank.”
You frown in confusion, watching his eyes open and carefully meet yours.
“My name’s Frank.”
“Frank.” You murmur, feeling how it sits on your tongue. You don’t care to know the details. Maybe one day he’d tell you why. You smile, “It suits you much better than Pete.”
A slow grin pulls at his lips. “You think so?”
“Mhm. Well… don’t be a stranger, Frank. And take care, okay?”
His eyes roll over your face before he softly delivers one last final kiss to your lips, voice gruff as his words melt into your lips. “Yes ma’am.”