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They'd put Castle in the room adjoining the master bedroom to sleep it off when the worst of the drug had left his system, so that Marc would be able to hear him if anything happened. It made the most sense: Frenchie and Chloe needed a break, and Marc was a light sleeper at the best of times. He could take the opportunity for some shuteye and still get in there in a hurry if Castle started shouting and smashing things again. He was quiet for now, hopefully sleeping it off so he'd be good for tomorrow's action.
Trouble was, Marc's blood was still alive from the fight, humming through his veins like an electric current. He could lie in bed all he wanted with his blackout curtains drawn, staring up into the new-moon blackness where Khonshu couldn't get in his head, but he was never gonna get to sleep this way. The best thing he could do was take the edge off, like years of nights-before had taught him. When you were hunkered down waiting for action, steaming with tension and nerves, it passed the time, cooled your jets, cleared your head. Maybe let you sleep a little. That'd be nice.
His dick was ready to go, rising as soon as he wrapped his hand around it with gratifying eagerness that proved he wasn't as old as his aching body felt sometimes. He didn't bother groping on the bedside table for lotion; spit on his palm was good enough, and he'd always liked it rough.
Grant wasn't into that kind of thing, always griped at him in the hindbrain when he overdid it, but fuck Grant anyway. Wasn't like he was out there getting laid. Marlene hadn't been around in a while. His hand was the only company they were getting these days. If Grant didn't like it, he could kick sand.
If he curled his fingers tense enough and let his mind drift, it almost felt like another guy's hard, callused fingers on him. Like when Lockley hovered in the back of his mind and it was as close to sharing it as they could get. That always brought him right back to those cold nights in the sandbox, him and a buddy giving each other a hand in the dark.
It's not queer when you're over here, a corporal'd told him his first ride in the desert when he was wide-eyed, impressionable fresh meat. Marc had never been a prude anyway, even before basic stripped any remaining modesty away, and doing it with a buddy was good. It just made you feel a little more human, another hand on you, a warm body next to you, sharing breaths and heartbeats and a little bit of trust.
The Marine Corps hadn't given him much to remember fondly, but there was that.
It was habit to stay quiet when there was anybody around, but he guessed it didn't matter, considering the company. Castle was a Marine too, he knew from the dossier he and Frenchie'd put together on the guy when he'd first hit their radar. Four combat tours, a decorated captain, a crack sniper, accolades out the ass from his men, a better Marine than Marc had ever been. He'd understand this need to jerk one out before tomorrow's fight. Sate the body so the mind could rest.
He pictured Castle lying awake on the other side of the door, listening to his breath getting shorter, the slide of skin on skin, the telltale bit-off groan as his thumb rubbed hard over the crown on an upstroke. He'd know exactly what Marc was doing to himself. Maybe he was feeling the same way, so he'd get his hand on his own dick, work it in a sympathetic rhythm. Or maybe...
His hips jerked up as he thought about the door opening, Castle's form backlit by the lamp in the other room, just enough to see him by. He was lean, hard-muscled, as tall as Frenchie and a little broader. He'd fill the doorway.
Well, Spector, he'd say, easy, matter-of-fact. Looks like you could use a hand.
Castle had big hands, and they'd be just as rough as Marc's own. Rougher, maybe, the gun calluses still tough where Marc's had faded from disuse. He'd have a tight grip, a slow, demanding stroke that landed right on the line between discomfort and real pain.
And his other hand coming down firm on the inside of Marc's leg and splaying his thighs wide. Making him open, exposed, vulnerable. Hard fingers like steel digging in, leaving constellations of fingertip bruises for him to feel in the morning.
He smelled like smoke and blood and an unmistakable nitroglycerin sharpness. Like a man who brought his own war with him wherever he went. And those eyes, implacably black as a moonless night, locked on Marc's.
How you doin', Spector? Ready to finish this? he'd say. And he'd wait for a response, just put some weight on him, hold him down and watch him until he asked for it. Make him wait, make him wild—
"Ah, fuck," he gasped, bucking up into that punishingly hard grip. Didn't matter now whose hand was on his dick; he was going off like a goddamn grenade.
Marc collapsed back onto his bed, breath coming quick and harsh. Lassitude settled into every muscle, easing the tension he'd been carrying around for at least the past thirty-six hours, and he relaxed enough to huff out a laugh at himself. Yeah, that was the way to settle the night-before nerves, all right. Jerk one out to the thought of the Punisher helping him out, like he was twenty again and any stray thought could get him going. His brain was just not right.
Marc sighed and grabbed a handful of sheet, used it to clean himself off. Good enough until wake-up call, and at least now he could probably get a little sleep before the next fight.