It's 3 am and she's wide awake with a new mug of coffee and her warm laptop.
His light is on again. She won't stare this time. She won't.
She is.
He's there, cleaning his guns once more. Two nights ago he was a bloody mess, stitching his own arm.
She knows it's him - the one everyone is talking about and yet, she does not feel afraid.
She's seen him with his dog and wiping the sleep from his eyes. She's seen him in a low slung towel, silently begging for it to fall.
It would be her dumb luck to have a window directly across from The Punisher's window. She's totally entranced by him and doesn't try to hide it. He sees her too. She knows it because he sometimes gives her a little wave right before he turns out his light. Lately though, he leaves it on.
Bold, she thinks. Considering he's a wanted man. She supposes it's okay because the only person seeing in is her.
Since he's not stitching himself up tonight, and she knows she'll never see him outside of their little world, she undresses in front of the window. Her dresser is right there so it's not an inorganic move. She does not dare look his way - for if she did, she would see she has his rapt attention.
Tonight she opts for one of her lighter slips. She does not look over before turning off her light.
*******
Leaving her blinds up always seems like a fantastic idea at night. She pictures the sun waking her naturally and the birds fluttering in to dress her.
That is not what happens.
The sun is hot and blinding. There are no fluttery birds. Instead she has to dress herself. AGAIN. There are car horns and shouting shop owners and no Frank.
The media released his real name along with a tiny blurb about his (late) family. She's been craving more ever since. She'll admit her curiosity is bordering on unhealthy.
Whatever. It's keeping her occupied and giving her a strange sense of solace.
She does have a life. She promises. But her life is mundane and his is decidedly not.
She wakes every morning to the sounds of hell and throws on whatever slapped ass outfit she can throw together to make herself look presentable. Dress for the job you want and all that. She thinks she does a damn fine job of this most days. She's become an ace at bargain shopping for expensive looking garments. She allows herself one, maybe two new additions to her wardrobe per paycheck.
The women she works with are the flavor of fabulous she dreamt about when she was growing up in rural Vermont. Now it all seems too exhausting. The fantasy has proven to be greater than reality and she quickly learns they are all flash and no substance. Well, the ones that have actually spoken to her. She does not like to generalize or put down other women, but the ones she's reached out to were just plain mean.
It's okay though. She doesn't need anyone. As long as she has her Wi-Fi and a bed, she's good.
Also, cake. Always cake.
It's cutthroat out there. Everyone is competing for the next promotion and she's tired. She's better than all of them. She would love to leave, but winning the lottery is more likely than being hired right now so she'll buckle down, do the bare minimum, and thank the gods for the Internet.
*******
Her day starts like any other day. Until it doesn't.
She receives an email telling her to report to Ellison. He's the big boss man on the floor above her.
She rolls her eyes. Oh, what did she do?
She takes the stairs up and smiles at the receptionist who greets her by name. Oh. That's a pleasant surprise.
"I'm here to see-"
"Ellison. Yes, he's expecting you. Would you like some coffee or water?"
"I- no thank you." There are nice people in this building?
"You can go right in... He's the last door down that hall." She motions to the farthest door.
Karen smiles and thanks her, tucking her hair behind her ears and ducking her head.
His door is open, but she gently raps on the door to grab his attention.
"Miss Page! Yes, come in. Sit, sit." He motions to the chair opposite him.
She tucks her skirt under her and sits.
"I think it's silly to waste time, so I don't do it." He clears his throat and folds his hands on his desk. "I want you to come work for me."
She is so thrown she barks out a laugh which seems to amuse him. "Me?"
"Yes. You. You say that like you're not worth hiring. I think you are. I think you'll be a great addition." She stares at him with wide eyes. "Your co-workers...they don't like you. As far as we can tell there's no legitimate reason for that besides jealousy. That got me thinking... Jealous of what, exactly? So, I did some research."
Her head is spinning with so many questions.
"Turns out, you're talented."
"Uh, yes. I know."
"And confident. I love it. ...Well?"
Oh he wants an answer right now. She knows the work they do up here is more her style. Sex tips and hot new restaurants are important to some people and that's great, but it's just not her.
She asks him some questions about her pay and what she'll be writing and she's more than happy with all of his answers.
She accepts the job and feels like she's floating. When she leaves, she asks the receptionist's name and receives smiles from everyone she passes on her way out. That is literally more smiles than she has received in the three years she's worked on the floor below.
She packs up her desk even though she doesn't start until Monday. It's only Thursday.
*******
His light comes on at 11. He's early. She only catches a glimpse of him as he's leaving the room. When he returns, she can clearly see he's bloody. She hates the bloody nights. She's pretended to not watch him or be overly concerned in the past but this time she stops what she's doing and walks to her window.
She's very lucky the windows on this block are so big. Most other buildings in Hell's Kitchen have teeny tiny Windows.
She's standing at her window staring openly at his shirtless form. It's a stab wound and her breath catches in her throat. She swallows hard and feels panic edge into her periphery.
This isn't the first time and it won't be the last. This must be what she craves. This roller coaster of emotions, this anticipation. She doesn't even know this man! She shares an alley with him and has never met him in person. You know, without glass panes between them.
He finishes stitching himself and wipes the blood off with what looks like a shirt. Oh, come on. She wants to clean him properly and ...take him to a hospital. Every time. Every damn time. Maybe one day she'll get used to this helplessness.
He tosses the shirt aside and bends forward. What's he doing? Writing something? He holds a piece of paper against the glass - there's dark stains of blood smudged on it but clear as day in thick black marker, 'I'm ok.'
She could cry with relief. She smiles and touches her fingertips to the glass. He nods and walks away from the window, hopefully to shower because he's filthy.
Can't he take a weekend off and watch crappy movies with his dog? Just...heal a little, dammit.
Her night is just beginning and if Frank is showering, she wants to be there for the towel. Maybe tonight will be the night that fucking towel will fall.
She gets comfy on her bed with her laptop and opens a few tabs - one for reading, one for writing, and one for (arithmetic - no, not really) watching.
Her eyes droop easily not five minutes into one of her favorite episodes of The West Wing. This is a pleasant surprise as she's not used to sleeping before 2 am.
She's determined to make it long enough for the wet Frank showing. A swig of NyQuil will help things along.
She absolutely must get used to getting a decent night's sleep if she's going to succeed in this new position. It's all she could have hoped for - Ellison reaching down and plucking her from the dregs to showcase her real, natural born talent.
*******
She sits up to watch him unabashed when she senses he's there. He's wearing sweatpants and that's it. His chest is a thing of beauty. He doesn't spend much time there, but he leaves the light on when he moves away from the window.
No towel tonight.
She has to wait 24 more hours before she sees him again. A lot can happen in 24 hours.
What if he moves?
What if he dies?
What if he starts closing his blinds?
What if she fails miserably in this position?
What if she loses her job and loses her apartment?
What if she's a damn fool and needs to focus on real life and not her made up relationship with the vigilante?
Plus, it's unrealistic to think most of those things could happen in 24 hours.
Really just...what if he dies?
*******
The next morning she comes in to an email asking her to join some of her soon to be co-workers at a bar not too far from their building.
They would like to welcome her to the team. Her eyes well up with tears. She blinks them away quickly when she hears more of her current co-workers filing in.
The rest of her day drags and the anxiety of anticipating tonight threatens to choke her, but finally FINALLY five o' clock arrives.
*******
The bar is dimly lit and packed. It smells horrible but the beer is cheap and the "team" is buying.
She laughs and enjoys every minute of her night with these (seemingly) wonderful people.
She's waiting for the universe to give her a swift kick in the ass as it usually does when things are moving along too smoothly.
Maybe with her new job, she'll try on a new attitude and attempt this positive thinking she's always hearing about.
*******
She gets home close to 4 am and almost jumps out of her skin.
He's at his window staring at her. Something like relief flashes across his features. Blink and you'd miss it. He's still watching her as she removes her light jacket and heels. There's a question there written plain as day.
She opens her notebook and writes 'I'm okay'
She holds it up to the glass with a soft, appreciative smile and he smirks.
She changes into an oversized t-shirt, aware of his stare and gives him a small wave before climbing into bed. No NyQuil needed.
*******
It's impossible to sleep in so she doesn't even try. She was able to knock out for a good three hours and since it's Saturday she has the option of napping later.
The remainder of the weekend will be filled with a whole lot of nothing and she couldn't be more pleased.
She might even watch a stupid amount of porn.
Don't judge.
She needs a shower because her hair smells as if a cigarette and a french fry were copulating. She thankfully stopped after three beers and drank water the rest of the night. She's learned her lesson too many times - she's not twenty-one anymore.
She wonders if he's home. It's early and she doesn't usually see him in the morning. She checks his window and sees his dog instead.
Frank has what seems to be a small table directly below his window and his dog is currently sitting on top of it, watching her every move. She's not sure if she thinks this is adorable or Cujo-esque.
She waves at the dog and he stands and sits and wags his entire body with excitement. Poor dog. All alone, all the time. What does he do all day? Probably sleep. She takes it back - damn lucky dog.
She spends a stupid amount of time "communicating" with this handsome grey pit bull. Before she knows it, it's 11:30 am and she hasn't eaten or had any coffee. Also, that shower is calling her name. She waves goodbye to the pit and gives him an exaggerated pout.
He scratches at the window and her heart breaks a little.
*******
She's freshly showered, but doesn't have it in her to eat or prepare coffee. The exhaustion hits her like a wall and her bed is all she wants. Her life is so thrilling. Could she be depressed?
No, yeah. She's definitely depressed.
She doesn't want those pills again.
Her eyes are closed before her head hits the pillow and the sounds of the Kitchen lull her into a deep slumber.
*******
When she wakes, it's already dark and she's starved. She chugs a seltzer water until her throat burns and her eyes water.
She microwaves some leftover Chinese takeout and notices a piece of paper taped to his window that most certainly was not there before she slipped into sweet unconscious.
Name's Blue.
The dog, she assumes. If not, it's a very peculiar note.
She scrambled to find her notebook and writes her own note - does she even own tape? Yes! She pilfered a roll from work last Christmas.
Hi Blue, I'm Karen
The rest of the evening is Chinese and Netflix.
His light doesn't come on and she isn't sure if she can't sleep because she slept all day or because there's a possibility he's dead.
*******
She dreams he's there with her, on top of her, shielding her from gunfire. He's so close she can breathe him in and feel his heat.
He's whispering to her, telling her to stay low. She doesn't know where they are or who is shooting but she's so thankful he's there acting as her shield.
She wakes with a start. It must be at least 10 am.
It's noon.
She sits up and pulls her laptop onto the bed. She googles him and spends more time than she would care to admit reading every little tidbit about him.
It's not the first time and it won't be the last.
*******
When she finally pulls herself out of the rabbit hole that is Frank Castle, she decides it's time to get some fresh air. Well, as fresh as the air can be in the Kitchen.
A walk will do her some good though.
She'll stop at a nice bakery on her way home and pick up a bagel or muffin for her Monday morning breakfast.
*******
The air hits her lungs and it feels like she's being cleaned. Like every breath she takes is washing away the hazy weekend and energizing her for her first week at her new job.
She's smiling to herself, thinking about all the new possibilities coming her way and she's ready to tackle every one of them.
*******
He's watching her. She doesn't know it and never will, but he's been splitting his time between the slime of Hell's Kitchen and Karen.
He's beyond intrigued by her.
She's his touchstone in an abundantly rocky terrain. Her light brings him back to the world of the living, keeps him human, keeps him alive. She reminds him that he's, at his very core, just a man. A man fueled by the dark and devil's gasoline. He could stay there, in the dark, slipping deeper into a world of hate, rage, and revenge... Then she turns on her light