Kastle Christmas fic from the Kastle gift exchange on Tumblr. Title is from the Bon Jovi song of the same name.
He can keep her safe.
It's not really a formulated thought. It doesn't have a beginning or an end inasmuch as thoughts ever do. It's more of a feeling, a sudden swell of emotion that overcomes him briefly before ebbing away and hiding in his bones, waiting, watching, readying itself until the time comes and he thinks of her again.
He looks at the newspaper on his desk, the dozen or so open tabs on his laptop. The gun and the house keys on his bedside table.
That time is now.
On some level it soothes him - the knowledge that he is capable of doing this, that he has the necessary skills and resources to make it happen; that he knows where the pitfalls are, where the mistakes hide and how he can avoid them.
He's better at it now too. He's had practice. Jesus fucking Christ, he's had practice. And experience is a cruel teacher, the cruellest fucking bitch he's ever met. It's a bad thing. A very bad thing, but maybe some good can come out of it too.
He can keep her safe.
But there's something else. Another level, another aspect to this that isn't all confidence and conviction. A place deep in the pit of his belly that is nothing but a nest of doubts and worry, of fear and rage. He guesses he wouldn't be remotely human if he didn't acknowledge those little sparks of terror twisting around his spine and making him feel weak and helpless. He would be even less human if that weakness didn't enrage him, if it didn't make him want to punch the walls until his knuckles were bloody and his heart was empty.
Maria. Lisa. Frank Jr. Pools of blood and gunfire. Sobbing - his own, as he cradled them in his arms when they were already dead and he should have been.
He shuts his eyes. It's been almost three years but the pain still feels fresh. Raw. It makes him wish he'd never been able to remember - that Karen Page and her pretty eyes and her gentle voice hadn't found a way inside him and unlocked those memories, brought them crashing out of him. Most of the time though he's glad she did. Times when he's thankful he could put Schoonover down like the rabid dog he was, times he thinks of himself as some kind of avenging angel that the city needs.
Times when Karen Page's eyes and her pretty smile make all of this seem worth it.
Most of the time though, he just wishes he'd died too.
But apparently not even a bullet to the head can see to that. Apparently there's something in the universe that wants him to keep living, that'll defy the laws of logic and medical science to keep him alive and kicking.
Once he wasn't sure why. Now he's starting to get an idea.
He doesn't need to, but he picks up the newspaper again. She's on the front page - she always is. It's been a while, but he's watched her byline change from a generic "staff writer" to a straightforward "Karen Page" and now finally to Karen Page: Senior Reporter and he feels a swell of pride even though he has no right and never will have. He does want to pat himself on the back for calling it though, does get a certain satisfaction in knowing he was right about her all along. She's smart, she's tenacious, she always had it in her and she didn't need to hide behind that nervous camouflage. She kicks ass and takes names. She's done both with him already.
He scans the article. The news doesn't get any better on the fourth read through.
Some low life, going by the name of Marcus Ward, has been released from prison after serving only about eighteen months of his sentence. That in itself doesn't sound altogether like a story worth telling and that moron that calls himself the editor of this rag seems to think so too by assigning it minimal space at the bottom of the page. Not that Frank can blame him. Criminals get their sentences commuted all the time and this case is really no different. Ward turned state's evidence against some low-level gangsters he once pulled a few jobs for. It led to their arrest and a lead on the the methamphetamine influx that's been ravaging the city. It's really nothing exceptional.
Unfortunately the reason Ward went to prison in the first place wasn't exceptional either. Assault. Battery. Child endangerment. At the time it was front page news; the pictures of his wife's bruised face and broken bones made all the papers. You couldn't turn around in Hell's Kitchen without seeing Joanie Ward's black eyes and lacerated cheeks wherever you looked.
They were a little more discreet about the three-year-old son Luke, who got himself caught up in the mess. His broken bones and cigarette burns didn't make the papers, but Frank knew about them anyway. He also knew that Luke's favourite toy was a tatty teddy and he liked to eat mac and cheese for breakfast. Probably more than his father knew anyway.
Either way Joanie and Luke are safe now. After the trial she went to stay with an aging aunt in Denmark and, as far as Frank knows, has made a life for herself there. And Ward's on a no-fly list so it's not like he'll really be able to do any Danish adventuring now that he's out. Frank's not all too concerned about the safety of the ex-wife and kid.
But that doesn't mean he's not concerned. He is. He's very concerned. Because in true Karen Page fashion she's left out the part of the story that affects her directly, she's left out what Ward said when he was convicted, what he promised. She'd say it wasn't important and he guesses from a news perspective it isn't and would come across as indulgent.
The problem though is that it is important. In fact it's so fucking important that he's itching to just make plans and get her ass out of town and somewhere safe, deal with her objections and outrage later. But that feels too much like going behind her back, which in turn feels too much like lying. And yeah, he's not going to do that. Not to her. Not to the only person in the world who still thinks there's good in him.
Doesn't change the facts though. Doesn't change them at all, even though they've been left out, even if they've been deemed un-fucking-important. Because almost two years ago when Marcus Ward was found guilty as sin by a jury of his peers in the fine state of New York, he did something. He did something bad. And if he wasn't already deserving of Frank's specific brand of punishment, it would have been all the excuse he would ever need.
Unfortunately, he never got the chance. And holy fuck he wishes he had.
Because after he was pronounced guilty and the gavel fell and the judge demanded order in the court, it was no surprise that Ward lost his shit, that he started shouting and swearing and threatening. And if there was any doubt about exactly what kind of an asshole he was, it was gone. What was a surprise though was that Joanie wasn't the recipient of his wrath. In fact he barely seemed to notice her sitting a few rows back in the gallery.
Instead he turned and swore up and down to a courtroom full of people that when he gets out he's coming for her . For Karen Page. For her and her alone and he's going to murder her, rip her limb from limb and piss on her corpse. That he's going to do things to her she can't even imagine and she's going to be begging him to put her out of her misery before it's over. And no, that's not just hearsay, that's not some bad rumour or some nightmare Frank's imagined into being to torment himself with. The video was all over Youtube. Marcus, middle aged and balding, broad in the waist and narrow in the mind, red-faced and spitting into the camera about how that bitch - that bitch Karen Page - ruined his life and he was going to make her pay, he was going to make her pay with everything she had.
That story, while never appearing in The Bulletin , had made it into some of the other papers, the more sensationalist ones which liked pairing pictures of pretty blonde women with those of dangerous men and the words "rape" and "murder" in the headline. Maybe it could have been something, but even they had dismissed it as nothing but bravado and rage - something Ward would get over when he had some time to cool off in a jail cell.
They obviously don't know all that much about rage.
Not much at all.
It's not the first time since Frank heard about Ward's case and Karen's involvement in it that he wishes she'd come to him first. He can't blame her though, can't blame her for thinking he wasn't an option or that she'd never see him again. It had happened only a week or two after he took Schoonover out. Single digit days since he told her to stay away from him for what must have been the hundredth time and apparently the first time she decided to listen. That asshole boss of hers had her writing a story on the one and only women's shelter in Hell's Kitchen and it seemingly took her to some strange places. Because, from what he understands, it was there that she met Joanie and Luke and heard their story of terror and suffering and it was her gentle encouragement as well as pulling in a few favours from Foggy that eventually led to Joanie pressing charges and divorcing Marcus.
It was all very above board. All very proper. All according to the letter of the law. And he knows it would have been so much better if it hadn't been. If he'd known about it to take care of Marcus and his predilection for using his fists. If he'd been in a position to deliver his own brand of justice - or injustice, depending on your perspective (and whether or not your name is Matthew Murdock).
And while Frank doesn't necessarily enjoy what he does - in many ways it's a means to an end, although to what end he's not sure - taking out Marcus Ward would have made him happy. No, he lies. He would have fucking loved it and he's not even slightly ashamed to admit it. Scum is one thing, low-level mobsters and petty criminals, drug dealers - they're all cheap. A dime a dozen. But the kind of man who'd hurt his own children, who'd rape and murder and lay his hands on a woman in a way she isn't perfectly happy about is a whole other story.
And now that whole other story has been released. And despite what the tabloids said back then and how dismissive they were of his threats, he's coming for her. Coming for Karen Page and there's not a damn thing anyone can do about it.
Except there is.
xxx
He can keep her safe.
But there's something he needs to do first.
He has what Maria used to call a "new recruit". It's about three weeks old, vaguely pitbull and sleeping in a huddle of blankets on his bed with an alarm clock to mimic its mother's heartbeat. And it's hungry. So he holds it in his arms on a heating pad and feeds it. It's small and he has to use a syringe filled with some strange vet-approved mixture which he's been assured is almost as good as mothers' milk.
He's always had a knack for finding strays and rescues, bringing them home to Maria and watching as she rolled her eyes, shook her head and told him that he couldn't keep doing this. A homeless dog here, a box of stray kittens there. Once even a fucking African Grey parrot that was luckily promptly returned to its owner. What they didn't find homes for, they kept.
His new recruits.
This was different though. He didn't find this tiny soul wandering the streets or take him off some junkie willing to sell him for a quick fix. It wasn't nearly that straightforward. Nothing ever is. He got word on a dog-fighting ring, with a trafficking business on the side, running out of Pennsylvania. So he decided to take a little trip and see for himself.
The details are a little blurry. Some asshole hit him over the head early on with a hammer. It didn't knock him out but it did make him angry and fuzzier than he would have liked. Although not nearly as fuzzy as the jumped up scumbags at the property were hoping for. And, by the end of it all, he was watching from the bushes while four policemen led a bunch of Ukrainian women covered in blankets into the relatively safety of their vehicles. It wasn't a perfect ending. These types of things seldom have those - he knows enough to have accepted that. It's a damn lot better than what any of them could have expected though. It's not exactly a new lease on life but it's a lease and a life nonetheless.
And the nameless, tiny grey bundle in his arms licking weakly at the tip of the syringe, is something else with a new lease on life too.
The ASPCA had been there too, no doubt called by the cops when they arrived. And they took the fighting dogs out one by one, keeping them well away from each other and loading them into crates in the backs of their vans. He's not an idiot. He knows those dogs have been destroyed. They've been hurt and fought too often. Maybe one or two will be lucky - the mothers or the bait dogs but he doesn't want to delude himself into that either. Which is why when he found the emaciated, flea-ridden waif in the bottom of an old wooden crate he didn't have it in him to leave it behind.
So he didn't. He's a lot of things but he's not that particular type of monster.
The result is he now has a tiny puppy wrenched from its mother far too young. And he has to hand feed it and keep it warm and watch it like a fucking hawk lest it start fading away. And all because some assholes somewhere thought they needed to make a quick buck of the pain and suffering of something small and helpless.
And isn't that the biggest fucking joke you ever heard? The big bad Punisher: Annihilator of Hell's Kitchen's Scum, Meathook Connoisseur and Valiant Protector of Stray Puppies. It's fucking ridiculous, but it's what he does. It's what he has to do.
And no, he doesn't actually have the time for it. He doesn't really have the space either. And this really is fucking insane. But he thinks he has the commitment and somewhere he hears Maria whispering that he has the heart too. The love. He'll see it through.
He always does.
He can keep it safe too.
xxx
He goes to her.
He doesn't know what else to do. He waits outside her office with a hoodie pulled down low over his eyes and a scarf almost covering his mouth.
This is reckless. Dangerous in the worst possible way. The world thinks he's dead and he's more than happy to keep it labouring under that delusion. And yet here he is. Ready to give it all up for a girl with high heels and pretty blue eyes that he can't stop thinking about whenever he sees her.
And when she comes downstairs, wrapped in a long black coat, boots clicking on the pavement and he sees how the cold winter winds whip her hair around her face and the gentle moonlight turns it almost silver, he knows that it'll be a while before he stops thinking about that too. And it's wrong and it's stupid and it's everything he should run away from. But he won't. He was strong enough to do it once, he's not sure he has it in him to do again.
He watches her for a second. He could take her arm, walk her away from her building. She'd realise it was him soon enough but that seems like a dick move - scaring her unnecessarily and then act like it was for her own good.
So he doesn't. Instead he calls to her. Softly. Gently. Like he always did.
"Ma'am."
She freezes, coat flapping around her legs, hand tightening on her purse strap and there's a moment he thinks she'll carry on walking. Ignore him like he's a ghost that haunts her which she's learnt to endure rather than appreciate.
And who could blame her? It's not like they parted ways on good terms. Not like "You're dead to me" can really be taken any other way than the obvious. Not like he didn't hit back and tell her to stop wasting her time, to stay away from him. Because he's not what she thinks. He's not good . Even if there are moments, like now, that he really wishes he was.
He guesses the moment on the roof doesn't count, the little flare he saw in her eyes, the way he had to force himself to look away. To leave. Saving Red's ass that night was just an excuse.
But then she turns and her eyes are as big and pretty as he remembers and she doesn't look like this is the worst thing that ever happened to her.
"Frank?" she says and her voice isn't hard, isn't angry. It's guarded, hesitant, but there's something else too. A hopefulness, a curiosity, that he's pretty sure is not just in his head.
For a second he wishes things could be different. That he didn't need to be who he is. That he could be different Frank Castle and she could be the same Karen Page and they could meet in another world and another time when the Punisher didn't need to exist to keep him alive.
Sometimes - more often than he cares to admit - he imagines it. Imagines what he'd be like if he could deal with loss like a normal person. If he could cry and grieve and hurt and then one day move on. But he can't. Because that's not the Frank Castle he is. Even if it's the one she might need.
But those thoughts are not for here and they're definitely not for now, and the truth is he's not even sure where they came from.
What he is sure about is that he's staring, that his mouth is hanging open and that he can't believe he never noticed the dimples in her cheeks when she smiles, or the way her hair curls around her ears even when she has it pulled up and away from her face.
"Can I walk with you?" he asks and even to his own ears it sounds overly chivalrous. He's never shied away from a certain standard of respect when it comes to talking to her. He still calls her "ma'am" even if in his head she became "Karen" a long time ago. Opening doors, taking coats, offering his arm ... these are all things he'd do without a second thought, but somehow this - requesting to walk with her - it sounds silly, even to him.
Apparently not to her though. In fact she barely seems to register the question and he realises she's still taking him in. Absorbing him the way he did her.
He wonders what she sees. A man who maybe once could have passed for decent looking, now with a grizzly beard and a broken nose, small faded scars that you don't need to look too closely to see. He hasn't been fighting lately and he's not bruised ... so there's that. But even he has to admit, it's not much.
And that's when he realises he's missed her.
It hasn't been that torturous ache he feels every goddamn second of every goddamn day for Maria and the children. It hasn't been a source of pain that he's been willing to carve his heart out of his chest just to be rid of. Nothing that dramatic. But it's been there. A longing, a loneliness that he's suddenly aware had settled into his flesh and bones and then magically disappeared the second she walked into the street in front of him. And all he can think of how good it feels to be near the person who gets you; who, despite everything, believes in you.
He's not sure she feels the same way though. Because her expression changes and then she's looking at him like she doesn't quite trust him, like she's worried this could be a trick and that even if it was, she might fall for it anyway. Like she doesn't quite trust herself either.
He supposes he deserves that. He's not remotely surprised that he puts her on edge even if there is something else to this strange thing between them that he comes close to calling "friendship".
But then she nods. Sure, he can walk with her. There's a stall around the corner that sells some kind of fancy Viennese hot chocolate in anticipation for Christmas and she'd like to try it. Would he like some too?
He shakes his head. He's never been one for hot chocolate. Too sweet, too sugary. Maria used to joke that it wasn't a good match for his soul which, like his coffee, is black and bitter. At the time that couldn't be further from the truth, but now it feels like a prophecy. Maria always did know him better than he knew himself. But the thought that somehow, somewhere she could have seen this - seen him and what he has become - makes him feel ill and cold to his bones.
Karen shrugs though. Apparently the state of his soul is not part of this specific conversation nor is it currently giving her much cause for concern and he's eternally grateful for that.
She doesn't say anything as they walk. There's a calmness to her he didn't expect, a kind of world-weariness that he knows he's played a part in creating, but hates all the same. He also knows that it's at least 50% an act. He hasn't seen her for 18 months - she must have wondered where he was and if he was still in the land of the living, inasmuch as he's ever been in the land of the living. And yet… and yet she's walking with him as if he's someone she sees regularly, a good acquaintance or even a distant friend. He always knew she was guarded, and now he wonders if this is just a new incarnation of that. Stay calm, smile, pretend. Pretend pretend pretend. He hates that. He knows she must too.
She gets her hot chocolate. He has to admit that it smells good and rich and there's a small part of him that wishes he had capitulated and gotten one as well. That maybe he needs some sweetness too. Something to counteract how bitter he's become.
But she's not sharing and he can't really blame her. Instead she's just walking silently next to him, boots crunching in the snow on the sidewalk, the reflection of the streetlights glinting in her hair.
It'll be Christmas soon, he thinks idly, glancing at the cheerful red and green design on her paper cup. Christmas and all the bullshit that comes with people going nuts over crap they don't need. People making a big deal out of the ceremony and religion of it without realising they're being pagan as all fuck with their big, decorated trees and their jolly, fat man who brings presents to the nice and, depending on your specific interpretation, lumps of coal to the naughty.
Maria would have told him to stop being so cynical - he can all but hear chiding in his head. But then Maria wouldn't know the man he is now. Wouldn't recognise the father of her children underneath the skull he sometimes wears on his chest. So, he guesses he can tell himself that her opinion of him doesn't really count.
He can tell himself a lot of things. Some might even be true.
"You look good for a dead man," Karen says eventually and when he looks at her, her eyes are blue like tanzanite and shining and even though he knows he's noticed that before, it feels like the first time.
He shrugs. "Amazing what coffee and a good night's sleep can do."
She snorts. It's not elegant but it's a good sound. Genuine. And again he realises how much he's missed this and how important it was that he stay away. Because this ... this strange friendship they seem to have fallen back into without missing a beat, is a problem. And he knows it'll just be harder to leave the next time round. Harder to stay away.
He doesn't know why. Except he knows exactly why.
"You wanna tell me why you're here Frank?"
Short. To the point. No holding back. It's the reason he always liked her. Once you cut through that slightly anxious exterior, get rid of the shyness, all that was left is steel.
She kicks his ass - and he's so fucking grateful for it.
(Rip my heart out, step on that shit and feed it to a dog.)
He pushes the thought away.
"Marcus Ward has been released." If she can be straight and to the point, so can he. No bullshit. No lies.
She takes a sip of her hot chocolate and he's amused by the thin brown line that sits just above her top lip when she looks back at him. There's a moment, short and fleeting as it may be, when he genuinely considers reaching out and touching it, wiping his thumb across her mouth and smearing the chocolate and her pale lipgloss on his thumb.
He doesn't. He's not that much of an asshole. But it worries him that he wants to. That he can imagine what her lips would feel like under his hand, the smooth skin of her cheek where his fingers would brush against her face. The taste of the chocolate mixed with her lipgloss as he sucks it off his thumb, the little flare in her eyes as he does.
It's another thought he has to push away, another wave of heat he has to ignore and he looks down, looks at the toes of his boots crunching in the snow, the flickering of the streetlights in the puddles of water on the sidewalk.
She shrugs, takes another sip.
"I know Frank, I wrote the story."
She says it so nonchalantly, so easily, as if she's discussing her favourite show or whether she's going to have soup or pasta for dinner and she doesn't much care either way. And suddenly he's angry with her, that heated wave inside him boiling and turning to something else that he doesn't really recognise within himself when it applies to her. But it tears through him in a way he doesn't like and can't really explain. Except he can.
It's not that he expected her to leave well enough alone, because Joanie and Luke were nowhere near any given definition of "well enough" and the truth is if he'd known at the time, he wouldn't have left it alone either. But that's the crux of it - if he had known. Because if she had come to him, told him what was going on, Joanie and Luke's trouble would have ended right there. There would have been no drawn out court case, no scrabbling for evidence and no one left alive to make threats against Karen Page. And she'd be safe, safe as she could be at least. There wouldn't be a madman hungering for her suffering, walking the streets, imagining all the ways he could snuff the light out of her eyes.
But when he looks at her - that thin line of chocolate still outlining her top lip, the way the cold November wind lifts her hair and leaves her skin covered in a rash of goosebumps - the rage ebbs and he can't get it back. He can't even try. She's good. She's so so good. He could only dream one day of being that good.
He can't blame her. She did the right thing. He knows she did.
"He's going to come for you."
He doesn't bother softening the blow. She wouldn't appreciate it if he did.
"You think?"
He purses his lips, looks away. "Don't give me that bullshit. You're too fuckin' smart for that."
She doesn't say anything and carries on walking, her steps slow and deliberate and he has to adjust his pace to stay level with her.
There's a family coming in their direction, boy of about nine stomping through the puddles and splashing his sister's coat. He tries not to concentrate too hard on that picture, tries not to let it get to him when the father takes his wife's arm, when the daughter has enough and stuffs a handful of snow down her brother's sweater.
It's too much. Too close to home.
"The tabloids seemed to think he was just letting off steam when he said it." She still hasn't really looked at him and he wants to reach out, touch her face. Tell her they don't need to talk about this crap, that Ward is inconsequential because he's going to put him down anyway and can't they rather just go back? Can't they talk about how they were before he killed three men in front of her, before he all but begged her to walk out of his life? Can't they try again and he promises not to fuck up this time. Promises that he'll give her more joy than grief. Promises that he'll do his best to keep those promises.
But he doesn't say any of this. Those words aren't for now. Maybe they are not for ever.
"Tabloids don't know shit." It's lame. It's all he has.
She nods. She's a smart girl. Smarter than most. It's something else he's always liked about her.
And then she blindsides him.
"So, you going to punish him?" Casual. No inflection. No judgment. And he realises she's changed even more than he thought since he last saw her. There's a hardness to her now. She's guarded and world weary and he isn't surprised. She's been through hell - if he's honest he's put her through some of it himself. And then of course there's Red and whatever shit he has going on with her right now too. They haven't been good to her - he hasn't been good to her. Not many people have.
No bullshit. Not anymore.
She stops walking and when he looks at her, she's looking back, unflinching. Testing him almost. Daring him. And he wonders when the tables got turned, how she knocked him off his feet and how he's suddenly scrambling and trying to stay upright. And then he hears Maria in his head asking why he ever really thought he was.
She always was a smartass.
"Come on Frank," she says, cocking her head. "You can't tell me the thought hasn't crossed your mind."
No. No he can't. She doesn't even seem remotely upset by this.
The truth is he has no leads on Ward and that in itself is worrying. It's not like the man has resources, it's not even like he's particularly smart or capable. He's a bully. He's loud and brash and there's no reason why he shouldn't stick out like a sore thumb. Still, it seems he stepped out of that prison yard onto a transport into New York City and fell off the face of the Earth. Which would be great, if Frank believed it for one second.
But it's early days yet and he's going to call in favours. Spent the morning with a burner phone and list of people in high places who'd prefer not to get on his bad side. So he's waiting, he's reasonably confident this shouldn't take long to sort out. And yet … and yet here he is. And here she is. And he knows that every second Ward is unaccounted for is a second too long.
"I can't find him," he says. It sounds bad. Lame. And it makes him feel ashamed even though he knows it shouldn't. It's only been a day, a few hours really. Still … it feels like he's not doing his job, like he's failing.
Again.
Oh please God, not again.
But she nods like she wasn't really expecting anything else.
"So why are you here Frank?" she asks. "After all this time when you stayed away and pretended that this…" she indicates vaguely between them, "doesn't matter."
It hurts in a way he didn't expect, drives a fucking knife inside him and twists it. She's merciless and she has every right to be, he has no right to anything else. He's undeserving of her grace - he always has been. He won't apologise though. She'd hate that more than his disappearing.
Instead he's quiet for a long time while he looks at her, trying hard not to let the snowflakes in her hair distract him, the reflection of the moonlight in her eyes.
"Come on," she says. "You gonna tell me to lock my door? Make sure my .38 is loaded?"
Yeah he knows. This is ridiculous. He is ridiculous. There's literally nothing he can tell her that she wouldn't already be doing already. And he doesn't know what to say to her. Doesn't know what he's offering until it's already out in the world.
"Let me keep you safe."
There's a moment - it can't be more than a second but it feels like hours, days even - that the world goes silent. No laughing children, no cars fighting the evening traffic, no sirens. The night itself feels heavy and close, like the air has descended and blocked out everything but him and her and his words.
Let me keep you safe. Please. Let me.
She's looking at him, eyes boring right through him like she can see everything he's ever done and everything he ever will do. Everything he could do. Her gaze drops to his hands and he's suddenly aware that he's clenching his fists, that his nails are cutting bluntly into his palms. He knows what she's thinking, that she's wondering how many more men he's killed since she last saw him.
It's not a question he can answer. He doesn't know. He's stopped counting.
He knows it isn't enough though. That there's at least one more name that belongs on that list. And she won't be safe until it's there. Until then he can try.
He can try.
He clears his throat, searches for the words.
"I can take you somewhere you'll be safe. I have a place. Just until this…"
"A place? You mean like a safe house?" Her voice is hard, cold even and he has to catch himself. Stop speaking.
It sounds ludicrous, he knows it does. She hasn't seen him in almost two years. He left her in the fucking cold in the middle of a forest so he could go and kill a man. He abandoned her and pushed everything they meant to each other and could mean to each other away. And here he is, asking her to literally go away with him, to let him whisk her off to an undisclosed location with him being the only person on Earth to know where she is. She'd be mad to say yes. Completely fucking out of her head. But God, oh God , he wishes she would. Him and her and nothing but woods and mountains between them and the next living soul. They could be together and he could be with the one person who makes him feel like he could be good. Like it's possible.
It's selfish. It's so fucking selfish. And no amount of telling himself it's for her own safety would convince him otherwise.
But she's saving him from himself and shaking her head, wiping that chocolate stain from her lips in what feels like a double betrayal. Or disappointment. He's not sure he can tell the difference anymore.
"Ma'am-"
"No," she says. "I'm not running away from my life because of some wife-beating piece of shit."
"It'll just be for a few days…"
She shakes her head again, angry this time. "No Frank. I'm not going to put my tail between my legs and hide every time something shitty happens in my life."
There's something in her voice, something that makes it waver, and he narrows his eyes. Looks past the pretty hair and pale skin and he swears he can see something else. Something that looks like familiarity, like resignation.
She's been here before he realises. She's had the choice to run or to stay and fight. This really isn't her first rodeo. And suddenly he feels stupid, so goddamn fucking stupid for even coming here, for daring to ask. Of course she would say no. There's no universe in which she says yes.
All the same he sighs. And his feet feel like lead in his boots. It's not that this was unexpected. Not really. He had to try - of course he did - but truthfully, the idea of Karen Page running away with him is as ridiculous as the idea of Maria walking through his front door and telling him everything was okay. It was stupid and naive and easily the most foolhardy thing he's ever said to her and he feels like an idiot for even asking, like all that training and discipline he's forced himself to endure and overcome is just slipping away from him. She makes him stupid and weak. She gives him hope when he shouldn't have it. And he hates her for it. But he doesn't.
And now he needs a Plan B, a back up. At least until he's found Ward; found him and put him at the bottom of the Atlantic where he belongs. He's not above using cement shoes. He really isn't. But until then he needs something. Because he's not going to fuck up again.
He's not .
She's looking at him, eyes like chips of ice and suddenly he feels small. Small and inconsequential and unimportant. Mostly he feels like a piece of shit though. Because this isn't fair, because you don't just ignore the people you care about, walk out of their lives and leave them to imagine whatever fate they can has befallen you. It's not right. Of all people he should know that.
He has no words. No explanations. He can't say he's sorry. He can't even begin to.
"I… I just want you to be safe ma'am."
It sounds so trite, so small for what he really wants to say, for what it actually means. For the depth of feeling that exists behind those few simple words. It's pathetic.
It's also the best he has.
But she doesn't roll her eyes or look away. She doesn't hit back with something harsh and cold about looking after herself and not needing his help although she has every right to. She doesn't walk away and leave him there in the cold and snow and the wind. She can be infinitely merciless when it comes to him, but she can also be the opposite.
And when he thinks about it, his words might be stupid and expendable, useless and thrown like pennies into a long forgotten and malfunctioning wishing well, but they have something. Something important.
They have truth.
He can keep her safe.
And that means something. It has to.
She must feel it too because all of a sudden she seems to soften. Not a lot, not even noticeably to the untrained eye, but some of the steel goes out of her spine and her lips curve into a small smile.
She still cares. Despite everything, she does. And that is almost too much to bear. Almost .
She takes a step towards him, a step into his space and he can see the snowflakes falling on her lashes, melting on her lips. She smells of something flowery and fresh but not too sweet and suddenly he realises how long it's been since someone got up in his face like this - someone he wasn't planning on eviscerating or throttling; how long it's been since he's been this way - any way - with a woman.
These are also dangerous thoughts. Too dangerous. But he can't seem to push them away. Can't find the room to make them fit.
And then she reaches up and touches his face, palm gentle against the scruff of his beard, fingertips against his cheek.
There's a split second when he revels in how normal this must look to anyone who sees them. How to the world he isn't The Punisher and she isn't Karen Page. How they're just friends - lovers even - who met after work for a stroll through the streets of Hell's Kitchen. How they have a familiarity the world has decided means one thing and one thing alone. How the world is wrong but he wishes so so much that it wasn't.
He tries not to turn his head and nuzzle her palm. He comes close to succeeding.
"That's kind of you Frank," she says. "Thank you."
It's genuine, heartfelt, but she also makes it sound like it doesn't really matter. And again, he's inconsequential and irrelevant - someone who hurt her too badly for her to bless with redemption again.
He thinks what she doesn't realise is that what she thinks of him is just as irrelevant. She can hate him with every fibre of her being or be as indifferent to him as she is to the bleak sunlight on an otherwise rainy day. But she has to be safe. She has to live. He doesn't care what he needs to do to make that happen.
"Don't be a stranger," she says.
He doesn't want to be. Not to her. Not to the only person who gives a fuck about him. But he has to. She has to understand that too.
But he's not sure she does.
She runs a thumb along his side of his face, adjusts the edge of his scarf and the lapels of his coat, and then - seemingly on a whim or a flare of insanity - she presses a kiss to his cheek.
"That's for caring," she says and then turns on her heel and walks away.
xxx
He can keep her safe.
It's still a feeling, something that sits in his bones and his heart, something that makes him feel as warm as the place on his cheek where her lips brushed against him.
He has a Plan B.
The truth is she's not going to like it much more than Plan A and there's a lot about it he doesn't like either. Because yes, this feels like lying, this feels like an invasion of privacy. But Ward is still out there and even though the idea of going out to hunt for him alone gets his heart beating fast and his bloodlust running hot, he knows Karen Page living is more important than Marcus Ward dying.
He feeds the puppy again. It's going to need a name because "The Puppy" is just starting to sound lazy. He wants something regal, something noble, but still something practical enough to call out without sounding like a jackass. Because yes, despite his concern over time and space he knows he's not going to be giving him up. There's no way he's going to dump him at a shelter and leave him to his fate. That is something he just doesn't have in him and somewhere in his head he imagines Maria with a deeply satisfied grin on her pretty face.
He calls in more favours. He surprises a few people, pisses off a few more, but in the end he's got a fair few of them digging deep for Ward. It doesn't solve the immediate problem though. It doesn't solve the problem that Karen Page is going to bed in a world where there's a man out to murder her.
He briefly considers going to Red. Briefly. But he shelves the idea just as fast. He's not sure exactly where things are standing in the world of Karen Page and Matthew Murdock; doesn't know if this is something he should even be meddling near , let alone in .
Also, it feels insulting - circle the wagons around the pretty lady because everyone knows there's no way she can look after herself. Let the men take care of it until the baddies are gone and then let her out again. It's bullshit and she'd call him on it. And she'd have every right to.
That doesn't mean he's going to leave it entirely. He doesn't want to insult her but he also doesn't want her dead. The risk simply isn't worth it.
So he does what he can. He gathers the puppy up in his blanket, takes a supply of the milk mixture with him and heads out through the falling snow to his truck. And when he's parked outside Karen Page's apartment and he can see the warm lights shining through her bedroom window and the darker shadows as she moves through the rooms, he considers that maybe in another world this would be close to stalking. But he doesn't care. Her safety outweighs his place in her good books.
Like she knew earlier, it doesn't matter. It never did.
He can keep her safe.
xxx
It goes much as he imagines it will. He sits and drinks coffee and the puppy sleeps next to him, little snores reverberating through the truck, gentle ticking of the alarm clock a strange and yet somehow comforting accompaniment. He keeps the heat on, keeps his eyes on the street outside her apartment, takes note of when she turns the lights out, when the world goes quiet.
It's lonely - he can't deny that. But then again, he's always lonely so he thinks he might be used to it now.
She has a ground floor apartment - he has no idea how she organised that, can't imagine she's getting paid all that well at the paper. But she's smart, resourceful and if anyone can make it work - can stretch their cash far enough - it's her. She even has a flowerbox, currently empty, and he can see a welcome mat outside her door. He wonders what it says. Maria always like the slightly wry ones. For years the bright red one outside their door said "We love all our guests - some for coming, others for leaving". Later, when that got too threadbare he got her one saying "Beware of the wife, kids are also shady, husband is cool". He thought she'd hate it, but she didn't. He thinks she got a kick out of it every time she walked over it.
But Karen, Karen he's not sure of. He thinks it might be straight and to the point. Something with big letters saying WELCOME. Or maybe, depending on her mood the day she bought it, something saying LEAVE.
He'll never know though. He'll never darken her doorstep. Not like that at least.
So he waits.
He watches the people who pass her door: an old woman walking a little fluffy white dog; a group of teenagers up way past their bedtimes; a couple who spend so much time kissing each other he genuinely wonders if they might not end up fucking in the street against one of the cars. They're all unremarkable. But then Marcus Ward is unremarkable too. Unremarkable doesn't mean safe. He knows that all too well.
But no one seems specifically interested in Karen Page's front door. They all carry on walking except for the couple. And even they move on after some long kisses and gentle touches.
Him and Maria used to be like that when they first got together. They couldn't keep their hands off one another. He remembers how he loved the swell of her hip, the curve of her waist and how he would spend ages tracing the lines of it; how when they were out his fingers would linger on her and even though she kept up a good game face, he could feel the way she arched into him, the prickling of goosebumps through her clothes.
But that's all gone now. Gone and lost and all he has is a nameless puppy hanging onto life by a thread and a pretty blonde girl who might see him as not wholly evil but something she has to endure rather that enjoy. He guesses that's still better than nothing.
At 2am he takes the puppy and stuffs him into the front of his coat, gets out of the car and takes a brisk walk around the block to clear his head. It doesn't help much but it feels good to stretch his legs, breathe in the cold air. He's tired, but that's okay. He's been tired before.
(Too tired to play ball with my boy. Too tired to take my wife to bed.)
More thoughts. More thoughts he needs to push away. But they don't go easy. Not at all. And as he stands there in the starlight and the snow, the world transformed into something both monochromatic and filled with colour he hears Maria's voice. She's telling him it's okay.
And he shakes his head because it's not. It's not okay at all. She's wrong. Even if she was never wrong before, she is now.
He hunches his shoulders, goes back to the truck. The puppy - who he thinks he might call Gregor - is awake and they play for a while before it collapses back into the blankets and sleeps with his hand on its belly.
And then he waits. And he waits. And the streets start getting busier again and the sky lightens slightly. And at eight o'clock when she comes downstairs for work, looking as fresh and beautiful as he feels old and stale, he drives home. He calls it Night One.
He has no idea how many more there'll be.
xxx
The first month is the hardest. Or so he thinks. He sits outside her apartment all night, he snatches a few hours sleep in the morning, and in the afternoon and early evening he hunts. But his predatory instincts are failing him and Ward's disappearing act would be something he could almost admire if it wasn't stressing him out so much. He puts pressure on his contacts, threatens them with meathooks and waterboarding and he thinks they might half believe him even though there's very little chance he would employ either of these things. He's The Punisher but these are decent people for the most part and he doesn't hurt decent people. Still though, the fact that Marcus Ward has managed to go Harry fucking Houdini on his ass is more than concerning.
The puppy gets bigger, stronger. He still feeds it its special milk formula mixture five times a day but he's going to move onto solids soon. He keeps the heater on in the truck at night, lets it sleep when it doesn't want to play.
It still doesn't have a name though. Gregor wasn't working. He's tried Odin, Thor, but they felt fake and forced so he's resigned himself to waiting it out until the name comes to him of its own accord. They usually do. They always have in the past no matter how many "recruits" he brought home to his pretty wife and their pretty lives.
The people who pass her apartment at night vary. A homeless man, sometimes a few prostitutes and a pimp that Frank makes a mental note to investigate a little more closely when he has the time. The old lady still walks her dog and he keeps an eye on her too because the night streets of Hell's Kitchen don't seem a safe space for little old ladies, nor their fluffy white dogs.
Karen comes and goes, her routines fairly regular, traceable and one night it hits him with the force of a freight train that he's watching the life of a lonely person. Maybe someone as lonely as him. She leaves for work at the same time every day and comes home around six-thirty every night, maybe a little later if she's gone to the store. She sometimes goes out again but it's rare and she's usually home before midnight. Nelson comes to her place one Friday but from what he can tell they stay in and drink wine because he calls a cab home in the early hours of the morning and Karen doesn't emerge until 3pm the following Saturday. And he wishes he could go to her and he wishes he could tell her that he knows how she feels, that he feels it too and she's the only place that makes him feel grounded and part of something. And he wishes he didn't feel like some kind of sicko stalker and he wishes a lot of things that'll never come true. But he wishes they would anyway.
And, in the early hours of the morning, when everything is quiet and snowy and the moonlight tinges the world silver he imagines Maria in his head and she talks to him. Tells him nonsense that he can't believe she would ever actually say: things like she forgives him, things like he deserves happiness, things like he's not a monster. And sometimes he has to get out of the truck, walk it off hard and fast, breathe harsh and deep until he can't hear that thing that's using her voice anymore. Because it can't be her. Because she wouldn't say things like that to him. She wouldn't lie like that. She wouldn't forgive.
Sometimes though, sometimes it feels like he's spinning out of control and his blood is boiling in his head, thick and viscous like magma and if he's not careful he's just going to explode; go down in a rain of blood and guts, his bones shattering and nerves short circuiting. And that's when the puppy earns his keep, shows his purpose. He makes little doggy noises and nuzzles Frank's hands, licks his fingertips and leaves the musty smell of puppy breath on his skin. He brings him back and makes him focus; keep his eyes on her window, her door. And then he's able to ride out the night until he can go home and crash. Eat. Hunt. Start the whole sorry business all over again.
And it is a sorry business. It doesn't get any less sorry. His contacts continue fail spectacularly.
So he sits and he waits and he watches Karen Page's apartment. And he feels like a stalker and a creep of the worst possible kind but he tells himself he doesn't care. He'll do this until the day he dies if he needs to. He'll protect her with everything he has because that's what he does. And what he should do. And he comforts himself by imagining how good it will feel when he eventually has his hands around Ward's throat, when he sees the life going out of his eyes. How he'll treasure those scabs on his knuckles and the bruises on his face when he's done. How there is nothing in the world he'd rather do than put that piece of shit down like the piece of fucked up scum he is.
In the meantime he can keep her safe.