Karen's eyes snapped open and she gulped for air. Fisk's ghostly strangle disappeared into the sunlight of her bedroom.
"Saturday," she exhaled, pushing her hair from her face. She rolled to face the door and blinked before scrambling back to the wrought iron headboard. "Jesus Christ, God almighty, Frank."
The man in question had his back to her, attempting to leave the room when she'd seen him. He straightened and turned. "Ma'am."
And she looked for blood or bruises, her feet throttling her body toward him. Surely, he'd been shot or stabbed. It'd been weeks since the televised standoff with Billy Russo. There was no blood on the floor, so she pulled his hands from his jacket pockets, then peeled off the outer leather shell. She pushed until he turned and she could inspect his back, muscles taut beneath the black t-shirt.
"Are you okay? Do you need a doctor?" Karen made the Punisher turn a complete circle, searching for his injuries, ignoring the handle of the revolver tucked into the small of his back. He had a day's worth of stubble on his face and his cropped hair was growing out.
"What? No."
Her eyes shot from his uninjured chest to his eyes. Her right hand rested on his elbow, her left held an equally unharmed hand. She took a couple of steps backwards. "Did you need something?"
Frank inhaled.
"Wait. How'd you get in?" She knew where the spare key (his key) was hanging—the same place it'd been for months.
"Doesn't matter."
"Like hell it doesn't matter! I could've shot you."
He cocked his head toward something behind her. Karen turned and saw her gun near the base of the lamp.
"You were thrashing around and I didn't want you to hurt yourself."
She held her teeth together. "Fine. It still doesn't explain what you're doing here." Anger hopped around her head like a rabbit with a hammer, smashing at the hope his reappearance stirred.
Frank's chest expanded as he pulled in a long breath. He looked at his boots first, hooking his thumbs on the belt loops of his jeans. Karen forced herself to not watch his trigger finger bounce against his thigh as it echoed against her bedroom walls.
"I owe you an apology."
She breathed through her nose to try and slow her heart as it thrashed against the back of her ribcage.
"I didn't know what to do other than what I did," he said.
"You mean take off."
"Yeah. There ain't no amount of apologizing that'll make that right."
Karen scoffed. "At least you got that part right, Frank."
He took a half step forward, into the space she'd wanted to keep between them. She clamped her teeth together, refusing to be pressed into retreat.
"I am sorry, Karen."
"I know you are."
"I've been working with Madani on a few things. Red, too—although our techniques are different."
She crossed her arms, shifting from one bare foot to the other, suddenly aware that she stood in front of the vigilante in nothing but an old, black t-shirt and itty bitty shorts that barely covered both cheeks. "Okay."
"Still at that construction job. And going to group once a week with Curt."
"That's good." Karen tried to sound happy about that, because she honestly was grateful he had someone to talk to. At least he'd stuck with something, even if it hadn't been her. Tear started to form until she blinked and tossed her head, pinching the soft skin under her armpit to keep from crying over Frank. Again.
But he noticed (because he always did), those dark eyes stuck to her. "Goddamn it, I'm sorry, Karen."
She smiled, fake and wide, to tame her trembling lips. "It happens."
"Please," he whispered, advancing another half step.
"Please what?" she choked out. Karen breathed through her nose and refused to name the ache raging in her belly.
Endless, echoing loneliness.
Used to stuffing the feeling away, Karen pretended, just for a moment, that they were strangers. Hospitality mattered. "I'm going to make coffee." She walked around him, grabbing her bathrobe from the hook on the door, even though she was already warm. Her ass didn't need to be on display. "Are you staying?"
"Yeah." His boots scuffed the floor as he followed.
She busied herself in the small kitchen. It was easier to have her hands occupied than acknowledging the man who leaned against the countertop. She knew he was watching her, cataloguing her movements and gauging what to say next. It was warfare and she was the target.
The coffee percolated into the small carafe, its aroma holding Karen's attention.
"I wasn't there for my family." Frank cleared his throat behind her. "I don't mean at the carousel—I mean when the kids grew up. Every time I was home, I knew I would be deployed again. Sometimes, I even looked forward to it. And Maria, she knew that. Lisa and Frankie, they didn't understand. I could've applied for a job transfer, stayed home. But I always left."
Karen struggled to keep her breathing even, as she poured the brew into two mugs. She topped hers off with sweet creamer and stirred it before turning around, both cups in hand. Her knuckles were white against the ceramic. Frank was never a wordsmith, never the world's greatest solver of problems, unless it involved violence and death. She pushed the black coffee to his fingertips. It mesmerized her to watch the same violent hands wrap around the handle.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
She watched the liquid in the mug as she drank. Then, she looked at the countertop. The hem of his black shirt. Anywhere other than his face. She'd fall for him. Down to the floor for him. Begging for more of him. And she wouldn't survive his absence this time.
When his empty mug landed near hers, Frank heaved a deep sigh. His free hand disappeared from her view and she heard him rub his beard and probably his face. She wanted him to struggle. To plead. To promise. And knew it wouldn't happen.
He whispered something into his hand and Karen looked up. His eyes were closed, chin nearly touching his chest.
"What was that?" she asked.
Frank's eyes peeled open, as if she'd woken him from a long sleep. He straightened, hand dropping to his pocket. "Uh, it was Lisa's favorite book. It helps me … stay focused."
She made a non-committal sound from the back of her throat to feign disinterest, clinging to the mug instead of reaching out to touch the calloused knuckles and coax his daughter's story. She watched his hand flex around the empty cup.
"One batch, two batch, penny and dime."
Karen could imagine the brown-haired girl from the picture curled into her daddy's lap, his large fingers flipping each page. She wondered if he read the characters in different voices.
"I left them." His strangled voice caught and he had to clear his throat to continue. "Every damn time. I left what I loved most in this life."
She wanted to hear the double meaning—that she was included in that sentence. But, the desperation in his tone left no doubt that he longed for his wife and children. And she couldn't help it when a few tears slipped out for him. He was, after all, Frank Castle, not a monster.
So, she allowed him pause. Nothing but the silence and two empty coffee mugs between them. And the "thing" that refused to abandon her soul in the kitchen that morning. Even when he had asked her to stop, after he left. The tiny voice that reminded her on the way to work that she didn't have to look at the rooftops and shadows, because she always knew he was there.
"I'm sorry I left, Karen. I wish I had a better way of saying it."
But he said something without saying the exact words: she had been in that thought, wedged after Maria and the kids.
She pressed a hand against her lips to hold the sob inside. It wouldn't help either of them if she just broke down and cried like a baby. Maybe he didn't love her like he did his family. Maybe he didn't love her at all. But, he did care. Something in that warped mind of his made him walk away.
Realization washed over her like a blanket fresh from the dryer. "You did it to keep me safe."
"Yeah." Frank swore softly, nudging his fingers towards hers on the countertop.
Karen's hiccupped, tears catching in the corners of her eyes. "You really screwed that one up."
He reached out with his trigger finger, grazing the back of her hand. "I know. I'm sorry."
"You've said that already."
Somewhere in the bedroom, a phone chirped. Karen bobbed her head at him to go. Frank loped to the room and returned with his jacket in one hand, thumb scrolling the screen in the other. He looked up, his eyes wandering to the v-cut in her t-shirt, then back up again.
"It's Curt. He's makin' sure I'm okay."
Karen nodded and twisted to the opposite counter to refill her coffee. "Want some more?" she asked over her shoulder.
"I … I gotta get going. Curt needs eyes on me."
"You have a babysitter now?"
Frank's chuckle warmed her insides down to her bare toes. "Nah. I've been messed up for a while now."
She hummed again and topped off her cup with creamer.
"Karen?"
She turned. Like a ghost, he'd come around the countertop and was much closer than she'd thought, his chest nearly touching her coffee. Frank's gaze roamed her face, like so long ago, in the hotel elevator—in another lifetime.
"Would you come with me?"
"To meet Curt?"
"Yeah."
"Sure."
But neither moved. That "thing" cemented their feet to the floor.
Frank tipped his forehead against her, his eyes sliding closed. "I didn't know you wore black."
She could smell the bitter coffee on his breath. Remembering the last time she tried the straightforward approach, Karen pulled back and grinned. "Every once in a while."
"You should wear it more often." Frank didn't make a point to hide his appreciation, eyes trotting down to her bare legs, under the parted bathrobe.
Karen felt the blush chase up her neck and color her cheeks. "I'll do that," was all she could manage to whisper.
His phone sounded again. Frank rolled his eyes. "Goddamn, Curt." He stepped back as she walked around him towards the bedroom.
"You going to be here after I'm dressed?" She had to ask. Just to be sure.
"Ain't plannin' on going anywhere 'til you're ready."
Karen smiled into her empty room. And she didn't answer. She also didn't close the door. Instead, she pawed through her dresser, looking for anything black. He probably could've watched her dress, had he shifted his stance six inches. But, he remained facing the kitchen when Karen peeked out a few times. He only turned when she was stepping towards the bathroom to brush her hair and teeth.
She noticed as he examined her decidedly dark shirt and jeans, eyebrows barely inching up, looking more predatory than the man who'd tried to sneak out of her bedroom earlier. Relishing what little power she could sway, Karen made quick work with her toothpaste, then pulled her hair into a high ponytail before heading to the front door.
Frank followed her, mute.
"Would Curt mind meeting us for breakfast? I'm starving." She grabbed her purse, swung the strap to her shoulder, and draped her jacket over her other arm.
"I left this."
Confused, Karen turned, her hand resting on the doorknob. The spare key tapped against the wall as he removed it.
"I left this," he repeated, flipping the key over in his hand. "Shouldna done it."
"You going to keep beating yourself up?" Karen pulled the door wide. "I'll have to tell Curt. And then I'll get hangry and my first impression to him will be meaningless. I'll be forever known as a nag."
Snapped out of his mental retreat, Frank jammed the key into his pocket. He reached behind her and held the door open. "Ma'am."
"Did you ask him about breakfast?"
"Yup. Can't have you blowing your first impression."
"Hey," she said, taking the stairs side-by-side with him to the ground floor. "He's stuck with you for a long time. Seems like a decent man."
"He's the best."
"Well, I don't want to be scary. And I get all wonky if my stomach is empty."
Frank laughed as they passed through the lobby.
Hell's Kitchen greeted them with gray skies and a blast of cold air. She struggled for about two seconds with her coat before Frank settled it onto her shoulders. His hand landed in the small of her back.
"What were you dreaming about?" Frank asked at a crosswalk.
"This morning?" She paused. No lying, though it would wake the dragon. "Fisk was strangling me." The light turned and she surged forward.
He pressed his hand against her spine.
Karen halted on the other side of the street and turned to him. Frank stared at the cement, flexing his hands into fists and opening them, over and over.
"Stop, Frank." She took both of his hands in hers. His callouses scratched her skin. "Let's just go to breakfast. I'll meet the infamous Curt, and pry a story about you out of him. Maybe two." She smiled when he finally looked up. "Okay?"
"Okay."
By the time they'd reached the diner, Frank was still brooding, but he opened the door for her. She looked around and a cheerful man waved from a booth. Without giving Frank the opportunity to grumble or grouch, Karen advanced on the man struggling to stand.
"You must be Curt!" She extended her hand forward.
"And you must be the notorious Karen Page." He clasped her hand with a strong, warm grip. "It's a pleasure to meet you, after hearing so much about you."
"So much about me?" She craned her neck to look at Frank, who reached up to remove her coat.
"Curt," he warned, his tone dropping, dark eyes flicking up to intimidate his friend into silence.
"Frank," Curt countered, smile widening. He dropped back onto the vinyl seat. "And I also know that you're hungry, which is good because I could eat a horse."
Karen laughed and slid across the bench, closer to the window. Frank moved next to her, their legs touching. He tucked her coat across her knees, under the table. She had to dismiss her disappointment when his hand didn't linger on her knee.
She genuinely liked Curt. He didn't reveal much about his conversations with Frank, but it was beyond obvious that he valued their friendship. Karen couldn't help but notice the way he goaded Frank toward happiness. She mowed through her pancakes, laughing at the story he told, where Frank had sent a corporal to Medical Logistics looking for an package of fallopian tubes Curt needed for a mission.
"What can I say?" Frank grinned into his biscuits and gravy. "It was an easy target." His shoulders bounced when he chuckled.
Karen wanted more of this part of Frank. "You got any others?" She winked at the man to her right.
Curt laughed. It bounced around the diner and patrons turned to glance before resuming their meals. "You and me, we're going to have to meet in secret or something. You have no idea the dirt I have on him."
Frank scoffed into his coffee cup. "Meet in secret. Go to hell, Curt."
"Right after you, my friend, right after you." Curt's phone vibrated on the table. He slid the screen on. "I have an appointment in fifteen." He stood and leaned over the table to shake Karen's hand again. "It was nice to meet you, Karen."
"Likewise, Curt." In the span of thirty-seven minutes, she felt like she'd known him for years. "Same time next week?"
Curt pulled his coat on. "Sure! And if this guy isn't here, we'll talk smack the entire time."
Frank swore before he stood and clapped his friend on the shoulder. "See ya soon."
The bell rang above the door before Frank resumed his spot and scooped up the last of his breakfast.
"I like him," Karen said. She waved at Curt as he passed by the window.
"It's hard not to like him."
"I can see why you like going to his groups. He keeps it simple and honest."
"Yup."
"You have any plans today?"
"Nothing in particular. You?"
Karen stretched back against the seat. "I have an article that is due, but I can finish it tonight. The only other thing was an art exhibition in Harlem, though I'm guessing you're going to skip that."
"Good guess."
Frank stood and offered his hand. Karen took it. She relished the heat that radiated from his skin to hers. He helped her with her jacket, paid the bill, and held open the door for her.
"I can open the door on my own," she said, buttoning her coat against the wind.
"Not with me you can't."
His hand resumed its place near her waistline as they walked back to her apartment.
"Red, ah, told me that you've been working together." Frank punched the crosswalk button with enthusiasm, to punctuate his sentence.
"Matt and I meet for lunch. He gives me tips and I follow them up. Some of them are decent leads and others don't pan out." She sighed. "It's just like him to try and piss you off by saying that."
Frank's hand left her back. Karen nearly looked down until she felt his clumsy fingers reach for hers.
"Frank Castle. Are you trying to hold my hand?" She leaned hard into his shoulder and threaded her fingers with his. There was pride in her smile to see the pink glow crawling up his neck, above his collar. She was almost sad to see her apartment building so close.
A popping noise sounded nearby. Before Karen can do much more than look around, Frank wrapped himself around her and spun her against the brick siding.
"You okay?" he panted into her ear.
"Yeah. Frank, you're smothering me and I can't breathe."
One massive hand held the back of her head to his broad chest, the zipper grinding into her cheek. The other mashed their bodies against one another. Karen wiggled her shoulders to loosen his grip, not particularly upset by their position.
"Those were gunshots."
"I know what gunshots sound like," she sighed, her breath hitting his neck and curling back into her face. He smelled like bacon and biscuits. "I'm fine."
Frank scanned the street, his head moving side to side, still pressing her into the bricks. Nothing but a typical Saturday morning with dogwalkers and joggers from what she could see past the collar of his jacket. The hand holding her head gradually relaxed, sliding to her shoulder, then her elbow.
"Don't make me promise anything stupid," she whispered, slanting her head back to look at him. "I can't promise to be safe. I love my job and I make my own choices."
"I know." He chest rumbled against hers while his eyes switched back and forth.
She considered her next words carefully, testing the weight in her mind. "You … you've already torn my heart out and ripped it up, stepped on it and fed it to the dog."
Frank stopped all movement, squarely focused on her.
Then, he kissed her.
Karen maneuvered her arms around his waist under his jacket, her pinkies bumping the pistol handle before she tugged him closer. Frank was rough and thorough—all hands and lips. And she didn't stop taking everything he gave until the wolf whistles sounded across the pavement. He removed his right hand to give a middle finger salute to their rubbernecker as she smiled into the stubble on his chin.
For that moment, everything was perfect: she was Karen Page and he was Frank Castle, tangled in each other's arms.
Shots sounded down the street again. Frank's muscles tensed and he moved himself between her and the danger, tucking her behind his shoulder blades.
Karen laughed quietly and leaned her head onto his back. This was how it would always be with the Punisher, forever leaving and returning bloodied and bruised. He was, after all, Frank Castle, the man who'd told her to hang on with both hands.
"Go," she said, her lips brushing the leather. "I'll go upstairs and work on my article."
Frank half-turned, one hand reaching for her, the other going for the pistol. He nodded once.
The first step he took towards the continuing gunfire set something panicked deep inside. This could be the last time she saw him alive. Or he'd come back riddled with holes. Karen's throat made it nearly impossible to swallow.
Maybe nothing would happen at all. And that's what she chose to believe.
"Wait!" She grabbed his free hand.
His eyebrows sank and his nose scrunched ever so slightly.
Karen smacked his butt. "Be careful and have a good day killing people, honey."
And ta-da! That concludes my unexpected journey into Kastle. For now. ~JS