I know you're trying your hardest
And the hardest part is
Letting go of the nights we shared
And you know it's haunting
But compared to your eyes
Nothing shines quite as bright
And when we look to the sky
It's not mine, but I want it so . . .
"I . . . I was wondering if you wanted to get a coffee. Or lunch. That little shop down the street you used to get all the time,"
His voice is scratchy, mostly from that hint of fear that Karen's always been able to dig out in him. She's strong, whether he realized that at first or not. And sometimes that scares him, because there's only so much she can dig her way into while still managing to get out unscathed.
The phone sits heavily against his ear, waiting for her reply, though all he can pick up on over the receiver is faint breathing. She's hesitating. He can't blame her. After everything, he'd be more worried if she quickly responded.
Karen's hesitant, but when she answers, it's firm. "Yeah. As friends. I've missed you,"
Her words are fierce, just like herself, and a smile ticks at his lips. Any notion of a romantic interest between them is dead. That's simply a bridge that had been torched somewhere between the Castle case and Elektra. But he still cares for her. They still have history, however damaged or clouded that may be.
"Tuesday? Eight o'clock?" he offers, hearing her agreement, and the line goes dead.
They were always morning people, the two of them. Somehow that got lost under nights spent atop buildings and bloody stitches.
Matt's left silent in his apartment, wondering if they'll ever be alright.
Karen is as strong as the day he first met her. She has a fire in her heart that burns, despite all of the emotions that she feels and shows, and this is rightly so.
His cane taps on the pavement as he walks the old and familiar path to Nelson and Murdock, but where he would usually turn, he instead continues on. It's the little cafe that sits with the brightly scented flowers and ornately patterned mosaic floor. It's nice for Hell's Kitchen, and the owners have a polite reputation to go along with it.
He feels her palm on his arm first, warm through his jacket, and he smiles. "Karen,"
"Hi, Matt," her voice chimes, happy and a bit nervous, and he pulls her into a hug.
Her hair's longer than the last time they'd met, nearing her elbows, he guesses, and it drapes like silk over his shoulders as she returns the embrace. She smells like lavender, that blend she used to indulge in from the farmer's market, and a bit of jasmine. But beneath that, he can just barely pick up the trace of gunpowder. She's armed.
Somehow he's not surprised. Beneath the calm image and pencil skirts, she's always been self sufficient and a dash dangerous.
They take a window seat, and he makes some dumb joke about the view being lost on him, and she laughs that happy laugh of hers. He's missed it. Her, this. Being apart of someone's day, their life. Having a family.
But she orders the Earl Gray with honey and cream, and he takes a coffee black with sugar, and it's almost like old times.
Almost.
There's a weight hanging over them, one that's known of but not acknowledged by either of them, and so he remains silent. But a failed romance and a botched case and a certain woman hangs there, and they feel the weight.
There's a lull in the conversation, forty some minutes in, and as Karen curls her fingers into her tea cup's handle to take a sip, he starts.
"I'm sorry," he tries for a smile, but it's half hearted. "For Elektra, Stick, the case. It shouldn't have ended that way,"
The air turns icy, and he's sure he can feel it radiating from her in waves. She calmly takes another drag of tea before setting the cup down, setting her elbows on either side of it on the table's edge.
"I'm not going to say it was okay." she starts, thoughtfully yet firm. "Because it wasn't. But I want to give you time to explain, because it's only a story if there is more than one side to it,"
And he nods, and he tells her.
Matt leaves the cafe with a quiet promise for lunch the next week, to continue trying to rebuild whatever it was they had before. A friendship, a partnership, or as he quietly thinks, a family. The three of them — Nelson, Murdock, Page. Those had been some of the best years of his life, sans the times he was bleeding through his bandages and had to lie to cover his darker side.
As the days pass, the distance begins to drag on him.
It was as if the few moments he'd had with Karen had addicted him to her presence once more. He'd never been much of a social creature, but damn if Karen didn't bring out that side in him. Matt didn't want to be alone, be on his own. And he'd had trouble admitting that for awhile now. Through his splintering ties to Foggy and all but demolished relations to Karen, never once had someone cropped up at his side.
But now someone had. And he craved another person's presence.
Not someone like Claire, who only ever let him in to ensure there wasn't a dead man on her fire escape come morning. She was a friend, yes, but not the way Foggy or Karen was.
Foggy, with his dumb jokes and self-depreciating humor. The man who was like a brother to him, who had been with him for the better part of his life. Not like Karen, who came into his life like a whirlwind and stomped all over it. Karen who would bring coffee and pastries and make small talk with their clients.
But he doesn't have that anymore, regardless of how much he wishes things were much the opposite. So when Karen doesn't arrive to the little deli they'd selected the previous week, he worries.
It takes six calls to get her to pick up.
It's five o'clock, four hours from when they were supposed to meet. Four hours of Matt torn between stepping back and accepting her decisions and scouring most of Hell's Kichen to find her.
Yet he's promised her space, and so that's what he gives.
But at five sixteen he hears her panicked breaths on the other line of the phone, and he is both relieved that she is at the very least alive and sick to his stomach at what could have her behaving this way.
"Matt," she sighs, tiredly. "I'm sorry,"
His brows furrow, and his knuckles clutch the phone tighter to his ear. "Karen, are you okay? I was so close to calling NYPD -"
A short, nearly bitter laugh cuts him off. "You and I both know you wouldn't have bothered with the cops, Matt." she sighs again, and he can almost hear the sound of her running a hand through that long hair of hers. "But really, I'm fine. It's just . . . It's all complicated,"
So complicated you couldn't send a text? he wants to shout at her, but he bites his tongue. She owes him nothing, least of all an explanation. And she's safe, supposedly, and that's all that really matters.
He's about to tell her so, too, except there's a sudden gasp on the other line, followed by the falling and subsequent thudding of Karen's phone to the ground, and then there's a worriedly gasped Fr- before the line goes dead for the second time in as many weeks.
"Karen . . ." he manages, before flipping his phone shut and lunging to snag his cane from where it leans against the counter.
Matt doesn't much register after that until his cane is tapping quickly against the pavement outside.
Her apartment is nicer than her last.
The room seems more spacious, the walls further apart, and a bit more of an echo.
Sadly, this apartment has one Frank Castle bleeding out on the couch.
The door's unlocked, so really he can't be blamed, aside from the entire entering part of breaking-and-entering. But as soon as the door does open, he's struck by the overwhelmingly warm stench of blood. Under that, there's the tang of gun powder and spice. and there is no doubt in his mind that Frank Castle is laying on Karen Page's couch.
There's a sniff from the woman in question, followed by a soft "Matt?"
He can hear the air twitch where her head turns to face him, and there's no doubt in his mind that there are literal tears on her cheeks and lashes. He takes a step closer, and this time he can sense the heat from them. Castle has his head on her lap.
"Matt, I . . . "
Her voice cracks, and his heart drops into his stomach.
"Karen, I don't . . . I don't understand," he bites the inside of his cheek, trying to focus on something other than the fact that Karen Page has Frank fuckin' Castle's head pillowed on her thighs like he's some kind of puppy.
And then the deja vu sets in. It flashes him back to another time, one when Karen was left staring at him with another woman in his bed.
It hadn't been like that. But evidently, neither is this.
"He was hurt," she shrugs. "I don't know if I did half of this shit right, but he was hurt and I had to save him. Somehow,"
He blinks, not that it makes much of a difference. And then, somehow, his legs carry him to a chair accross from the two of them, sitting down gently.
His insides churn, but he swallows it down, and he listens. Castle's heart is weak, but he's alive. No serious internal bleeding. Matt tells Karen as much.
"He'll survive," his words are soft, and paired with a weak attempt at a smile.
The silence lapses between them, and he can hear Karen swallow harshly.
"I don't expect you to understand," she whispers, softly.
Matt shrugs. "Neither do I," he admits, honestly. Because he doesn't. He doesn't expect to understand why Karen's heartrate speeds up when Castle shifts in his sleep, and he doesn't expect to understand how she knows to aim and load that gun she keeps in her purse.
But Karen Page is strong. And he's never expected to completely understand that.
"But I trust you,"
And he does. Karen's rough, but he's got a number of case files and nwespaper clippings to prove that she's more often right than wrong. Whatever this is - a romance, a friendship, a partnership - he trusts her, a trust that's not reciprocated. He broke whatever faith she had in him. But he still believes in her, and just maybe that means squashing down whatever his feelings about Frank Castle to be the man Karen needs right now. The friend.
He doesn't tell her any of this. Instead, he offers a weak smile. "I'll grab you a water?" he offers.
It's an olive branch, an understanding point reached, and he hopes and prays that Karen Page is right in this. That Castle needs to be saved, and that she needs to be the one to do it. It's Matt's job to be by her side in any form she needs, because she's been there for him despite every damned thing he's done to her. To Foggy. To them.
Matt can sense the way her lips curl up, the slight excitement that lends to her heartbeat, and not for the first time he wishes he could see her light up the room around her.
But she nods, swallowing. "Yeah. That'd be great,"
"And then," he smiles, a bit more genuine this time, "you're going to tell me the other side of this story,"
She lights up the room.
And the hardest part of living
Is just taking breaths to stay
'Cause I know I'm good for something
I just haven't found it yet
I've decided to spam all of the stories that I've written over on AO3 and Tumblr here since I've generally decided I'm done with this site. It's just not worth my time anymore, though FFNet will always hold a warm place in my heart. You can find me on AO3, Tumblr, Wattpad, and Instagram from here out. The user for all are the same as here — WhenTheSkyeQuakes :)
Reviews are always much appreciated.
— Kayla ❤️