After watching the Defenders, I was having all sorts of Karen Page feels. So have my attempt at writing Kastle, though I likely didn't do these two justice.

Title from Prey by The Neighborhood.

When Frank first hears, it's almost like waking up in that empty hospital room all over again.

(But all at once it's not, because while he may feel very strongly for one Karen Page, it will never compare to to that of his family.)

It's been a long while since their own meeting, and belatedly he realizes it's been nearly a year when he finally cares to count up the days and weeks. And somehow, it only took that long for him to realize that maybe he could feel something for someone again.

He's not some hopeless romantic. But he knows that there cannot be another Miss Page anywhere on the earth. There cannot be someone so fragile yet so secretive and fierce. Frank's been a lot of places; he just knows this.

So yes, he does feel something for her. He enjoys the slight dips and curves of her figure, he enjoys hearing her gentle voice, he craves the feel of her fingers ghosting along his damaged skin as she cleans him up. These are all little bits of a strong woman who will take no bullshit.

(He doesn't love her.

That's a word reserved for three people, and those three only.

But he does feel for her. And that is more than he's felt in a long while.)

So when he's sliding open the window that she specifically leaves unlocked every Tuesday night, he's on edge by the fact her apartment's dark. What's more, it's empty.

It's not large, but it's still a step up from her last home. There are no bullet holes in the wall, no bloodstains in the carpet. She's happy - or at the very least content - here.

They have take-out every Tuesday.

But her apartment's empty, the lights are off, and her tips and articles and research aren't spread over the carpet like they usually are, ready for the two of them to examine and uncover.

Frank moves carefully, reaching into his pant's pocket. His combat boots almost make the floorboards creak, but he pads carefully and they remain quiet.

In the tiny hallway leading to both the kitchenette and doorway, a figure stands, leaning almost casually against the wall. Frank sighs, dropping the pistol back into its concealment.

"Red," Frank growls in acknowledgement.

The devil's head tips slightly, and Frank forces himself to meet the eyes of Matt's ridiculous get up.

"Mr. Castle," he responds, voice low as ever.

There's a beat of silence, but Frank doesn't let it linger for long. He's here for Karen, not for Matt.

"Are you going to explain what you're doing here?" He asks, voice rough.

Another beat of silence.

"Karen," he finally mutters, head darting down.

"Yeah?" Frank growls. "What about her?"

"She's in the hospital, Frank. Accident."

He doesn't ask. Asking means explanations, and explanation means time. Time he isn't willing to waste. Instead, he turns on his heel and prowls over to the window, sliding himself back out into the night.

Frank Castle is a damned man if he lets another second go by without being with those who need him. Those he cares for, those he needs.

And hell if he doesn't need Karen Page.

She's still when he gets there.

She's laying there, hair somehow a contrast to the stark lighting and bleached sheets. There's a jagged cut across her cheek that curves down over her pale lips to her chin, bright red and held together by a few butterfly bandages.

But Karen is still, the only sound in the room the pulse of the heart monitor and his own unsteady breathing.

There's a chair next to her bedside, and Frank only hesitates a second before taking it. His hand moves to hers, laying so chilly against her hip, and gently slides his fingers under hers.

It was a car accident, he discovers later.

Hit and run, over on the corner two blocks from her apartment. Three fractured ribs and two broken, and another broken femur. Various cuts and scrapes. Spinal trauma. Medically induced coma due to brain injury.

His head spins, a whirlwind of not enough and should have seen it coming.

Because he should have. Even blind ol' Matthew Murdock should have seen it coming. Karen may be a smart woman, but that does not mean she keeps out of everyone's business. And that means that some groups hold grudges.

It only takes him a few hours to dig out the security footage from a cafe that was witness to the accident. He can't say he's surprised to see the tape looped to a calm stream of passerby.

So Frank starts interviewing. A pedestrian here, a business owner there. Until he comes up with a lead, and he follows that string to a man.

It's the Italian mob. He doesn't rest until the driver is tracked to the wharf and then pulls the trigger.

The third day, he sits again by Karen's bed. They've inserted an intravenous fluid into her bloodstream, her mouth's cut still too raw to yet insert a feeding tube.

Frank hasn't ever had a chance to study her like this. Her veins stand out like roads on a map, blue against the porcelain of her skin. Freckles dot nearly every surface, from the back of her hand to the dip of her neck. Yet still, he wishes he was able to document her in a different way, under different circumstances.

Yet this is all he has, and he takes it.

He almost doesn't hear the door click open, but when footstep echo across the linoleum, he looks up.

It's a blonde woman, dressed nicely but casually. Her green eyes meet his dark earthy ones, and she hardly dares to blink.

He sees recognition in her face, but nonetheless she strides in, offering him a tight smile. Frank can't help but stare as she tugs over another chair and drapes her long red coat over the back of it before taking a seat next to him.

She lets out a sigh, taking in Karen's still and slightly battered form. A minute passes, the only movement being the woman placing a hand over where he thinks Karen's knee might be.

"My name's Trish. Trish Walker," she breaks after a heavy few minutes. He watches her throat swallow tightly, and then he clears his throat and resettles his gaze on Karen's form.

He's heard of her, if only in passing. He remembers Maria used to be an avid listener of her talk show, though he never really listened himself.

"Andy," he starts, but he's broken off.

Trish shakes her head. "To quote Karen, bullshit. I, um, know who you are." she's tense, a tad bit scared, but her bravery cloaks that. "She's . . . Mentioned you a few times,"

Frank can't help but let out a low chuckle. "Yeah?"

She grins. "Yeah. The Punisher, and all that," she tacks on, quieter. "She said it doesn't fit you,"

Frank just shakes his head, faintly amused. "She doesn't quite have a sense of fear,"

"No, not really," Trish agrees. "I haven't known her very long, but that much I have learned."

They lapse back into silence, but this one is not quite as terse as the last. Her finger taps restlessly against the wood armrest of the chair. It almost matches the heart monitor in pace.

"She talks about you a lot, actually," she begins again. "Nothing too specific, but enough to make me wonder when you're going to make a move,"

He doesn't even flinch at that. He may be a veteran, but it's not hard to look and see all his emotions. Maria had once used to poke fun at him about it. No one's done that in a long time now.

Karen talking about him should be strange. But he's always trusted her, and this is no different. Karen Page knows who to trust and when, and this is a perfect example of that.

But the idea of her ever being interested in a man like him was preposterous. He was a murderer. More blood on his hands than most serial killers. To think that she - a being of beauty, intelligence, and light - could ever want him was laughable.

"She can't want me," he states, voice deep and low. "I'm damaged, Miss. She needs someone better,"

Trish tilts her head. "Maybe. But sometimes, what we need and what we want are two completely separate things."

There's hesitation in her voice, but finally, she drops a hand to his forearm gently. "Just . . . Think about it, alright? You're not a bad man, Mr. Castle."

And then she's gone, red coat and all, and Frank is left staring at one Karen Page.

Frank has always known that nothing between them could ever come to fruition, and if it ever did then it couldn't be normal.

But, a week later, when Karen returns from the dead and clings to him for dear life, his name whispered softly and repeatedly into his shoulder, he starts to rethink that.

(Perhaps he does love her. And perhaps that is not a bad thing.)

Would love over to hear your thoughts, as I'm not sure of this.

Anyhow, I hope you enjoyed :)