Spoilers: Vague references to Punisher seasons one and two and the Daredevil series. No hard spoilers
A/N: This is a pretty quiet, not exactly anything going on kind of story. It came into my head like a series of short scenes. I have been working on more screenwriting lately, so that probably influenced the stringing-togetherness of this, and means my tenses probably bounced back and forth a lot. I tried to catch them all, but I'm only human. And I like to think it maybe gives the feel of things only just having occurred. Maybe. I have a small notion of where this might go, but I haven't been able to bring myself to finish it yet. So here it is, being whatever it is. Thanks for reading. 2/5/2019 Update – I have changed my time/page breaks to timestamps instead of random numbers to clarify that there are some flashbacks. These will continue throughout the coming chapters. -WC
12:02am November 29
It hurt to breathe. She almost believed she could hear her ribcage creaking beneath the ringing in her ears. With each breath, a crackling rose out of her throat. Almost.
The bruises were real. There was a good chance the fractures were real, too. But there would be no emergency x-rays, no consulting diagnosis, no doctors.
She felt another bout of coughing building in her lungs and squeezed her coat against her chest to cushion her bones. The pain was a series of explosions inside her.
With a shudder, her knees buckled. She dropped the coat and grasped the cold edge of the sink to keep from collapsing to the ground.
Black stains and spreading red marred the white of her blouse. She kept her chin tucked as she struggled back to standing. She opened the tap and cupped her hands, carefully sipping the cold water, trying to soothe the burning, stabbing cough.
Her lungs stilled, but the pain was continuous.
She let the tap run as she splashed her sweat and soot streaked face, scrubbing with a flat open palm. Warm, salty tears disappeared immediately into the chilly water. Still, the wincing hiccups that came with the tears split her face.
"Pull it together, Page," she whispered to herself, grasping the sink's edge once more. One deep, shaky breath followed the last. Two, three, four, five breaths and she was steady again. Or as steady as could be expected, given the circumstances. But she was prepared for this. Had been prepared for a while.
"Follow the plan."
She probably should have changed the blood-stained shirt, but she'd already lost precious minutes at the sink, so the soiled silk disappeared beneath a dark sweater and her black trench. She discarded the stained camel jacket down the garbage shoot before shifting her shoulder bag across her chest and hoisting the duffel to her shoulder with a stifled groan.
When her feet hit the pavement, she hazarded a last glance to the empty window of her apartment, and then she was gone.
02:40am
"Let me do that."
The movement of her hands from the bandaged ribs to the gun, and the twist in her spine as she wheeled on him… The pain on her face was no surprise, but her trembling aim never deviated from a decent shot.
His hands went up in a weak caricature of surrender. Cease fire. Her eyes squinted, her finger hesitating on the safety. But her gun came down, and her arms fell to her sides. The pained expression broke him. The tears struggling to break free of her eyes, the blood on her re-opened lip, the clumsily wrapped ribs. He hated it. All of it.
The sight of Karen Page bloodied and bruised wasn't an unfamiliar one. It was one he'd hoped to avoid. But just because he wasn't around to facilitate it hadn't ever meant she wouldn't end up that way on her own.
His hands shifted from shoulder-height to reaching as he approached her. He grasped her around the shoulders, careful not to pressure the favored ribs. She relinquished her grip on the gun completely, setting it beside the bloodied sewing kit on the little table with the lamp. Her pure blue eyes were pools of unshed tears, and under his gaze they began to fall.
The warmth coming off him shifted from his appraising arm-length's distance to a full body radiation as his arms closed around her, his fingers catching in the fallen bun at the nape of her neck.
"Shh, shh," he soothed, listening to her tears alternate between sadness and pain. "I've got you. I got you."
It was long minutes before she relinquished her fistfuls of his jacket. Then he was shrugging out of the uniform of the Punisher.
His hands weren't angry fists, but surprisingly delicate instruments of healing. He carefully unwound and rewrapped her torso. He grunted his approval upon inspecting her self-sutured puncture wound. His eyes were on hers as he ghosted over her pale, bruised skin. "If it's too tight, you won't breathe deep enough," he said, securing the bandage ends. As if demonstrating his point, she inhaled, snuffled, and blew out an extended sigh.
"Thanks," she whispered, eyes on her bare feet, fingers smoothing the stained shirt back over her dressings. She caught the bobbing of his head from her peripheral vision, and then he was shifting away from the one source of light in the darkened space. He returned with four white pills and a bottle of water.
"Just ibuprofen," he said, noting the flash of uncertainty across her carefully schooled expression, and placed the tablets in her open palm. His eyes stayed on her until all four were gone, and half the bottle with it.
"I'm gonna…" he gestured vaguely toward the back. She nodded, turning away, and sinking to the edge of the bed.
"I'm gonna…" she echoed him, running a hand over the coarse wool blanket.
"Get some rest," he finished for her; half a command, half an understanding. And disappeared into the dark corridor.
05:03am
In soft, clean clothes, she fell asleep to the sound of running water. She woke with an ache and a cough to the sound of rain on the metal roof. She drained the last of the bottle of water, pulled her knees to her chest and shivered. Her ears still rang, and the rain was a low roar, but the crackle stayed in her lungs.
She was drifting. On the edge of exhaustion but still in a limbo of consciousness that had the buried demons inside her fighting to escape, clawing their way up her throat, trampling each other.
She hadn't heard herself begin to cry. The trembling felt just like a shiver, and the pain all came from the same body. She hadn't registered the progression of the dark figure across the space. But then he was there beside her, pulling her into his warmth.
He shushed soothingly into her hair, pressing his lips there. His hand brushed up and down the length of her arm, lighting the hellfire inside her with the friction. With the combined warmth, the shivering, trembling cold died away, and the cough, as well. They were almost exactly the same height, but she somehow managed to curl into him, tucking herself under his chin, resting against his shoulder.
"This is it, isn't it Frank?"
His other arm closed around her, securing her to him. She felt the slight pressure of another kiss against her hair.
"Only if you want it to be," he whispered, voice like an echo of the thunderstorm, palms still working to stoke the warmth in her.
She nodded against his chest, a slow incline and decline of her chin, cheek rasping over his shirt. Then she was very still as she pulled the air into her lungs. Pushed it out. Two, three, four, five times.
11:59am
His cheekbones were dark with the nearly-faded evidence of black eyes. His lip was split in an inverted mirror of her own. His gate was stiff as he moved from the old wood stove to the picnic table that served as the only work surface. It wasn't the worst shape she'd ever seen him in, not by a long shot. But the hints of silver at his temples and in the three days of stubble on his sharp jaw were telling.
The rain continued to pound against the metal roof, hammering like a hundred fists trying to break through. She shuffled her feet and joined him in a cup of instant coffee. His eyes were on the streaks of water casting liquid shadows on the window coverings. He tapped the newspaper on the tabletop without shifting his gaze.
"'Sposed to keep raining the rest of the week." His voice was a constant growl.
"Is that good or bad," she asked over the rim of her mug and felt the heat of his eyes suddenly fall on her face.
She noted surprise when she glanced over to him. He hadn't considered that rain could be a good thing. He'd been twitchy and agitated, but the surprise stilled him for a moment while he processed the possibilities.
His eyes shifted back to her. "It'll be cold," he said, like he was offering her something.
"It's already cold."
"Yeah. Yeah it is." His smirk was almost guilty.
9:16pm, November 28
She wasn't prepared for the punch. She was ready for the gun, was anticipating the moment she would take it from him, but she wasn't ready for the fist. She caught it in the mouth, going down, but never reaching the floor. She caught herself, sweeping her leg as best she could in her trademark pencil-skirt, and he was flying backwards. Her fingers closed on his gun and raised it overhead.
With one warning shot the light was gone. And chaos erupted.
01:19am, November 30
She tried to be gentle, moved slowly, quietly. But she bumped against him as she slid down the couch cushions.
"Karen?" His voice was a whisper, but his whole body had tensed on being woken.
"I haven't been sleeping," came her answer. "The flashbacks are…" And he was up, sitting beside her, lifting his army blanket to drape over both their shoulders. "And I don't think I have the words left anymore."
"Hey, that's okay." She imagined she could hear the twitch of a smile in his words as he reassured her. She knew she was the mouth, always running off. He was the muscle. The brute force. He wrote his symphonies in bullet holes, not scrawling his epics in words.
She liked being near him, despite all that. Maybe because of it, now. He was a man of few words, and, though he would listen to her with rapt attention, he didn't demand any of her. He could read her looks, and knew when to let a silence draw out. He could let it go, even if he didn't want to.
She liked being near him because he was the only one left she trusted. Everyone else had let her down. Or left her. But he never had. Even when he had been gone, he had never actually left her behind. He came back. Like he had this time.
His hand was running its familiar path up and down her arm, igniting the warmth inside. Chasing out the cold and tension, beckoning the sleep. She turned into him to yawn, practically taking his shoulder in her mouth to cover it. She definitely heard the snort of laughter this time.
"There you go," he said, pressing his lips against her hair in his familiar gesture. "Let's go." He climbed to his feet then stooped to help her up. His arm around her, he supported her back to the bed. She lay down without protesting, rolling away from him to face the steel wall. But her hand caught him before he could slink back to the couch.
"Please, Frank." Her voice was hoarse with exhaustion, barely more than a wavering breath, but it held him still. "Stay."
He lay beside her. Close, but careful not to touch. One arm curved under him, pillowing his head. He hesitated. She could feel the tension in him just as clearly as she felt his radiating heat. The other arm reached out, bracketing her torso, the crook of his elbow resting against her hip the only contact between them.
She reached for the blankets and managed to halfway cover them both. She shifted back, seeking his warmth, and clasped the rough woolen edge in a fist against her chest. With the other hand she found his wrist. In one fluid movement she pulled them together, placing herself in his embrace, drawing him around and about her. She yawned again, into her palm, and slid her fingers into his loosening fist. Then the world was still.
The last time he'd held her like this he'd been pressing a gun into her chin. A familiar thought, a fleeting memory, circled his mind. But she lay quiet against him, the steady pressure and retreat of her breathing the only movement. That and the pounding of his heart.
She didn't move again. Didn't let go. And the tension eased out of him. Maybe not in the same ways – they were both broken. But here their jagged edges fit together.