Forewarning to anyone who follows my stories: I don't use swearing as a general rule. I hint at it but I veer away. But I just couldn't help but slip in one here—one word, twice mentioned. But really, if you watch The Punisher, you won't be shocked at all.

Words filled her screen—another exposé story. Breaking news with secret ties between a New York City official and the Irish. The letters scrambled together. It was nothing, really. More corrupt politicians in bed with local mobs. Karen couldn't help but wonder if the details of the child trafficking would entice him out of the shadows for this one.

Not Matt.

Frank.

Pete.

It'd taken some digging, but she was good at that. Karen was even better at getting answers. And David Lieberman didn't want to talk—at first. She tried to control the wobble in her voice, talk over the lump in her throat. In the end, he caved.

"Frank's okay." David scrubbed his hands over his face on the front step of his suburbia home. "He's gonna kill me for telling you. Or punch me, or whatever."

"No," she said, swallowing hard. "Don't … don't even tell him that I came. I'm just a reporter, looking for a lead."

David scoffed. "Yeah. And I'm just a computer guy, livin' the American dream."

Karen looked at the screen, mumbling the sentences into the empty room. Checking her notes, she tacked on the last few lines and sent the article to Ellison. She slapped the laptop closed and pulled on her coat as the elevator dropped to street level.

The wind snaked up her calves, and Karen clutched the neckline of her coat. The smell of rain hung in the air. Her flats were nearly silent on the sidewalk, and she didn't want to admit when she started wearing them, so she shook out her hair and picked up the pace. It was easier to ignore the facts, to chalk it up to coincidence. Ironic, considering her line of work. Anything was better than the sweet torture of wondering if Frank watched her on the way home to keep her safe. Or if he was disguised as a panhandler, tucked into a storefront. He had better things to do, she reminded herself.

Fat raindrops plopped on her head when she turned the key to let herself into the building. With a sigh, she slipped up the stairs. Karen didn't even bother with the lights once she threw the bolt on the door. And she chastised herself, yet again, for checking for his silhouette near the couch.

The stupid pot of fake white roses sat on the ground in the corner, its petals nearly blue from the streetlights. She'd tried to throw it away once. Twenty minutes later, it went back to its spot near the window. So, she ignored it for the millionth time.

Karen heated some leftover takeout, opened a beer, and sat on the couch. She pulled up a police scanner app on her phone and let it replace the silence. Somewhere around midnight, she woke up with a stiff neck and vegetable stir fry spilled across her lap.

"Lovely," she whispered, wiping it back into the container.

She dumped the carton into the trash and swiped the app off.

Endless, echoing loneliness.

The hot water in the shower didn't help. Of course, it didn't. Karen chucked her outfit into the hamper. She needed to drop it off at the dry cleaners. She double-checked the locks on the door and windows, .380 palmed in her right hand. It slid under the pillow closest to the lamp. Her closest companion for the past three weeks, because her boss didn't count.

The cycle repeated, day after day: work, shower, eat, sleep. Occasionally, she repainted her nails. Ellison told her to take a vacation. Karen told him where to go.

Foggy met her for drinks one Saturday night at Josies. They started with beer and pool, and ended up with shots, shredding Matt's absence.

"How long did you know, Fog?" Karen knocked back her third—no, fourth shot. Foggy's revelation would go down smoother with a fuzzy head.

"Long time." He matched her shot. "He wouldn't stop. Everything and all the years didn't matter."

"And the woman?"

Foggy's bushy eyebrows made lazy arches over his slow blinks. "Elektra. He met her back in college. And then she just poof." He waved his tiny glass above the pub table. "I'm guessing he learned more than a few magic disappearing acts from her."

Pain stabbed Karen behind her left eye. "Well, he should've told me. I keep secrets."

And suddenly, she was back in the elevator, desperately fighting to stay composed when Frank pressed his bloody forehead onto hers.

The emergency alarm rattled her eardrums. He had to survive. No matter the way every fiber of her body begged to lean forward, he had to escape,.

And so, she stepped backwards, until her shoulder bumped the wall. Everything she wanted to say, to confess, lost to the tears forming in Frank's eyes.

"Take care." He glanced to the hole in the ceiling.

Then he disappeared.

Karen woke up the next morning with open-mouthed slobber on her pillowcase, clutching her gun across her mattress. Her hair was plastered across her face. She pulled down shirt bunched up near her bra. And the odor of coffee hit her, turning her stomach. She replaced the safety and left her gun near the lamp.

Stumbling from the bedroom, with both hands over her eyes to block the sunlight, Karen slumped against the wall when her headache slammed into her skull. The damn blinds in the living room were open. "Who the hell has coffee?" she whispered, smashing her eyes closed as tightly as possible.

Stone slid against wood nearby. Karen peeked through her fingers.

Frank pushed a mug across her countertop, the cuff of his plaid flannel sliding up the dark hair on his forearm. "Ma'am," he murmured.

"What the hell?" She took a step forward, squinting from the brightness. "Frank?"

"Ma'am," he echoed. The beard and mustache were back. His hair was indecisive, halfway between hipster and military.

One of her eyes wouldn't cooperate and stayed shut no matter how hard she blinked. Karen tried to look less nauseous that she was. The coffee wasn't helping. "What … why are you here?"

"You asked me to come." He nodded to the living room.

Through the unshielded rays of the window, the fake roses rested haphazardly on the sill.

"Oh God." Karen lurched from the wall and staggered into the bathroom, heaving the contents of her stomach into the toilet. Head against the side of the bowl, she heard the tap run and the handle squeak when he turned it back off. When he moved aside her hair from her neck, pressing a cool washcloth against her skin, she muttered her gratitude, wishing their reunion wasn't at her toilet.

He shuffled back toward the kitchen. Karen waited until she couldn't hear his feet move before she crawled to the door and swung it shut. After brushing her teeth, she gasped her way through a cold shower to sober up, only to find one hand towel to dry herself off. Despite the blinding headache, she redressed in the wrinkled clothes she slept in, before tip toeing to her bedroom to change.

It took several sniff tests to find a clean sweater and yoga pants. She licked her finger and scrubbed at the mascara under her eyes.

When Karen emerged, the smell of bacon wafted through the apartment. "You didn't have to cook," she said, looking at the plate of breakfast food.

Frank shrugged and took a sip from his coffee. "I was hungry. So, I made you some." He'd closed the blinds, too.

"I didn't even have groceries in my fridge."

"Just eat the damn food, Karen. And drink this." He pushed a bottle of water next to her plate.

"I need aspirin."

He popped open a bottle perched nearby and shook out two tablets. She held her hand open and he dropped the white pills onto her palm.

"Thanks."

"Yup." He turned back to her new coffee maker, dropping in a pod, and waited while it brewed.

Karen forced herself to eat all of the eggs, but could only manage a couple of bites of bacon. "I'm full," she explained, when his eyebrow hiked after she pushed the remainder away.

Frank grabbed the slices she'd rejected and took a bite. "S'good."

She nodded. Headache still gnawing, Karen folded down onto the couch. She curled into a ball, her head on the armrest closest to the bookcase, feet near the center of the cushions. Her eyes drifted closed.

It had to be asked, the elephant in the room. Karen spent time breathing through her nose, listening to Frank wash dishes in the sink. The longer she waited, the harder it became to tamp her caustic curiosity.

"Where have you been?"

All movement in the kitchen halted.

Karen resisted the desire to repeat her question as the silence stretched out. She would not say it again—she had a code and sense of honor, too. Especially in regards to Frank Castle, no matter if he was an old-fashioned, rosebush-toting guy, who happened to be a vigilante.

"Do you really want to know that?" Without opening her eyes, she knew he'd moved closer by the sound of his growled response—near the television.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes rolling behind her lids. "Forget it."

"I got a job. Construction."

"I don't need to know this."

"Going to group sessions—support counseling."

"Just stop."

"Walking my dog."

Karen pushed herself up, blinking hard. "Frank. Stop."

"You asked."

She held out both hands in surrender. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pried."

Frank's trigger finger bounced against his thigh. "Yeah, well … I'm not killing people right now, even though your stories make me want to tear everything apart."

Looking up at him, Karen tipped her head sideways. He read her work. "It won't change anything."

His fingers curled into a fist and he looked toward the window. "I know."

"Sit down." She patted the cushion next to her on the couch.

Pulled inch by inch by an invisible string, Frank moved to the spot. His hands rubbed together on top of his knees, and she saw the callouses and blisters, his grimy fingernails. He stared at the window, jaw working below his dark curly beard.

"I knew you hadn't died." Karen plucked the blanket draped nearby. She shook her head, damp hair brushing her cheeks. Her left shoulder lifted. "But I couldn't bring myself to investigate it, in case you were."

He stayed silent, finger tapping staccato on his jeans once more.

"I'm sorry I made you come."

"No," he said, turning to face her. "Don't apologize. I … I shoulda come before."

"You don't owe me anything."

Frank looked from one of her eyes to the other, his stare shifting back and forth. He shuddered, his nose barely scrunching. "What have you been up to, other than pissing off the mob again?"

Karen leaned her head back and laughed, ignoring the protesting headache. "Same old thing for me. Just working. Trying to do what I can do to stay sane. Expose the underbelly. Hoping no one will kidnap or shoot at me."

"Still have the trusty hand cannon." He nodded toward her bedroom. She wasn't sure if she was embarrassed or aroused that he'd seen her passed out.

"It never leaves me." Her words fell out seconds before the double meaning hit her alcohol- addled brain.

Frank's face ticked ever so slightly. He stood and took a step toward the kitchen until she grabbed his hand. He stood stock still.

"No, I didn't mean it that way."

"What's that called? A Freudian slip?"

"Come on, Frank. I'm hungover."

"That's when most truth hits the fan, I find."

Karen released his hand. "I'm sorry. It just came out."

"Why are you apologizing?"

She bunched her hands into fists and shook her head. "I don't know," she exploded, white pain jolting through her head.

Karen sprang up from her seat. They were nearly eye level to one another. "Here you are, not dead, again, and I knew! Lieberman told me weeks ago. So, imagine my surprise when you didn't show up or at least—I dunno—send me some flowers with a card."

"You wanted flowers with a card?" The coffee from his breath brushed against her cheek.

"No, God. No, Frank. You should know me better than that." She pulled her hand through her hair, fingers getting tangled in the drying strands. "I just expected something."

"You didn't put the roses out."

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," she whispered, head falling to her chest, which happened to land her forehead against his flannel. That stupid flower pot. And she tried to hold back the tears and the way her shoulders bounced when she started to cry. But it failed and she couldn't blame it on the fading whiskey.

Karen stepped back, swiping at the tears racing down her cheeks. Her chin trembled. She took a deep breath and pasted a brave smile across her chapped lips. "I should've thought of that sooner." Her small laugh lapsed into a sob, so she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and turned her head.

Her body was collected into his protective arms. Frank's rested his head against hers. Karen felt his lips move the hair next to her ear. She leaned into them trying to capture his hushed words, satisfied with the gravely, undiscernible sound. When her tears subsided and she heaved a shaky lungful of air, Frank relaxed his grip wrapped around her.

He eased her away, holding her arm's length away, searching her face. "I screwed that up. It's on me."

"No, no." Karen glanced to the ceiling. "I had no right to assume you'd come."

Frank swore and his hands tightened on her shoulders. "Look at me."

She obeyed, silently cursing the damn tears collecting again.

"Last time we were together, I had a gun to your head."

Karen grunted. "You and I have very different recollections about that."

"Yeah?"

"I needed you to survive. I asked you to put the gun to my head because it was the only way out."

"Damn it!" He rattled her frame much more gently than the Punisher would, then stared at the floor. "If something happened to you …"

"You'd kill them?"

"I can't promise I wouldn't."

"Frank." Karen exhaled his name, reaching forward and latching onto the lapel of his flannel. "I can't stop your war. Or your nightmares. I can take care of myself, but I'll never be safe all of the time."

"I can damn well try."

"What, Frank? Do you want me there to smack your ass in the morning when you leave? 'Be careful and have a good day killing people, honey.' You know I can't … I wouldn't—"

"You wouldn't what?"

Maybe it was the breathy way he asked. Or the fact that he edged his face toward hers, wrinkles gathering when his eyebrows bowed down. Every one of her fears fled, chased away by hope.

She ground her teeth together, but her pursed lips betrayed her and spilled into a smile. "I wouldn't smack your ass."

Music for inspiration: "Question of Lust" by Depeche Mode

My Kastle ship has sailed. I'm totally trashed by it. ~JS