Takes place during The Punisher Season 1, between Episodes 4 and 5.
A vase of white roses in the window. Petals catching on the shutters as they fall. A waterline shrinking as flowers slurp greedily at their second chance in the sun, then fade away, neglected.
When he comes, she's almost forgotten that she set the vase where he could see it. Almost.
"You said you'd come." Her voice rakes along his back and digs fingernails into his old chest wound. Accusatory.
"I'm here." A grunt, too low to make out unless she leans in. She's leaning in anyway, unconsciously. Frank does not move as she sways within reach. He keeps his gaze fixated on the flowers. "What do you have for me?"
"Have for you? There's been a trail of bodies spanning across New York, it's only growing." Her voice grows quieter the more intense she becomes. "I need—wanted to know if you were safe."
A whisper of a chuckle rasps in his throat. If there's a trail of bodies, who does she think is creating it? Karen must suspect as much; the defiant slouch of her shoulders and upturned nose dares him to deny it. He can't. His job is to punish people. And he's very thorough at his job.
"That stolen shipment of guns. Did you have anything to do with that?"
He shifts his eyes from the clay vase, and the cityscape stretching out beyond it, to the woman perched on the edge of her couch. "You heard about that?"
She sighs, her frustration bottled up in her white knuckles and wild eyes. "I'm a reporter, Frank. It's my job to hear about it."
He snorts, the shadow of smile setting up shop across his face. It lingers, and he watches Karen warm to that. She stands, nervously brushing back the golden strands falling in her eyes. "Would you like a beer?"
He nods, swallowing at the prospect of something to drink. Not at how her hips sway in that tight pencil skirt as she strides towards the fridge. Not at how she bends to collect two bottles, pausing to read the labels before setting them on the kitchenette counter. Definitely not at the way she purses her mouth as she pops each cap off. Karen doesn't need his help, and Frank has to admire that.
When her fingers brush his as she hands him a beer, Frank swallows again.
A sip. Then silence. He doesn't know what to say, so he waits for her to speak. She's talkative enough. He's content to listen.
"You cut your hair."
When he stares at the pink of her cheeks too long, his head starts to spin. A fucking merry-go-round.
"I worry about you."
"I know." What else is there to say? Karen will always worry, and Frank will always be at a loss for words.
She fidgets, crossing her arms and then uncrossing them. Shifting from side to side. Chewing at the corner of her cheek. "Will you come back?"
Frank staves off the urge to bolt by draining the rest of his beer. It's not like she's asking him for his breakfast order (three eggs, bacon, sourdough toast, and coffee). Or for his loyalty (she already commands it). She's simply asking if he'll look for the roses, come when she calls. But Frank's scared he'll lose her if he makes a promise he can't keep.
And then she leans in to brush his mouth, so whisper-soft that Frank's sure he dreamed it. The same way he dreams of Lisa helping him with his car, of Frankie laughing on the merry-go-round. Of Maria waking him with a—
Kiss. It's like he's stepped in cement himself, the way he's rooted to the linoleum. Karen's still there, a word between his lips and hers.
He can't. Not now. Not ever.
But he can't move away. He's trapped between memory and breath, responsibility and fantasy. The white of her sweater, the roses, her teeth— he can't help but see flashes of children's laughter and the white froth of the Hudson River seething in the ferry's wake. Karen's golden hair glints in the lamplight, but all he sees is the park bathed in sunlight, the chipped yellow paint on the wooden horses.
Frank hates himself for it: for the way his brain reminds him of loss every minute of every week. It interrupts his sleep, insistent in destroying any whiff of peace it catches in the dawn of a new day. When he thinks he's past his pain, his mind delivers the crippling blow and Frank's curled up in his bed again, spattered in Maria's blood. No matter how much he lifts, how long he plays, the carousel keeps churning, its only passenger a man with a gun and a guitar.
He can't hop off. But he can pull her on.
So he wraps one hand around her jaw and pulls her in. She kisses him, first rough and sloppy, then hesitantly, mimicking his glacial pace. It's something soft, tentative, a rose that Frank's not quite sure whether it's budding or wilting in the heat of their twin heartbeats.
She tastes like summer and home, and Frank can't help but lick the bitterness from her lips. Hands on waist, arms around neck. A fervor that he can't place wells up in his throat as he slopes over her. She pulls away, breathless, leaning her head against his chest.
The ride is over; the carousel slows to a stop. The cramped kitchen comes into focus; at the window, the roses stand vigil. Karen extends her hand. When he makes no move to take it, she grabs hold of his arm and tugs him towards the sofa? The door? Her bed? Frank doesn't know, but every fiber of his being yearns to find out.
But he knows if he gets off the merry-go-round now, he may never be able to hop back on. And it's all that he's got left of his family. So he shoves both hands in his overcoat pockets. Pulling up the hood, he stares Karen down. He's not one to look away from the kill.
It's killing her, his departure, written all over her face. Frank nods, acknowledging her pain. Thanking her for that moment. Then he turns and ambles out the door, letting it swing shut behind him.
He shuffles down the narrow stairs of her apartment complex, listening intently for the sound of an opening door, frantic footsteps behind him. All he hears is the hum of the lights above. The stairs curve, a series of switchbacks, but his head stays clear on his descent. As he steps into the starlight, he glances back up at the building, searching for a glimpse of white.
The vase is no longer there. As he scans the windows for something no longer there, his mind grows dim. The lights on the merry-go-round have burnt out.
Now that he's drowning in the softness of Karen's hips, her sickly-sweet rose scent and blue-fire eyes, Frank's finally free.