I do t own daredevil or marvel. I wish.
this story may or may not get a continuation. Just an idea I had.
enjoy!
The first time Frank touches her, it's to take a gun out of her hands. There's blood on her face and a man is writhing on the ground in front of her, a hole in his neck. Her entire body is shaking, and nausea is roiling around her stomach. He comes up behind her, quiet as a ghost, and slides the pistol from her grip. She only really notices his presence when the gun is out of her hands, when she lunges for it, colliding with a wall of solid muscle and black denim.
"Whoa, go easy. Go easy." Frank's voice isn't gentle. "Go easy."
She doesn't know what she says, but she claws and spits at him like a banshee, tearing at his shirt and raking bloody lines across his face. He doesn't stop her, doesn't make a sound, until she gives up and starts sobbing uncontrollably.
"Why'd you kill him?"
It sounds so horrible when he says it, totally without judgment, accepting that her reason justified the still wriggling almost corpse on the ground. The man gurgles, and Frank looks down.
"That's Lenny Merkowitz."
She can't speak, so she tries nodding.
"Why'd you kill him?" He lifts her face to look at him. The world's dumbest thought; I must look hideous, flashes across her mind.
"He...he…."
"He got off." She can hear the understanding in his voice. Lenny had walked on a rape charge. Not enough evidence. He'd put the girl through a garbage press after killing her. The DNA evidence was contaminated, so he'd walked. She'd followed him from the courtroom. Frank understands why. But there's pain in Frank's voice, a pain that makes her chest hurt. She vomits over his boots. He steps back, but doesn't say anything. He stands next to her as she's violently sick, hand against her back. On the ground, Lenny wheezes.
"Is your car nearby?" Frank asks. She shakes her head. It's still back at the courthouse.
Frank grunts. "There's a blue van at the end of the alley. Twenty meters. Go to it, get in from the passenger door and climb in the back. I'll follow you." She doesn't move. She can't.
"Hey, you need to go." He shakes her gently. She feels like her feet are rooted to the concrete.
"Move!" His voice is suddenly and terrifyingly loud. She runs. The van is there just like he said. She fumbles with the door, and clambers in. There's a pause, during which she sits quietly in the dark, then a thunderous explosion of sound. The gunshots make her curl up and scream into her arm. There's a gentle whining noise, and something soft and wet brushes against her arm. A grey pitbull nuzzles at her. Frank has a dog?. The driver side door opens and Frank climbs in. He starts the engine and pulls away from the curb, sirens following them into the night.
"I'm gonna take you somewhere safe, get you cleaned up. Okay?" When she doesn't respond, he shakes her shoulder roughly. "Okay?"
"Okay." Her voice sounds strange, like she's swallowed gravel. The pitbull licks her face.
"Down George."
George whimpers in unconvincing misery. He licks Karen again.
"Sorry bout the dog." Frank grumbles. "Little shit doesn't listen."
"It's okay." Karen says. "I don't mind." George barks and rests his chin on her knee.
"You let him do that, he won't leave you alone." Frank growls. "He's a whore like that." He turns on the radio. Jessie's Girl fills the van. As they drive, Frank begins to sing along quietly. George barks.
Karen can't help it, so she begins to laugh. It's high pitched, and half hysterical, but it's better than crying, and Frank fucking Castle and his pitbull singing along to classic rock is just so ordinary it's ridiculous. Frank doesn't say anything, but he doesn't turn the music off either, and he doesn't stop singing.
They pull into a seedy car lot somewhere on the other side of town. Karen lets Frank steer her wordlessly across the lot, into a rundown apartment building, and up several flights of stairs. His apartment, loft really, is much bigger and much brighter than she expected. She'd imagined Frank brooding alone in the dark every night, but the space is comfortable in a very utilitarian sort of way. It's covered in ammunition and weapon parts, and the walls are a patchwork of photographs and red strings. A bench press and stacks of weights sit in a corner.
"There's a shower in that room." He points to a dark blue door. "Turn the hot water on and stay in there until you're thinking clearly." He hands her a towel, and then leaves her in the middle of the room to go feed George.
Feeling very alone, she walks slowly to the shower. The water is shocking at first, but the heat sears away the disorientation and her nausea begins to dissipate. She fumbles with the soap for a minute, trying to manage a normal shower routine, but gives up and settles for scrubbing the blood from her face so hard it hurts. She lets the water run, and stares at herself in the bathroom mirror. She looks tired, older, like she's aged ten years in a single day. There are dark circles under her eyes, and her face is puffy from crying. She still tastes bile in her mouth, so she tries brushing her teeth with Frank's tooth brush. It feels strange, using Frank's things, knowing he won't mind her doing it. When she's dry, she wraps herself in the towel (her clothes are covered in blood) and stands in front of the bathroom door. She doesn't want to go back out, to have to see Frank, see anyone. She feels afraid. But she can't stay in the bathroom, so she pokes her head out. Frank is seated on a ratty green sofa, a pistol on the table in front of him. George is gnawing at a bone by his feet.
"Frank?" He looks up. "Do...do you have some clothes I could borrow?" He points to a stool next to the sofa. A pair of sweat pants and a t shirt are neatly folded on top of it. She has to fold the sweat pants several times so that they'll stay up. The t shirt is a dull green. A lightning bolt pierced by a sword adorns the left breast.
"Thanks Frank." She sits down on the sofa next to him. George rises quickly, and licks her toes. She slides her feet away, and George whines.
"Leave her be George." George returns to his bone.
They sit quietly for a long time, him cleaning her pistol, and she watching him.
Eventually, unable to bear the quiet, she speaks.
"I thought you left the city."
He grunts, but doesn't answer.
"How'd you know where to find me?"
Frank looks at her. "Merkowitz." His voice is softer than she's used to. "I saw you follow him."
"Did you know I was going to shoot him?"
Frank nods. "It was on your face." He looks pained.
"You didn't stop me." She didn't mean it to sound like an accusation. Maybe she does, she isn't sure. "You let me be a murderer Frank."
"I didn't." Frank agrees. I did, and now you understand. There's no guilt in his voice, but there is that same pain she heard in the alley. Why did you choose to be like me?
"Why?"
He doesn't answer. "Do you have a phone?" She blinks. "What?"
"Have you got a phone?"
She shakes her head.
"Phone number then, someone you need to call so they know where you are?" She stares, uncomprehending.
"If someone files a missing persons, the cops'll come looking, and that won't be good. Who do you need to call so that doesn't happen?"
Her first thought is Matt. She banishes it. He didn't care before.
"Foggy."
"The fat one?" Frank grunts. He hands her a beat up Nokia. "Call him. Don't tell him where you are."
"Can I say I'm with you?"
"Will it help?" Frank asks. He half smiles. "Might scare him."
Might scare Matt. She thinks. She dials.
The phone rings four times before Foggy picks up.
"Karen? It's two in the morning!"
"Foggy, I need you to listen to me."
"Huh? What's going…"
"Just listen." Her voice catches. "I've done something bad."
"Karen,"
"Just listen!" She hisses. "I got in trouble with someone, but I'm okay now. I'm in a safe place. I wanted to let you know that I'm not going to be at work tomorrow, but not to come looking."
"Karen, tell me what's…."
She squeaks as the phone is plucked from her hand. She can only imagine Foggy jerking upright in bed when he hears Frank's growl.
"She was attacked, the man is dead. She's with me. She'll be safe." She can hear Foggy shouting into the phone as Frank hangs up. "Talks tough for a man his size." Frank chuckles. "Said he'd castrate me."
She can't not giggle. "He's protective."
"He'd better be." His expression twists briefly, and Karen isn't sure he meant to say that out loud. On the floor, George yawns loudly.
She feels very tired, and curls up on her side of the couch.
"There's a bed if you're tired." Frank nods towards a large bed against a far wall. "I'll take the couch."
She murmurs good night and is asleep as soon as her head touches the pillow.
She wakes up screaming several times that night, each time to find Frank next to her, a hand on her shoulder, an unreadable expression on his face. "Go easy." He says every time she wakes up begging Matt, God, someone, HIM, to forgive her, screaming she's sorry. "Go easy, I got you." When she wakes the next morning, he's asleep seated next to the bed, his right hand gripped by both of hers.
