Here you go, part two. There will be one more chapter after this.
He decides not to leave Hell's Kitchen. At least not yet. He tells himself it's because he hasn't found The Scythe but when he lets himself wonder about it, all that really comes to mind is Karen Page's fingertips pressed into his skin, the smell of her perfume against the smoke of Josie's bar. The way it doesn't feel like he has permission to go.
He starts to live for the moments he sees her in the traffic or the store. The times he waves and she waves back and something passes between them that he can't put a name to and doesn't want to. He worries though. Worries that this is all it will ever be. That these little things that shouldn't keep him here but somehow do, aren't enough. And he's just screwing himself in the ass. Setting himself up for a fall that'll break his bones, leave him gasping for air.
He doesn't want to leave. He knows this to be true. He might have to. He knows this to be true as well.
She fucks him up.
Red doesn't find The Scythe, his lead a dead end. It's not a surprise and Frank realises that on some level he's almost happy about it. Because he knows Red, and Red will do the "right" thing: hand this freak over to the cops and give himself a pat on the back for it. And while he realises that maybe to polite society that is the right thing to do, this fucker takes women's eyes and murders them. When you put that into the equation the waters of right and wrong become more than a little muddied.
So he doesn't give up any information when he's asked. Tells Red to go home, go see his blue-eyed girl and make sure she's safe and leave the heavy lifting to him. He's got this.
And he knows even as he's walking away that he hasn't really been heard.
His own research hasn't turned up much though. It's not gang-related, of that he's pretty sure. Maybe if it had been once or twice or maybe if the victims were somehow connected to the mob or the cops or something, it could be. But they're not and it isn't. Him and Red discuss once if it could be a religious zealot but all Red could really come up with was some far-fetched revenge theory based on the Old Testament and it really doesn't feel that elaborate.
He's pretty sure whoever it is, is nothing more than a sadist with a blue-eye fetish. Sure, it seems he picks his victims carefully and sure, it seems slightly opportunistic at the same time, but at the end of the day, it's really not that complicated.
What is complicated is finding the fucker. He's really good, really slick. Covers his tracks. The police are apparently having trouble tracking down the source of the blade. Not that sickle blades are in short supply, just that none of the retailers in the area seem to sell any that fit the description. Because this blade is small. Tiny enough to carve out an eye and barely touch the skin around it. The cops are turning their attention to online purchases, both on and off the darknet. Yes, sometimes it is good having that police radio if, for no other reason than knowing where not to waste his time.
He also realises that chasing the seller of the blade is a bit like looking for a needle in a haystack and probably barking up the wrong tree anyway. There are just too many places to look and something about it's uniqueness makes him wonder if it's not custom made. And wouldn't that be a thing? The Punisher hunting down an actual honest-to-god blacksmith this time. What a fucking joke.
He starts sniffing around, walking Hell's Kitchen's underbelly. Puts the word out that he's looking to spend some cash on customised blades. He smashes a few faces, makes himself just memorable enough to get talked about. And in the end it pays off.
A twitchy kid, face ravaged by both acne and what Frank imagines is a pretty severe meth habit, comes to him one night while he's pretending to drink at a biker bar in Brooklyn. Tells him he knows a guy who knows a guy who'll make him any fucking custom blade he wants. Switchblade to samurai sword. Ninja stars even.
Frank slips him a fifty, leaves with a name and an address. He considers letting Red know. He's not sure why. Maybe because he knows that Red seems to think they're in this together to a degree, that there's some free flow of information between them. But then he thinks of Karen and her pretty blue eyes and he keeps it to himself.
He scouts out the address. It's not far from where he lives but if possible the area is seedier. It's nothing more than a small dank apartment, wedged between a pawn shop and a sex shop with a flashing neon sign advertising Live Girls. Except it says "Li e Girls" and that might be more appropriate on pretty much every level.
So he waits and he watches. He sees a lot of what he expects to see. Rough crowd going in and out, couple of low-level mobsters, one guy who he's sure is a hitman and another who comes around at least once a day to deliver pizza and always wears oversized brown puffer vest regardless of the soaring temperatures.
The man of the hour is young; blond hair, blue eyes - the kind of boyish good looks that appeal to a certain kind of girl and their moms. Could be in a boy band. Fucker looks the type.
It's late on a Friday night when he eventually emerges dressed in dark jeans and a black sweater. He's on his phone, nodding a lot and talking fast. He crosses the street, gets into an old faded Hyundai and heads off in the direction of Hell's Kitchen.
The traffic is still bad despite the hour but it's not hard to follow him and when he abandons his car in a side street that no one in their right mind would leave anything in they want to keep, Frank knows he has him.
Drug them. Move them.
Take an eye.
Kill a girl.
Even so he needs to be sure. He's an asshole - a monster - but he doesn't kill innocent people. Even he's not that far gone.
He parks a few streets down, out of sight but close enough.
Boyband is on his phone again when Frank catches up. He's agitated and even though his words are indistinguishable, his tone is annoyed, terse. He heads out of the shadows towards the main drag, where despite the hour, Hell's Kitchen is still fairly alive. Restaurants still open, some shops even, couples heading home and old men walking their dogs.
Eventually he stops, moves into an alcove next to a flower shop, puts away his phone and pulls out a cigarette.
There's a party going on across the street at one of the tapas restaurants. Couples milling about outside with cocktails, music thumping, whoops of laughter. And Boyband is watching with a kind of intensity that can only mean one thing: whoever it is that he's after is here.
Yeah buddy, not tonight.
So Frank waits and he watches and Boyband paces impatiently in his alcove.
And then the universe decides to show him for the second time in his life just how much of a bitch she can be.
It had to happen. He thinks he always knew it would. Thinks that sixth sense he has now because pain and hurt is his currency had already predicted it the day he read that this asshole took eyes. Pretty blue ones.
He doesn't believe in prophecy, can't see the fucking future. But he saw this. Karen Page and her big blue eyes. The ideal victim.
He knew it would come to this.
He knew .
She's coming through the doors of the restaurant alone. Purse slung over her shoulder, hair pulled into loose plait, long black chiffon dress with a rose pattern up the one side and it's fucking ridiculous that he notices all this before he even starts moving.
She fucks him up.
And she's walking away, waving at that asshole in the ill-fitting pants who is supposed to be her boss.
Boyband moves too, a slick movement out of the shadows and across the street, falling into step a couple of yards behind her. And he knows he should be angry, enraged even, knows even as the feeling of dread is ricocheting through him, that he should want to tear this guy apart with his bare hands. But he also knows he needs to keep it down. Keep himself in check. He's no good to anyone if he loses his head, if he lets this insanity take over.
And this shouldn't be hard. It really shouldn't. Get them off the main drag and into the shadows and take him out before he even reaches her. Keep it together. She never even needs to know.
If you want God to laugh…
They do head into a side street and then another, into a short, dank alley and she picks up the pace and he doesn't miss the way her hand goes into her purse, stays there and he knows she's holding her .380.
Good girl.
He's gaining on Boyband who seems to have completely given himself over to whatever bloodlust lives in his veins. He's moving fast now, seemingly not caring about his thudding of his footsteps. Hand close to his waist. Little sickle blade glinting in the moonlight.
And Frank's reaching out, his own knife drawn, so close. So ready to end this SOB once and for all.
And that's when he sees the second man, oversized brown puffer vest despite the heat, and everything makes sense. The alternating eyes, the slight lack of precision on all the right-hand side ones. Assholes are tag teaming it. And suddenly he's back at that fucking carousel and he's hearing Lisa squealing at Frank Jr and the rich sound of Maria's laugh - the last thing he heard before that click of a hammer drowned out every sound in the world. The last thing that made sense. And he's waking up in a hospital bed with tubes coming out of every goddamn part of him and a nurse is busy telling him that his life is gone, blown apart. And he's looking at her like she's fucking insane and he can't for the life of him understand why the fuck anyone would let her work with actual wounded or sick people, because the woman is clearly off her head. And the more he's telling her to shut up, the more he's shouting for Maria, the more she's trying to soothe him, but he doesn't want her fucking hands on him.
And he's watching his world crumble in front of him and then Boyband is picking up the pace and he's watching it crumble again.
Karen Page dead in his arms, blue eyes gone, one taken, one taped shut. That gentle press of her fingertips never to be felt again and her lips taste of blood.
No.
No.
He shouts her name. He runs.
Later he won't remember much about how everything went down, which is odd because even though his bloodlust runs hot, his memory of the things he's done has always been crystal clear. So clear that sometimes he thinks of that as his punishment, his cross to bear. The face of each man he's murdered emblazoned on his brain forever.
But not this time. Because when it's over and he's kneeling on the filthy sidewalk and Karen Page is in his arms, quivering but holding on to him as tight as she can, head pressed into his shoulder and heart beating in time with his, all he has are fragments.
He's heard soldiers talk about out of body experiences, that feeling of standing next to yourself watching as you just start to work on instinct, tapping some ancient knowledge that only comes with the darkest circumstances. He thinks this is a little like that. Maybe not quite the same but close.
His blade stabbing through flesh. Karen falling to her knees covering her head. Blood on his hands, his clothes, arcing through the air and splashing warm and thick across his face. Launching himself across the street. Slipping on garbage. Grabbing the second man by his fucking collar as his hand closed around Karen's arm and he flung her hard against the sidewalk. Her cry echoing off the walls. Man on the ground. Karen's voice. His name. Screaming. And then his foot coming down. Head bursting like an overripe melon. Gore on his boots.
There's more. He knows there is. Knows there's chunks of time he's missing but he doesn't care. If it comes back, it comes. If it doesn't that's fine too. All he cares about is that she's safe. It doesn't matter that they're surrounded by bodies and blood.
She's saying something, mouth close to his ear but he can't hear her over the sound of his heartbeat. He realises she's rocking him and for a moment that seems completely at odds with the situation, that she's comforting him and not the other way around. And then he realises he's trembling too, that his hands are stuttering on her skin and that sobbing noise he can hear isn't coming from her.
It feels like he takes a forever to reconnect, to move back into his own flesh, but it can't be that long. Because he's telling her they need to go, they need to get out of here and when she's safe she can do whatever the fuck she wants. Speak to Mahoney, have him arrested. Let the whole world know that Frank Castle isn't dead. Her call. But they need to move. Because the longer they stay here, the bigger the chance she'll be implicated. And she's shaking her head and saying something about how ridiculous he's being but she's also moving, standing up and he can see that her dress is ripped right through the red rose pattern. It seems a shame, a waste.
It was such a pretty dress.
"Come on," she's saying and pulling him to his feet. "Come on, you said we have to go."
He did. Yes, he did.
And then they're walking, heading back the way they came and he has his hand between her shoulder blades. She feels smooth and warm and he's telling himself to stop it. That this isn't the time. That he just killed two men in front of her and he has their blood all over his hands and his clothes, but he can't help it and his fingers are digging into her.
He almost lost her. Oh god , he almost lost her.
He doesn't even want to imagine what that means. Can't. Won't .
He realises he's heading back to his truck. She's moved in closer and he can smell the sweetness of her perfume and, beneath that, copper. He glances at her back where his hand is and there's a smear of blood shining black in the moonlight against her skin. It doesn't enrage him as much as he thought it would. In fact it seems right somehow. She marked but unscathed and there's something fitting about that.
They get to the truck and, even though he's stressed and shaking, when she puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently, he feels - almost against his will - his rage ebbing under her hands.
"Breathe," she says softly. "Breathe."
And he wants to tell her to fuck right off, to get her ass in the truck, to stop worrying about him. But when he looks at her, he sees the iciness of her eyes, that steely look that tells him he has no choice.
Again she tells him to breathe. It's an instruction.
And he does. Because she's right and she knows him and she fucks him up but she also gets to do whatever she wants. So he takes long, slow breaths. And she keeps her hands on him, talking quietly - nonsense mainly - until his trembling has eased.
Calmer. Better. The world back in focus. Karen Page at his side. Touching him. Anchoring him. Soothing him.
His failsafe. His kill switch in the detonator.
He drives her home.
It's not that much different from the first time he did it all those months ago. He's a mess and trying to keep it together, not drive off the fucking road and she's sitting next to him, quiet and pale as a ghost.
But the chasm between them doesn't seem so wide this time. Or, if there is a chasm, they're both sitting on the same side of it and, when she leans over and puts her hand over his on the steering wheel, it's not even much of a decision to twine his fingers with hers and move their joined hands into her lap.
And again, his entire world becomes the rub of her thumb along his, the gooseflesh she draws out of his skin.
He doesn't want to do this anymore. He can't. Can't be here with her like this, that night she kissed him tattooed on his fucking brain forever. It's just not sustainable. And he knows. He knows it was all him. He knows it was his fucked up head and his guilt and doubts that caused this. But he'd do anything to go back now.
Yes, it scares him. It scares the shit out of him. But it scares him more that this could be it. That that one small moment on the couch when they were both too fucked up to make anything remotely resembling a good decision, could be their only moment.
He doesn't want that to be true. But it might be.
Oh god it might be.
She turns to him when they get to her apartment.
"You wanna come up?"
He nods.
He doesn't lie to her.
She gives him a small smile, squeezes his hand and releases him so he can park the truck. But when they go inside and get into the lift, she puts her fingers through his again and he can't even find it in himself to wonder at it. He just holds on. There's nothing else to be done.
Inside, he goes into the bathroom, strips off his shirt, washes his hands, up his arms, his face, his neck. The water runs pink and he still doesn't know how he got so much blood on him or where it all came from. But that's a minor detail. Completely inconsequential and he leans over the sink and gives himself a few seconds to breathe, to stare at himself in the mirror and wonder how he almost let this fucking happen. Why he didn't find those assholes sooner and put an end to it all months ago. And he knows he's not being logical because he was looking. He really was. But still. Still . It came too close. Far too close.
He rubs a hand through his hair. It's growing out long and curly and he's going to need to cut it at some point and, for a second, he can't believe he's here in Karen Page's home, and she nearly died, and he's worrying about the length of his hair.
And then he notices her standing there in the doorway, holding a towel and what he imagines must be one of Murdock's T-shirts.
He takes a moment to look at her. That pretty torn dress, the line of red roses rent from her ankles almost all the way up to her hip. The dirt on her knee where he can see it through the tear and the way her hair is barely being held together by her plait. And finally, the line of blood across her cheek, no doubt from his hands.
Somewhere he has it in him to wonder at this. To realise that she's dealing with this better than she should be. It doesn't matter that they were scum, that they were going to kill her and have killed other women just like her. She should be freaking out a lot more than she is.
And yeah, it's the reason she fought for him as hard as she did, it's the reason she was so upset about Murdock, the reason she has a .380 in her purse and he has no doubt in his mind she'll use it. It's really not her first rodeo. Not in any sense.
"Ma'am," he whispers and not because he wants to convey any meaning, not because he's scared to say her name, but because he genuinely has no idea what the hell else to say.
Because she fucks him up and she messes with his head and she doesn't seem to have the slightest clue that she does any of these things.
She puts the towel and the shirt down on the toilet lid and walks towards him, plants a hand in the middle of his chest and pushes so that he sits down on the edge of the tub and she's looming over him. And suddenly he has no fucking clue what's coming. She could pull her gun on him and blow his brains out or she could strip and climb him like a fucking tree and neither one of those things would surprise him any more than the other.
She doesn't do either.
"Missed a spot," she says softly and he can't help but smile at her as she wets a face cloth, stands between his legs and leans in close to wipe at his cheek.
Her hands are gentle, not that he expected anything else. Karen Page might have a core of absolute steel and she fucks him up in ways he could not possibly imagine but her kindness has always been something he's considered her defining trait. The way she burst into his life, shoved his family in his face and forced him to stop denying it, to stop pretending. The way she wanted him to fall and to break and when he did she was there waiting to help him pick up the pieces. He's not sure he's done breaking. He's not sure he's even done falling and there's a part of him that's okay with that, if only because he trusts she'll still be there when he does.
She runs the cloth over his skin again, down to his neck and his shoulders and he draws in a sharp breath that she has to notice. She can't not notice.
And he feels so fucking stupid being here. So fucking fucking stupid. Because all he can smell is her and his whole existence is the press of her fingers against his skin, her eyes that are big and wide and blue. And it's like he's spinning out of control around her in a whirlwind and she's the eye of the storm, the vortex where the world is blissfully calm but at the same time the very reason things are so messed up in the first place.
He can't make sense of it anymore. Doesn't even have the energy to try.
"They were going to take my eyes weren't they?" she's almost casual in the way she asks it and she isn't looking at him, instead concentrating on wiping the blood off his collarbones. He wonders if she's really that controlled or if she's hiding and putting on a brave face.
He nods. There isn't much more to say.
"You saved me," she says simply and he nods again.
She purses her lips, wets the cloth and runs it down his arm. He shivers.
"You had your .380," he says softly, mouth dry. "You would have been fine."
It's not true. Maybe if it was just Boyband, but not two of them. There's no way she would have been fine. They both know it. But somehow he can't find it in himself to admit that.
She, however, can and she shakes her head, runs that cloth back to his cheek, up to his forehead and he knows he didn't miss that much blood, knows there's no way, and she's now just cleaning him because she wants to.
"No, I wouldn't," she says. "I'd be dead three times over if it wasn't for you."
He doesn't say anything. She's right and they can't lie about this anymore. They shouldn't.
He swallows hard, blinks heavily as she cleans his face, as her fingertips comb through his beard.
"What are you going to do now?" he asks. "I left two bodies in that alley way."
She pauses and he breathes deeply.
"I'm not going to do anything Frank," she says. "Unless you want me to."
He shakes his head. No, he doesn't want her to do anything. Nothing other than let him sit here on the edge of this godforsaken, uncomfortable tub with her hands on his face, and her body so close to his he can feel the heat coming off her in waves. Nothing other than touch him and clean him unnecessarily and let him breathe her in. Nothing other than be alive and real and tangible and have her two pretty eyes in her head and let him - lucky bastard that he is - look at them occasionally.
And then suddenly she moves in and winds her arms around his neck, pulls him to her so that his cheek is against her breast and his hands rise to her waist. He closes his eyes, lets her weave her fingers through his hair, small gentle tugs against his scalp and then she's leaning forward and pressing her lips to the top of his head and he gives up being tentative and drags her close.
She's warm. So very warm. A little fire under his hands and she burns him as her palms drop to his shoulders and her fingernails trail along his back, small scratches that make him shiver and tremble despite her heat. And he should let go but he doesn't want to. He's so weary of should haves and would haves.
It might be the right thing to do, but he's done so many wrong things he finds he doesn't care.
He also doesn't care about the sparks created by her skin touching his, the way that it's undeniable and at the same time must be ignored. Doesn't care that he's somehow moving and standing but still keeping her close and pressing himself against her, one hand closing on her waist, the other sliding up her back to rest at the nape of her neck. Her skin prickles too and she shivers against him and he's conceited enough to entertain the notion that it's about him and the way he's making her feel. That it's about his hands on her and his lips against her cheek and how she must know that if she were to turn her head even a fraction of an inch he'd kiss her.
She doesn't move and he tells himself that's for the best even though he doesn't believe it.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "Thank you for saving me. For being there."
Her arms tighten around him and he knows he has to do something, or say something.
So he brushes his lips against her cheek and says the only thing he can think of, the only words he's seemingly allowed to say.
"I want to keep you safe Karen."
He knows to her it sounds like a statement, maybe the hint of a request. He also knows this isn't true. That inside he's begging. That he might be standing here holding her but the truth is that he's on his fucking knees and pleading with her to say yes. To let him.
To let him do his job.
To let him get it right.
His anchor. His failsafe.
"Frank…" she says and her voice is low and husky but he can hear the grit in it. That resignation that says, louder than any words, that the chance for that passed. It passed on his couch one night months ago when her hair was a mess and her face streaked with tears. When his fingers were almost on her breast and he could feel her heat pressing down on his crotch.
"I'm sorry," he pulls away, hands loosening on her sides and he can't look at her.
He gets it. It's wrong. She's not his. Not even his in the loosest sense of the word. He doesn't have a right to say that, to even want it. But he does. And he can't help it. And that's why everything is such a huge mess. She's not his. She's not .
He's not hers either.
Except he really fucking is.
"I'm sorry," he says again. "I shouldn't have…"
"No," she interrupts and he notices that she hasn't released him, that her hands are still linked behind his neck and she's still pressed up against his torso. She's biting her lip and on some level he registers that she's conflicted too. That maybe this hasn't been as cut and dry for her as he's allowed himself to believe despite all the evidence to the contrary.
"What?" he asks even though he knows he shouldn't.
She looks away, her hands slipping from his shoulders slightly.
"It's just…"
He knows. He fucking knows. It's him and her and her and Murdock and it's all a big fucking mess and it's really not fair that he's here and holding her like this, half naked in her home, in her life. It doesn't really matter what he's feeling and what she's feeling. She's Karen Page, loyal to a fucking fault and it's inconsequential how much she fucks him up. Inconsequential that her boyfriend is literally everywhere except where he should be, inconsequential that there's not a soul on the planet that can't see where this is going or why.
She's Karen Page. She's loyal to a fucking fault.
And she fucks him up.
He makes a decision. The only one he can.
He lets her go and it feels like it's the last time, that this is for keeps and it'll be forever. Part of himself, his blood, his bones, stays with her though, pieces she wraps up in herself and hides away in a place he'll never reach.
Like the scattered bits of him that lie in the graves of Maria and their children, he knows he'll never get this back either.
He chances another look at her. He's not surprised that her eyes are glassy, tears shimmering.
And then he turns away because it hurts. Because it stabs and wounds, because it shaves pieces of flesh off his bones and he's the worst man on Earth and even if there's part of her that does love him like he loves her, he doesn't deserve it. And neither does she.
He picks up the T-shirt, slings it over his head, rubs his face on the towel, takes a breath.
She hasn't moved. Standing there with her ruined dress and her near-to-messy hair, the dirt on her knees and his bloody handprint on her back.
"You stay safe ma'am."
His voice is cracked and she doesn't answer. She just bites down hard on her bottom lip and closes her eyes and, even in the dim bathroom, he can see she's shaking.
He has no idea what to do, so he touches her shoulder, squeezes it in a pathetic attempt at reassurance and walks out of her apartment and her life.
She fucks him up. But he tells himself that it's the last time it'll happen.
xxx
He watches the papers for the next few days. The Scythe is front page news. She doesn't write any of the stories and he wonders how she managed to sell that to her asshole boss especially considering she was responsible for all the others.
According to The Bulletin , the police have a vague idea of how things shook out in the alley but, judging by the description, this isn't remotely true. They also have a suspect and plan on apprehending him soon, although the banter on the police radio indicates that no one is all too worried about picking up the person who got rid of two of Hell's Kitchen's biggest headaches.
Regardless he waits for them. He's not sure why. He could move on, get the hell out of dodge. But the fact that no one has mentioned him or anyone else by name makes him wonder how real this suspect truly is or if it's just PR from an already heavily scrutinised precinct.
They don't come for him.
Someone else does however. And it makes Frank wish he could get himself arrested just to avoid it.
Murdock. Banging on his door one morning at 3am. Frank, dragging himself out of bed, reaching for his gun and stumbling for the latch before every neighbour he has decides to find out what and who exactly they're living next door to.
And he's cursing what the actual fuck , but Murdock's just standing there, asking if he can come inside. He needs to talk and yeah, sorry about the hour but he didn't know when else to come.
And Frank wants to give him a hard time. Wants to bitch and moan about how many fucking visitors he's getting all of a sudden and boundaries and shit, but Murdock looks so incredibly lost and forlorn that he stands aside and lets him in, locks the door behind him and offers him a beer. Because what else do you do when the fucking Devil of Hell's Kitchen is in your living room?
Murdock refuses though. He's antsy. Fidgety. And even though he can't see anything except everything he's glancing around the apartment like he can. Like he can take in the cheap Ikea crap, the whiskey stain on the floor. That impression of Karen Page on the couch.
Even though that's ridiculous.
Frank knows it is. It doesn't mean he doesn't see her there every fucking day.
"You wanna tell me what's going on Red?" he asks after a while. "I mean, it's great that you stopped by but I was kind of busy."
There's a moment that Murdock honestly looks like he has no idea why he came. Like the wheels have turned and something that seemed like a good idea when he made the decision has now shown itself to be anything but.
"I…" he starts and then closes his mouth, fidgets with his cane. "Karen…"
"Is she okay?" it's out before he can stop it and he can't blame Red for the sharp, slightly suspicious look he shoots at him.
"Yeah, she's fine. She's at her apartment."
He tells himself that the sense of relief he feels is completely and utterly normal for the situation, that it would be the same sense of relief regardless of who the subject of the conversation was. And then he calls himself a lying cocksucker and looks back at Murdock, who is still pacing.
"So what about her?"
Again Red looks like he doesn't know where to start or what to say. He's grinding his teeth and there's an anxiety to him that Frank's never seen before, not in all the time he's known him.
"Red, you gonna have to give me somethin' here."
He sighs. He sounds entirely defeated and for a second it looks like he's being forced to give out state secrets.
"Karen told me."
"Told you what?" Because really there are so many things it could be. Her desperate kisses on this couch, his even more desperate confession in her bathroom. The way all that - and he has to laugh at the "all that" part because it really wasn't much of anything - is over now. And now his life again feels like there is no joy to be had in the world. That he pushed her away because he didn't think his heart was big enough for her and Maria to be in it. Because he thought moving on meant not loving Maria anymore and he could never see a way that could ever happen. Because it couldn't.
He's been wrong about so many things.
"That you saved her."
Oh. Oh .
Yes. That.
Karen Page, dress torn, blood on her back and hair barely staying in its braid. Karen Page covering her head and kneeling in that filthy alley while he murdered men around her, drew their blood and bathed in it. Karen Page in his arms, telling him it was going to be okay, that they were safe and she was fine.
Karen Page.
His failsafe, his anchor.
But she's not his. She's not his at all.
And she fucks him up.
Murdock is saying something but he's barely listening and he has to force himself to focus, push away that wave of longing and regret and bottle it up somewhere good and tight where he can't find it again.
It wasn't meant to be like this.
"I just wanted to say thank you. If you hadn't been there…" he trails off, turns away as if he can't stand to even say the words.
"You don't need to thank me."
"I do though," he sighs, throws himself onto the couch with his head in his hands. "I was supposed to be there. It's my job"
That's true. It was. And Frank knows better than anyone the consequences of not doing one's job.
He guesses he should say something, but honestly he has nothing. So he waits. Lets Red catch up. Process. Analyse. Or whatever the fuck it is that he's doing.
"That was The Bulletin's summer party. She asked me to come and I said yes and…" he pauses. "Well you know the rest."
He does. He kind of knew all this before now too.
"Look Red," and he has no idea why he's even trying to make him feel better because this is really weird and uncomfortable and the last thing he wants is to become some kind of strange third wheel to whatever the fuck this thing is between Murdock and Karen. "It's done. She's fine and they're not coming back."
He pauses and it's long and a little mean, air heavy with unsaid words. And, if Frank is honest, he wants it to be, wants Murdock to feel his criticism, let the air get thick with it. "You couldn't have done that. You know you couldn't."
Murdock nods. It's not guilt or embarrassment. It just is. He couldn't have done it. Couldn't have put them down like the rabid dogs they were and they both know it. And Karen could be dead now. And even the thought is enough to make Frank's stomach roil, sweat stand out on his skin.
"You care about her don't you?" Murdock's voice is low, sincere, but there's also something else, something a little like camaraderie.
Frank knows enough not to lie. Knows he has a human lie detector sitting on his couch and that the more he says the deeper entrenched he's going to find himself in this mess.
He shrugs. "She believed me. She helped me remember."
It sounds so trite and so small for what it really was. Such an easy way to package what exists between them - the way her eyes met his across that hospital room and then again at that formica table that he was cuffed to in the prison. The way he got that first taste of her disappointment the day he threw his trial and again when he left her outside while he put Schoonover down. And no it doesn't fit and he think Murdock knows that, but he doesn't say anything. Instead he just sits and the silence stretches long and taut.
"I haven't been very good to her," he says eventually and he sounds almost wistful. "I love her, I do…"
"Red, if the next word you say is 'but' can we quit this now?"
Because he can't do this. He really, really can't. Can't sit here discussing Karen Page with Matthew Murdock. Can't sit here watching him squander what he has. It's too much and it isn't fair and he honestly doesn't know how much more of this bullshit he can take. Because things were fine before. Things made sense even in their own twisted way when he finally came to grips with the fact that his life was gone. It wasn't a nice sense, wasn't something he was looking for or enjoying but there was a logic to it. And then a year later she walked into his life with her high heels and her pencil skirts, those blue eyes that break him in half and all of that hardened, cold rationality took a fucking nosedive. She tossed away his supports, put herself in their place and then moved away too (or, as he has to admit, he made her leave) and he's falling again and there's nothing and nobody to hold on to.
And now he's listening to the man that seemingly has her heart qualify how he loves her, add caveats and conditions.
"It isn't," Murdock says but he doesn't say anything else and Frank knows he's lying. He doesn't even need supersonic hearing or a bloodhound's olfactory glands to know. It's in his voice, written on his face.
He loves Karen. He just might not love her enough.
And this ranks up there in about the top ten worst conversations he's ever had.
"Red," Frank puts up his hands even though Murdock can't see them. "She's fine. She wasn't hurt."
And he's really wishing they could just stop talking about this. He'd rather listen to a million of his sermons, argue over the best way to dispose of human garbage, fucking start another prison riot and become Fisk's bitch. But he can't talk about Karen Page. It hurts too much. It's still too new. Too raw.
"Go do somethin' nice for her okay? Go show her you can be there and you can turn up. That's what she wants."
And he's really hoping that's enough. That Murdock gets the message and leaves, that this little heart-to-heart is over and goes into the box of never-to-be-repeated bad experiences.
Murdock nods slowly, purses his lips as if this is advice he always knew but doesn't quite know how to digest. And then he pushes himself off the couch and grabs his cane.
"I can't stop what I do Frank," he says. "I don't want to. Not even for her."
He nods, realises Red can't see it and mumbles something suitably incoherent.
"You get that don't you?" he says as he goes to the door. "If Maria walked in here now and told you to stop, you couldn't either."
It takes every last drop of Frank's self control not to punch him. But he doesn't. Somehow he doesn't. It's close though. For a second it really is touch and go.
"If Maria walked through that door and asked me to chop my fuckin' arm off, I'd do it Red. No questions asked."
It's true. He thinks it might be true for Karen as well. And he doesn't feel remotely guilty about that either, regardless of the multiple reasons he should.
Murdock nods and it's easy to see the distress on his face, the frown and the set of his jaw. And Frank doesn't want to feel sorry for him but he does.
"You need to figure out what you want Red," he says as he ushers him into the passage. "And then hold onto it. Use two hands."
It's pretty much the only advice he has. He wishes he'd take it himself.
xxx
He doesn't see her after that. Not for a long time. It's like he's spent all his Karen Page currency and there are no more chance encounters. He doesn't see her on her way to work, in the street or the store. He's even stuck his head in at Josie's a few times just to see if she's there but she never is.
He doesn't believe in fate, can't honestly claim he even believes in God anymore, not after what happened, not after the carousel and the sound of Maria's voice ringing in his ears. But he can't deny there seems to be some kind of cosmic pattern to this. The universe tosses them together when he has a role to play, a job to do, and when he doesn't, it keeps her away.
He knows he could find her. He could go to her apartment, could wait outside her office but he doesn't want to do that. It feels like he would be going back on his word, intruding somehow. Like that promise he made when he put his hand on her shoulder in the bathroom didn't mean anything.
He doesn't break his promises.
He carries on punishing, works his way through the Yakuza and the Irish, busts open another ring of traffickers holed up at the foot of the Catskills and leaves them at the bottom of the Hudson. He gets the cops to come out and pick up the seven teenagers being held there and when he sees Karen's editorial the next day calling for increased punishment for sex offenders and human rights violations, he knows she knows it's him.
The weather starts getting colder which is a relief from the stifling Hell's Kitchen summer and the trees turn from bright greens to spectacular browns and oranges. And he tries not to think about Lisa and how they used to rake the yard in the fall just so she could throw herself into the piles of leaves. How she would squeal with delight when Frank Jr would launch himself in on top of her, cover her from head to toe under a blanket of foliage. He tries. It seldom works. He thinks of Maria too and the pumpkin spice lattes she used to like and how he couldn't stand them, how the first time she gave him one he spat it out all over the ground and told her that coffee wasn't meant to taste like a fucking vegetable.
He wonders what Karen drinks. If she's only a straight up black and bitter kind of girl or if she too can be seduced by the caramel frappuccinos and the raspberry macchiatos. And it bothers him that he doesn't know.
Halloween comes and goes and he watches kids trick-or-treating in the streets, teenagers dressed as angels and devils making out in parks and graveyards. Even Josie's makes an attempt at the festivities and lines with the windows with fake cobwebs - or maybe they're real. It's Josie's, there's no actual way to know until you're the main course for a bunch of hungry arachnids.
He spends Thanksgiving alone which is kind of depressing but when the world thinks you're a dead psychopath and you want things to stay that way, rocking up at old friends for dinner is probably not the wisest move.
He's lonely though. Of course he is, and he guesses that's just the way things will be from now on. He doesn't have friends, can't have them, and what family he has left he's unwilling to draw into this nightmare life he's created for himself.
It gets colder. The Christmas rush starts and a smattering of snow falls in Hell's Kitchen. He watches people carrying trees and lights and generally going apeshit in the shops over crap that they don't need.
He continues to punish. He continues to hurt.
And on the days he doesn't, he sits at home on his bed staring at the couch and imagining Karen still sitting on it. But she's not crying. She's laughing. And she's beautiful and she's everything he ever wanted. And when he thinks about leaving, about moving on, it's still the imagined press of her fingertips that makes him stay. That anchor. That centre.
That failsafe that's also a fucking detonator.
His punishment. His comeuppance.
He guesses the universe needs ways of righting itself. He can't live the life he does and never get hurt. And he thinks maybe whatever cosmic force runs this giant fucking shithole joint called Earth realises that bruises and scratches, gunshots and stab wounds, don't do much to him, so it needs to find subtler ways of hurting him. And it does.
It always does.
It's Christmas Eve when he sees her again. He's wandering the streets unable to stay alone in his shitty apartment while the world goes on around him. He's walking it out. He always does. It's cold, snow falling prettily on the sidewalks, not yet changing to slush. There's an aging Santa standing on the corner ringing a bell and he can see from the way he carries himself he's a vet. And that kills him inside.
He can hear carolers singing in one of the parks and he watches as children, dressed warmly in bright colours, noses and cheeks pink, flock towards a nativity scene in amongst the trees.
Everything's gaudy and tacky in a way only Christmas can be. That strange meeting point where religion and spirituality and hundreds of years of bloodshed come together in an overwhelming and almost obscene display of red and green light and silver tinsel.
It's also beautiful and he tries so hard not to think of all the Christmases he had before. When there was just him and Maria and they lived in an apartment almost as shitty as the one he has now. How they'd always be late to her parents for Christmas lunch because they were too busy making love in front of the tree.
How after that it wasn't just them and Lisa came along and they moved into the house. How they were still late but then because of the time they spent playing with her and unwrapping presents.
And then his boy. Frank Jr. Always more excited by the box than what was inside. The way they'd all sit on the floor together and every now and then he'd catch Maria's eye and she'd smile at him. And they never said it but they didn't have to.
We did good. We did so good.
But he's not doing good now. Hasn't for a long time. The closest he came was a year ago when he made the fucked up decision to kiss Karen Page and opened up a world of hurt he never intended.
A world she continues to needle at with alarming precision.
It's dark. The sun sets early these days and it's really cold. He's wearing gloves and has his hands shoved deep in his pockets, wishes he'd brought a scarf and a hat too. But he's not ready to go home. It's too lonely, especially on a day like this. The best days and also the worst.
So he's just walking, loathe to admit that it really is getting too cold to be outside. That he either needs to head into some dodgy coffee shop where he'll be surrounded by people sadder than him and share in the communal melancholy or he needs to go home and put himself to bed and not wake up until this farce is over.
He passes an upmarket steakhouse on 12th. The windows are dark but he can see decorations and fairy lights, can hear whoops of laughter coming from inside and he turns to look.
It's small. Cozy. Maybe even a little 1970s cheesy with its wood-panelled walls and burnished leather seats, big crackling fireplace. There's a few couples scattered at tables on the edges but that's not where the noise is coming from.
There's a party, a largish one from what he can see, gathered around a long wooden table in the middle of the floor. People drinking and laughing, dressed up. Not too smart but maybe more formal than what he would expect for a steakhouse.
He wonders idly about it for a second. If it's a family gathering - a Christmas Eve special where everyone managed to make it - or maybe an office party but he thinks those are all done and dusted by now.
Maybe it's just easier to do Christmas out than at home. Less washing up or something. But there is a banner, large and white, two champagne glasses and a gaudy silver "Congratulations" scrawled across it. So the truth is he guesses it could be anything.
He shrugs, carries on walking. Much to his chagrin he thinks his decision has been made and he's going to go and commiserate with equally lost souls in a diner somewhere but it's so cold that he thinks he might freeze to death before he gets there.
And that's when he hears her voice behind him. Soft, gentle. The way she's always says his name, a little like a dream or a prayer she's not quite ready to fully commit to.
He turns, half thinking that he's mad, half thinking that he's so incredibly lonely that he's imagining things and this is some ghost of her in his head, some twisted wish fulfilment that means he's more fucked up than he thought.
But it's not.
She's there, standing behind him, all long legs and styled hair, wearing a short dress made of black lace, hint of a red flower pattern. And for a moment he can't process anything except how beautiful she is. Because he's an idiot and all he can do is gawk at her and wonder if she's really real.
But she says his name again, same as before, and he remembers the way she would speak to him back when things weren't so fucked up and falling in love with her was the furthest thing from his mind. Back when they were honest and they didn't bullshit each other.
It makes his bones weak and there's a second he thinks he might actually need to lean against something to stay standing.
He stutters out some words. He isn't sure what. It could be her name. It could just be some jumbled sounds to fill the air. And she smiles.
"Haven't seen you around Frank," she says.
Haven't really wanted to be seen.
But he has. He really has. He's wanted to be seen and be noticed. He's wanted to feel her cool blue gaze against his skin. Doesn't matter why. Doesn't matter if she's using it to drown him or make him feel two feet tall. He'll take either.
"Seen me now," he manages to say and she tilts her head slightly, takes the time to look at him, appraise him, and he wants to pull on his beard but he doesn't.
"Yeah," she says sadly. "I have."
He nods because he can't decide if that's disappointment or wistfulness in her voice.
She wraps her arms around herself and he takes a step towards her, no real plan in mind. He could give her his coat, usher her inside, take her in his arms and draw her in and warm her skin with his hands.
But he can't.
He doesn't get to do that. His failsafe is failing.
"You should go inside ma'am," he says softly. "It's freezin' out here."
She glances back at the restaurant, at the door, the fire inside and she shakes her head.
"No, I want to see you," she blinks hard and he doesn't think it's from the snow that's falling on her lashes. "Saw you walking past and I just…"
She trails off but she doesn't need to say anything else. He knows what she means. Knows that how they left things feels unfair. Unfinished.
His lips on her cheek, her hands in his hair. Oh god. The press of her fingertips against his skin and how that's become the only thing he really has left to hold onto that's not monstrous.
He looks at her and he knows he's the worst man in the world.
She looks back and she knows it too.
And the worst man in the world deserves no mercy.
And she doesn't give him any.
"There's … there's something I wanted to tell you," she says. "I looked for you but I didn't want to go to your place. I said I wouldn't."
And for a second he doesn't know what she's talking about, forgets that pain is his currency and that the universe consistently finds new and exquisite ways of hurting him. He cocks his head, frowns at her.
She holds up her left hand. Her engagement ring shines like fire in the pale moonlight. All dark rubies and glittering diamonds. A seal around her slim finger. A symbol of where she belongs.
He doesn't know how he didn't notice it immediately.
(Go do somethin' nice for her okay? Go show her you can be there and you can turn up.)
He doesn't stagger. Of that he's sure of. It's a small victory but a victory nonetheless. He doesn't fall to his knees either even though his legs feel like jelly and his gut is churning. But he feels slow, sluggish, like he's drunk too much from that whiskey stain on his floor. Like all the sound has suddenly been removed from the world and all that's left is white noise and it disorients him and leaves him gasping.
She's not trying to explain, not offering up any thoughts or excuses. Not like she did the night she came to him after he saw her and Murdock in the streets. He wonders if it's because she can't or if it's because she doesn't feel the need to anymore. If she's managed truly to remove him from under her skin so that it no longer matters.
But her eyes are shimmering and her voice is cracked, so maybe it does.
"He asked me three weeks ago," she's saying and he really doesn't want to hear it. "Said he'd done a lot of soul searching, said he wanted this."
He finds it in himself to look at her. He doesn't need to say it. It hangs in the air between them like gunsmoke.
What do you want?
"I just … I thought you should know."
"Are you happy?" he asks and he has no idea where that came from, nor the strength of his voice. Because he feels weak to his core and like a steady breeze could blow him the hell away, into the sky and out to sea, his anchor gone, lost.
She purses her lips, blinks again.
"We can make it work…"
"That's not what I asked."
Her eyes are enormous and for a second it looks like she might tell the truth. Like she might come to him, leave the bullshit behind. Make things like they once were. Honest. Real. Raw. Even when it hurt.
But she doesn't.
"I have to go," she says. "Matt will be here soon."
She turns and he watches as the snow falls on her skin, on the nape of her neck where he rested his hand, on her back where he smeared a dead man's blood. Her legs that once, a million years ago pressed into his hips and offered him a place in her heart, her body.
And he can't. He just can't let things end like this. Can't let her walk out of his life again and spend the next year cursing himself for it every day.
"Karen," he calls as she gets to the door and she pauses, turns to look at him. A lock of hair works its way loose and brushes against her cheek - the exact same place he put his lips and his life when he asked her to let him take care of her and keep her safe.
He has nothing. He has absolutely nothing. There are no words.
He has something.
"Karen, don't do this," he says softly, "Please don't."
And she looks at him long and hard and he can see the wetness on her cheeks turning to ice and the way she's worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.
The prettiest girl in the world has a ring on her finger and tears in her eyes.
Her words, a punch in the gut, a knife in his heart. He's two feet tall and she wields her disappointment like a sword.
"It's already done Frank."
And she looks away, takes a breath and goes back inside.