So I have been looking forward to writing certain events in this chapter for a while now, even though Frank continues to blindside me and make things happen on his terms.
I hope you all enjoy it too.
Just a note, that we are getting to a very tricky part now so I am hoping I won't fuck up and if I do that you'll forgive me.
Not much more to say really other than thanks to everyone who has been sending their support. I really appreciate every review, kudos, and screamy message I get regarding this fic. It's become very close to my heart in some strange ways.
Song title is from Swoon (Reprise) by The Mission.
Monday comes too fast for her.
Too fast for Foggy as well judging by the look on his face as he pulls up outside her building and helps Luna out of the backseat of his car.
He's sad. Subdued. And even from where she's standing across the road under one of the ground-floor awnings, she can see the red rims around his eyes; the strangely pained expression on his face as he rubs Luna's ears and clips a purple lead onto her collar.
It's cold and grey out. Misty. And there's still a miserable drizzle in the air and she wonders what the hell they're doing outside at this hour when they could all still be snuggled up under their respective covers in one way or another. But Frank wanted to get an early start and when Claire grudgingly said that he might be able to be a little more active in a week or two he took that to mean he could drive to Jersey, Monday morning first thing.
So he is.
He's standing next to her, absently rubbing circles into the small of her back. And she's leaning into him so that she can feel his breath against her neck; the heat of his skin blooming through her clothes and teasing her own chilled flesh like a lover.
It's been like this the whole weekend. Slow, gentle. Easy. Sometimes not so easy. They didn't talk a lot after Friday. There wasn't much need. They read. They touched. They watched some bad TV until Frank declared that he was becoming stupider by the second and turned it off. She did some work and Claire came round to check on him and dish out some stern advice ... which was all a little weird because Frank took it upon himself to serve them all coffee and cake which made them seem more like an old married couple than ever. And it didn't go unnoticed.
But that aside, things were okay. Quiet. Confined. The difficult part came when they went to sleep, the way his hand rested on her naked hip, burning through her flesh and turning her whole body into a fiery nest of nerve endings. The way his whiskers brushed against her shoulders, lips pressed to her skin and white-hot sparks shot down her spine and settled low in her belly.
He struggled too. She knows this. She'd turn over in the night, rest her head on his bicep and wouldn't miss the way he'd shift his pelvis slightly away from her. Nor the way his fingers would twitch and he'd grapple between pulling her closer or leaving her where she was and letting the miniscule space between them turn fevered and frightening. And maybe not so frightening. Maybe more exciting and anticipatory. Maybe something closer to a kind of torture he's not wholly aware he dishes out.
She thinks it's best that he goes away for a while even though she's already missing him and his absence feels like a hole in her heart. It's been a hell of a week, even if she could ignore his initial injuries and the fact that he dragged himself to her to die. Which she can't.
And that's not even where the biggest wounds lie, where the healing needs to happen. Has happened. The emotional toll alone should have left them reeling. And in many ways it did. So maybe a few days apart will give them time to reassess, regroup.
Doesn't mean she likes it. Doesn't mean that at all. Doesn't mean she hasn't got used to sharing her bed with him. Her home. Her life . And she arches against his hand a little, moves so that his rubbing becomes harder and more focused and her legs become weaker and less steady. And it's distracting and frustrating but the last thing she wants him to do is stop.
Foggy looks very dapper in a grey three-piece suit as he makes his way across the street towards them. Being a lawyer - a real honest-to-God actual practicing lawyer - is good for him in so many ways and, not for the first time, it hits her how wasted he was at Nelson and Murdock , how much better he deserved. And it's not just the name of a big firm to put on his resumé, it's the tangible things too. A good salary, a decent place to live, not having to worry about making ends meet because you've been paid in frozen chickens and not cold, hard cash.
She guesses like many things with Matt, there was an idealism attached to Nelson and Murdock , an idea that somehow they could help the underdog and didn't need to worry about themselves. If they did the right thing the universe will take care of the rest. But the universe doesn't do that. Karen knows it all too well. The universe looks out for number one and nine times out of ten that's not you, no matter how good your intentions might be. And sometimes idealism has to give way to pragmatism - something she's not sure Matt is ready to entertain, let alone accept.
But it doesn't matter. Not really anyway. Nelson and Murdock' s doors are closed. Foggy has a real job and so does she. And Matt, well Matt must be doing all right considering he still seems to have the means to buy loaded birthday gifts and attend parties with the rich and not-so-famous. It's not really a thought worth her time.
Especially not now. Especially with the melancholy she's sure is about to unfold.
She's not sure if Luna sees or smells Frank first but suddenly she's yelping and tugging on her lead, tail wagging so hard and so fast it's turning to a blur. And then Frank is dropping down on one knee and he's grinning from ear to ear, cupping Luna's face and pressing his forehead to hers. She hears him whispering but can't make out what he's saying, can only watch as his lips move and Luna gives him slobbery kisses, her whole body shaking with excitement.
"Guess I'm chopped liver," Foggy says glancing at the lead in his hand, but there's no real hurt in his tone.
Karen looks at Frank. "Guess I am too."
"Think we should give them some space?" Foggy asks. "Their own place or something?"
She laughs and pulls him into a hug, squeezes him tight because she realises that she's never not missing him; that even though their lives are insane, somehow he's always in her thoughts and she imagines the same could be said of him. And he's good. He's just so fucking good in every way. There's no moral ambiguity, no grey areas, no crusades that keep her up at night and worrying.
He gives her a quick kiss on the cheek, and asks softly if everything is okay and she nods. Because it is. It really is.
"You look good with a dog," she says. "It suits you."
"Yeah. A little too well," he sighs as he lets her go, rubs the back of his neck. "Marci is a wreck. Honestly. I had no idea at all how attached she was going to get, or how quickly."
She tilts her head, waits for him to continue.
"She cried all night and wouldn't come with me this morning. Probably best though. Not sure how that introduction would have gone." He glances at Frank who still seems oblivious to anything but Luna, even though Karen knows that's not the case.
He's quiet for a second and she tries to imagine what it would be like if Marci and Frank were to ever meet.
"Hmmm, I think Marci could take him."
Foggy huffs. "She'd probably bring him home, tell me he needs a place to stay. Next thing you know, he's got his own bed and a place on the couch and she's taking him out to meet her friends."
He trails off and for a second it seems like he'll keep his spirits up. But he doesn't and she sees some of the light go out of his eyes as he remembers why he's here.
"Cry when he gets a place of his own and moves out."
"I'm sorry."
He shakes his head. "It's alright. We knew we couldn't keep her. Our place is more suited to something like a spaniel or a beagle, although Marci is talking about a pavement special. Either way it was never going to be permanent."
She bites her lip. He makes sense but she can still see he's sad, that saying goodbye is going to be hard on him. That even though he was a godsend and she's still pushing him for sainthood this has been unfair on him and it's going to take its toll one way or another.
Probably on all of them.
"He okay to drive?" Foggy asks turning his attention back to Frank. There's a certain wariness in his eyes which has nothing to do with Frank's motor skills and everything to do with the fact that Foggy's seeing The Punisher for the first time in months. And his opinion of Frank isn't as high or understanding as hers.
She can't really blame him. Almost no one gets to see the side of Frank that she does and that's how he likes it. No one gets to see the sweetness and the goofiness, the fierceness that isn't violent and bloodthirsty but steadfast and honourable. And because of that almost no one gets further than his bloodlust, his rage, his PTSD that he doesn't think he has.
Foggy trusts her though. It might be grudging, it might be wary, it might be all of those things but he trusts her and, by extension, her assessment of Frank, even if it's not one he wholeheartedly shares. And she has to admit that there's another layer to all this - one none of them has ever mentioned. And that is that Frank could be the most wonderful man in the world and treat her as well as any decent man should, but it's not going to change the fact that he's still on the wrong side of the law even though everyone with the exception of Mitchell "Gutter Journalism" Ellison thinks he's dead.
She's harbouring a fugitive, she's an accomplice no matter how anyone tries to look at it and being in love with him isn't an excuse or a reason.
And these thoughts are too heavy for an already heavy day and she shakes them away, forces a smile onto her face.
"Claire seems to think he'll be okay," she says and Foggy nods, looks down the street and glances back to his car.
"Well she would know."
And then he huffs again. Goes quiet. And for a while no one says anything.
They make an odd grouping standing there on the sidewalk in the early morning light. Two men, one dressed head to toe in black, the other in a suit, her standing between them in a slate blue dress and a grey cardigan, and a silly, slobbery dog staring at Frank like he's the whole world and everything in it.
But it's not like there's anyone to see them really. The streets are empty and it's quiet too except for the faint pitter-patter of the rain on the tar, some cars in the distance.
She looks down at Frank. He's still on his knees, still stroking Luna's face and ears, still talking to her low and gentle and she's listening intently, head cocked to one side, tail wagging. And Karen's heart breaks a little for all of them. This is going to be tougher on Frank than she imagined. He doesn't have friends. Not really anyway. There's his contacts and then there's the rest of the world which he divides into people deserving of protection and people deserving of punishment. So basically that leaves her… but then he's also in love with her and that adds an extra complication for all of them. She guesses that means that Luna is essentially his easiest and most dependable company and taking her away is going to take away another part of him that he can't really afford to lose.
And it may seem silly or clichéd to those who don't have pets or don't get it but there's no denying the comfort they bring, nor the things people will do to keep them. She thinks of Pickle, how her life didn't really allow for a cat and how it still doesn't. And how Pickle isn't particularly concerned about how much inconvenience she causes.
And the fact is neither is she. The crazy little ball of Hazard Fluff is worth it. She's worth it every damn time. And so is Luna and it kills her a little inside that Frank's having to give that up. That he doesn't have a choice.
She leans down and puts a hand on his shoulder and for a second he stops talking to Luna and reaches up and squeezes her fingers before she lets him go.
He knows. He's thinking the exact same thing she is.
"Is she going to be well cared for?" Foggy blurts out next to her and she can hear the tension in his voice, a mixture of sadness and bravado and something else too. Something like discomfort.
And Frank goes still next to her, every muscle freezing the same way they did when he was going to kiss her and she told him to stop.
And then slowly he cocks his head to look at Foggy.
There's a second when she thinks he might be taken aback, that she can almost hear him wondering how anyone could ask something like that of him, how anyone could think - even for a second - that he wouldn't look after everything he has in the best way he can. That he wouldn't lay down his life for the things he loves.
Foggy seems to think so too and he swallows audibly and takes a step back as Frank stands, turns towards him.
And then slowly Frank holds out his hand, fingers outstretched and head slightly bowed, waiting. There's a beat, a short moment that seems to last forever, when the wind whirls around her thighs and the rain falls but the world itself is silent, holding its breath. And Foggy looks at Frank long and hard and she can see him frowning in that adorable way he does when he's conflicted or confused. She knows it must be hard for him - they can joke about Frank all they like and pretend that he's an exasperating friend or a errant man child but the fact remains that other than that brief moment when Frank brought her down from the mountains, the last time Foggy saw him he was shooting people to bits in Hell's Kitchen. And it would be ridiculous to think he's forgotten all the old evidence; the photos of the shootouts, the meathooks, the severed hands and Grotto's dead body. It's hard to push that aside, it's hard to see the goodness in it.
But Foggy reaches out and takes Frank's hand, gives it a firm shake and nods sharply before letting it go.
They're both quiet for a while and then Frank speaks and his voice is heavy but not unkind.
"I want to thank you and your lady for everything. I dunno what I would have done if you hadn't stepped up."
Foggy shifts, clears his throat. "Karen's a good friend. We'll always help her out."
"Yeah," Frank bites his lip thoughtfully as if he's digesting Foggy's words and their meaning. "I really appreciate this Nelson. Luna's a great dog and just knowing she was with good people..."
Foggy cuts him off. "It's fine, she was no trouble."
Frank looks away, blinks and there's a moment when his eyes look almost glassy. Foggy sees it too and suddenly he loses all his standoffishness and asks what they've all been thinking.
"Can't she stay? Marci and I don't mind keeping her a little longer until you guys…" he pauses clearly unsure how to phrase the rest of his sentence. "... sort things out."
But Frank shakes his head. "Ain't about us. About what's best for her."
He's right. He's so right but he sounds so sad, so resigned that Karen takes his hand, threads their fingers together and when he looks at her she gets a small tight grimace which she's come to know as a smile.
Foggy sighs dejectedly, glances up and down the street.
"You'll tell us how she is though? How she's getting on?"
And Karen's not sure if he's talking to her or Frank but she guesses it doesn't matter, even if the idea of Frank calling Marci every few days to update her on Luna is an amusing one.
She imagines him adding it to his to-do list. Coffee. Murder. Bad music. Punishing. Snark. Torture. Call Marci to gush (at least 20 minutes).
"Yeah, sure," Frank's voice is low and cracked and his fingers tighten on hers.
"Okay," says Foggy slowly and she realises he's buying time, trying hard to stave off the moment he has to get in his car and drive away. "Well that's all then."
He stands for a moment, staring into the distance like he's trying to gather his courage and then he goes down on his knees too, seemingly not caring about the wet, dirty ground and his pants or the scuffs on his shoes, and puts his arms around Luna's neck, buries his nose in her fur. And Luna gives him a long wet kiss from his chin all way up to his forehead and beats her tail heavily on the sidewalk.
There's a second Karen thinks her heart might break right then and there, that it might not be Frank that eventually does it. That it might not be her own guilt or pain. And it might just be a junkyard dog rescued from a life of abuse and suffering one night while the world turned in on itself and threw her a curveball she still hasn't quite got a handle on.
"You be a good girl Luna, you be the best girl. You show them that hellhounds have just got a bad rap and…"
He trails off, voice choked and tight. And Luna licks him again - this time straight across the mouth and into his ear - and he laughs sadly before pressing his lips to her head and giving her one last stroke from her shoulders to her tail.
When he stands his eyes are red and puffy and he doesn't look down again, doesn't seem to have it in himself to do so.
There are wet stains on the knees of his pants and his jacket is covered in fur but he barely seems to notice and if he does, he doesn't care.
"I'll see you Wednesday Karen. Pick you up around 7:30?"
"Yeah."
He gives her a brief hug goodbye but his heart isn't in it and even though his hands feel weak against her, she can feel him trembling.
Next to her Luna whines softly and lets out a small yelp but Foggy ignores it. And then he inclines his head to Frank sternly and goes to his car and drives off.
And then it's just them and Luna and their broken hearts standing on the cold sidewalk in the early hours of the morning in Hell's Kitchen.
xxx
It takes a long while before they move again. There's something about the quiet, and how it feels like it's just the three of them in the whole world, that's oddly comforting. And they relish it. They let the moment fill them until it seems like everything else just fades behind a gauzy screen and the only things left are the way they're touching each other and the strange bond that was formed one hellish night millennia ago.
She finds she feels strangely out of time as well, like she's watching this happen to someone else. Like the whole last week hasn't really been her and him but rather a different woman capable of going toe to toe with the Punisher. A woman strong enough to hold him and comfort him and kick him out when he gets too much. A woman that could tear out his heart and stamp on it…
(Feed that shit to a dog)
A woman strong enough for him to love.
And somehow that doesn't seem like her, even though she knows it is.
Even though he knows it too.
It doesn't make it any easier though. She still feels overwhelmed and out of place and like all these things have been happening to another version of her. That the real Karen Page - the actual flesh and bones one - is upstairs asleep and the last time she saw Frank Castle was on the roof of broken building when he looked at her with such sadness in his eyes she thought she might fall apart there and then.
But despite the tricks her mind is playing on her, she isn't that Karen Page. She's standing here at his side, holding his hand and he's about to leave her again. And it has to be true, it has to be happening because the hole in her heart is real and so are the tears she can feel pricking in her eyes. And she's going to have to fight her way back through that gauze, that fog, and reclaim herself.
And then far in the distance she sees a woman round the corner at the top of the road and the spell is broken; there are other people here now and the world isn't just theirs anymore.
Frank feels it too and he moves next to her. He doesn't go far, just steps back slightly and pulls her and Luna with him.
"Come on," he says but there's no urgency in his tone. "I need to get going."
She nods, tries not to look at Luna as they walk around the building to his truck in the visitor's parking, tries hard not to think about what happened the last time she drove it.
She's decided how she's going to do this. Planned it out in her head because she's found that if she breaks tough things down into the smallest steps she can - and she does them one at a time - it might not be easier, but she stands less chance of losing her way. She has a plan, a blueprint, and that's comforting. The worst fear is that of the unknown after all.
So she's going to say goodbye to Luna. She's going to make a fuss and talk to her in that doggy voice she likes so much. She'll ruffle her ears and accept slobbery kisses. And then she's going to put that behind her as best she can and she'll to hug Frank goodbye and try and hold onto what it feels like to be in his arms.
And then she's going to let him go.
And that's going to be it.
Simple steps that are very hard. Simple steps that will break her heart.
But it's a plan. It's her plan.
If you want God to laugh…
She does follow him to the truck and while he's busy unlocking it she, like Foggy, drops to her knees in front of Luna and talks low and soft to her. Later she won't remember exactly what she said. A lot of it didn't matter because it's just really the sound of her voice that Luna responded to anyway. But she tells her that she's good, she's the best, that they'll check in on her and she deserves all the good things. And then she tells her sternly to look after Frank, to make sure he doesn't get up to any nonsense, and he behaves. And Luna barks happily and she gets a face full of dog breath but she doesn't care.
And then she ruffles her ears and rubs her snout and steels herself to start the next phase of her goodbye - the one that's both harder and easier. But she doesn't get a chance because as she shifting to stand up, Frank's already pulling her into his arms, holding her tight as he can, hands digging into her back and face buried in her hair.
It's hard to breathe. And not just because of the force with which he's holding her but it doesn't matter. She has her whole life to breathe, and right now it's not important. Right now, nothing is important except the feel of him pressed to her, the way her lips are against his throat and how again there's no one in the whole world except them.
He's not saying anything, he's not whispering confessions to her, not making promises and she's grateful for that. She doesn't want to have to think about that just yet - the whys and the hows and everything in between. She just wants to hold him as tight as he's holding her. She just wants to let herself choke on the way he's making her feel and not think about anything else. Not think about moving on or taking the next step in her plan. He's here and she's here and the moment they have to let go seems so very far away.
So she lets him crush her, lets his mouth roam the cold skin of her shoulder, his fingertips trail up and down the nape of her neck. He's shivering a little and he breathes out a choked groan into her hair and she pulls him closer.
He's hers. She's known it since the night in the graveyard, watched him as he fell over the edge and into the great unknown below, but part of her has been waiting for him to start fighting it again. To build up his strength and take a step back. Reassess and find reasons to run. But he hasn't. And she realises he doesn't want to. He needs to belong, even if it's only to her. Even if it's only for these small moments they can carve out of time for themselves.
She has no doubt it will come to an end. But she really doesn't want to think about that right now.
Instead she tightens her grip on him, breathes in his warmth, the smell of soap and coffee, and underneath that gunmetal scent that seems to just be a part of his flesh and bones.
"I don't want to leave you," he says low and close to ear and she's not sure if it's his words or the way his breath tickles her skin that turns her whole body to gooseflesh.
It's irrelevant though. She's not going with him, no matter how much both of them want her to. No matter how appealing the idea of running off together to the countryside might sound. He needs to do this himself - he said as much and even if she doesn't really understand his reasons, she respects them.
They do need time.
And she knows this is the point in her blueprint, in her million step plan when she is supposed to move away, where she's got to say her goodbyes and turn her back on him and trust the universe and Frank's own words that he'll come home. She isn't worried about the latter - he doesn't lie to her - but the former… the universe and the fucking bitch she can be where Frank Castle is concerned gives her more than just pause. But then again he's has given the fucking cosmos the finger more than once and she thinks if he has the right incentive he can do it again. And maybe, just maybe she - Karen Page - is enough.
For now.
She presses her lips to his jaw, his beard tickling her face. She suddenly has the overwhelming desire to tell him she loves him, to say the actual words. To give them form and put them out there. See if they really can change the world. Shatter it. Fix it. She doesn't know.
But then he's patting her back gently.
"Come on," he whispers. "We're making a scene."
And it's okay, because she can tell him later. He said he would come back and he will and they'll have all the time in the world.
So she nods against him, opens her eyes and, over his shoulder, sees the woman still heading down the road, something almost familiar about her gait.
But she doesn't think about it, because she's looking at Frank and the way he's breaking her in half with his eyes.
"You be safe," she says and he ducks his head, brings a hand up from her waist and touches her jaw with his knuckles.
"You too."
"I'll miss you."
"Be back with you soon."
It sounds like a promise. So she makes one of her own.
"I'll be waiting."
And then she's at that moment, that last step where she has to leave, where she has to move her hands off him and his off her, take a step back and let him go. Walk away.
She's Karen Page. She can do this.
But he's Frank Castle. And he can't.
She does take her hands off him and she does step back, her heels making a hard sound on the sidewalk. And she does start to turn.
She does .
But then his hand trails down her arm, over her elbow and her wrist and his fingers thread through hers; she thinks they'll just slip through, a small lingering last touch before all his warmth is gone.
But that's not what happens. That's not what happens at all.
Instead his hand closes over hers, tight and firm and he doesn't hesitate as he tugs her back sharply so that her chest is flush with his and his breath is warm against her lips.
And he's looking at her, looking through her, searching her face for something. Something that makes him weak. Something that makes her strong.
She sees the exact moment that he finds it. Hears it in the way his voice catches in his throat, feels it in the way he moves against her.
She doesn't look away.
She won't.
He doesn't get to control that.
So she swallows, lays a gentle hand over his heart and watches him watch her.
His breathing is heavy and his pupils are blown but she can still see flecks of gold in his eyes, the faintest hints of greens and ambers as the dim light catches them, the long lashes that most women would chop off their arms for.
It hits her again that there's something beautiful about him, something as dangerous and broken as it is sweet and gentle. Something as profound and destructive as it is loyal and lost.
And she loves him.
She loves all of him. The same way he loves all of her.
It's time. It's right. They've waited long enough.
His gaze flickers over her face, her hair, her forehead and finally drops to her lips and without thinking she licks them, parts them.
And then it's all him. His hand sliding down to her cheek and neck to cup the back of her head, the other pressing her firmly against him so she can feel his heartbeat through his chest; his smell filling her up, his heat starting at the place where their bodies are joined and blooming outwards down her arms and legs anchoring her to the ground. To the world. To him.
And then his mouth. Oh god his mouth. Hot and heavy on her, his lips nudging hers apart and his tongue sliding inside, licking at her, tasting her. Letting her taste him, letting her swallow him.
Letting her drown in him.
And she does. She gives herself over to it. To him. To his hands, his mouth. And it's easy. Easy as falling down. And she does fall. She falls so damn far and he catches her. Holds her. Keeps her safe.
And then it's just them kissing in the rain, in the cold, the wind whipping at her legs and lifting her dress like it did one night a million years ago when she danced on the roof under a sky made of fire.
Just them. Kissing in the rain. The Punisher - the big bad Punisher - and the girl that loves him more than she's ever loved anyone in her whole life.
It's true that there are lots of things she could wonder about - she's played variations of this moment over in her head thousands of times since the night in the Catskills. What this means for her, for them. How much it complicates things or alternatively if it complicates them at all. What this says about where he is mentally and emotionally. What it says about her.
But she doesn't. She doesn't think about anything other than the heady masculine taste of him, the firm press of his lips, the roughness of his fingers against her skin, the way he's making her body feel like a pillar of flame despite the chill of the day and the shivers running down her back.
She wants this. She wants him. And it doesn't matter that he's a little messy, a little wet and overeager as their teeth knock together and his tongue slides roughly along hers. It's him and it's her and his mouth is on her and that's all that counts, the only thing in the world worth having.
And then her hands are running up his arms, over the broad lines of his shoulders to the back of his neck and into his hair where it's long and thick and she can angle him towards her, tilt her head so he can kiss her harder and deeper and with more rage and fury and tenderness than he has done up until now.
And he does. Twisting her around so her back is against the truck door, the cold metal doing nothing to cool the fire in her skin, his body pressing against her and his knee slipping between her thighs.
She remembers how he did this before, how he pushed her up against the wall on the roof, how she tried not to bear down on his leg too hard because she was nervous and hesitant and how he shifted so that she had to.
And then he almost let her fall.
And she knows he won't do that now. They've put too much blood on each other. It's not an excuse anymore.
He is moving her again, one hand gripping her waist, thumb rubbing along her hipbone pressing into her skin hard enough to bruise. And then he's urging her closer, bracing her on his leg and shifting himself into that warm space they've created together so that he's almost crushing her between his chest and the door of his truck.
And it doesn't hurt. Because he could never hurt her. Not like this. Not with his hands and his mouth. His arms. He might think he's been changed and his body sculpted and honed to bring pain, to bring death and suffering into the world and maybe he has - maybe that isn't altogether wrong - but that all stops when it comes to her. Because with her he's gentle, kind, his body bringing only tenderness and desire. And she doesn't really know what she ever did to deserve that. Why, ultimately, he seems to have chosen her to become his respite, his sanctuary; the place he comes to forget about the rest of the world and how he's killing it until it makes sense again.
He's not The Punisher now. He's just a man. And she's just a woman. And no matter what happens after nothing can take this away from them.
Slower now, his hand on her hip easing slightly, the fingers in her hair coming to rest gently against the nape of her neck, to draw little patterns into her flesh. He still kissing her though, his tongue hot and wet in her mouth. And he's sweet. So very sweet as he seems to find some of that control he wears like armour, some of that training, that discipline that he falls back on when things get overwhelming.
And the truth is she can't wait to take that away from him again. Take it all. Strip him - not only of his clothes but also his restraint until he's lost himself with her.
She doesn't know why - it's not like she considers herself a highly experienced or confident lover, quite the contrary in fact - but she thinks she can do it. And she doesn't think it will be hard.
Doesn't think it will be at all.
But not now. Not now, even though it feels like they're on a knife edge and it wouldn't take more than a whisper to get him back into her apartment, into her bed.
He has to go. He has to do this and then he can come back to her. Because he will. Because he said he will and they don't lie.
(Don't you know?)
(I know)
She's lingering though, unwilling to face him just yet, see the lust in his eyes and deal with the aftermath of this. So when he pulls back, she lets him take his time kissing her face, his lips gentle on her skin and in her hair, fingertips running over her cheekbones and the hard line of her jaw, before he takes a ragged breath and puts his forehead to hers.
She keeps her eyes closed, tries to stretch the moment and the warm place they've made for each other a little longer, a little further. And, for a while, she does. They do. For a while the whole world is her breathing his breath and touching his skin. The whole world is the heat of his palm on her hip and the small uneven stroke of his thumb against her face.
And then after a while it isn't.
It happens slowly though - the coming down, the reconnecting. She becomes aware of little things: the drizzle that's now turned to harder rain, the sound of cars going past, the cold wind against her legs even though his knee is still between them.
And then he kisses her lips again and pulls back slightly and she knows she has to walk away again. She has to go back to her blueprint and it's going to be so much harder than it was before.
She opens her eyes and he's already looking at her. She knew he would be. And she can only describe his expression as awe, wonder. And even though that should be unbelievable, it should be impossible and ridiculous because he's the fucking Punisher and she's just Karen Page, and she shouldn't have this effect on him, she knows she does. She accepts it. And it's easy. It's right.
And then he snorts, mouth twisting into that half smile as he shakes his head and looks down at the ground, at Luna, at the place where his knee is still wedged between her thighs. She knows what he's thinking. That they're insane, that they're idiots, that they shouldn't have made this as big a deal as they did. That they're two hopeless fools.
He's right about it all. Every last bit and she snorts too, waits for him to look back at her.
"I really have to get going now."
He sounds ragged and breathless and a little on edge.
And she nods. She can walk away now. She can do it.
So she kisses him again, lingers long and gentle and he touches her jaw with his knuckles, lets his hand settle on her throat.
"Hold that thought," he whispers and she knows he's trying to be nonchalant and he's failing wonderfully.
But she will hold it. She'll hold it until he's back and she doesn't need to hold it anymore.
She steps away from him, knows he's watching her as she does. Can feel his eyes boring right through her and she doesn't need to wonder what he's thinking because she's thinking it too.
She touches Luna's head one more time, takes a breath.
The air tastes different and the world looks new, brighter despite the rain and the clouds. And yet everything is still the same - the cars, the smog, the woman she saw earlier now hurrying away so that Karen can see her dark ponytail bouncing in the wind.
She turns, walks to her car. She doesn't watch him drive away.
xxx
She spends the rest of the morning in a bit of a daydream. She catches herself staring out of the window on more than one occasion before lunch, absently running her fingers over her lips whenever her hands aren't occupied. And she can't help it, but she imagines more. Her body under his as he pins her to her bed, his mouth on her neck, her breasts, her belly, her thighs.
Idle hands are the devil's workshop indeed. And judging by the quality of her thoughts the devil has come to collect.
Ellison isn't there and there's nothing from him in her inbox either so she decides to let sleeping dogs lie and wait for him to come to her. There's really not all that much to say anyway.
Joe tries to ask her about Friday's altercation but she brushes him off, tells him it was a professional disagreement and isn't there any weather he needs to lie about. He flashes a grin at her and asks if she wants to go out with a group of the production people tonight for drinks. It's just down at Josie's, he says, and maybe afterwards they could grab some takeout, just the two of them?
And she knows this is how it starts. That he's found that courage he's been looking for for months now to ask her out and has done it in the most innocuous way possible. And she doesn't want to dash his hopes. She's not cruel like that. But at the same time Frank Castle sleeps in her bed and even if what happened this morning hadn't happened, and sleeping was all they did with no chance of it ever going further, she can't go on dates and come home to slide between the sheets with him and let his hands turn her skin fevered and his lips send shivers down her spine. She's not willing to give that up, doesn't think she ever will be.
Come what may.
She declines and she can see the disappointment on Joe's face, the joy going out of his eyes but he recovers quickly, plasters on another grin.
"Maybe another time then," he says cheerfully but she can hear the catch in his voice, the resignation. There isn't going to be another time and he knows it. But she smiles at him and shrugs and he walks out of her office before she can say anything.
She sighs, leans back in her chair and closes her eyes, pinches the bridge of her nose between two fingers and stops when she remembers that it's a habit she's picked up from Ellison and she doesn't want to be picking up anything from him right about now.
She lets her mind wander for a while, thinks about Foggy and the upcoming party and the little black dress she wants to wear; thinks about Pickle and how now that Frank's gone she's going to have to find somewhere new to sleep and not pressed up against the small of his back like a fucking barnacle on a steamship. And then her thoughts segue right back to this morning and Frank's mouth on hers, his hand pressing hard into her hip.
She thought a kiss would change everything and maybe it did. Maybe everything is different. But she's still here and she's fine and she's still Karen Page: Intrepid Reporter, Lover of Vigilantes and Holder Back of Tears under Extreme Duress. And he's going to come home soon and they're going to work all of this out.
He's not going to let her fall. She's going to do the same for him.
And suddenly again she has that irrational idea that somewhere they can find a solution, a happy ending, that maybe things could work out. Even though things have literally never worked out for Karen Page. Ever. That's just not on the cards. It's just not part of the fucking bitch of a universe's plan. She has her Punisher and she's going to hold onto him. Two hands. And never let go. And Karen knows what happens when you go up against the world, when you fight enemies that aren't real. When you stop being like Frank and taking out the bad guys one by bloody one and instead you aim high and hard.
It never works. And it's not going to work this time.
But for now she can dream. For now she doesn't need to think too far ahead.
She touches her lips again, runs her fingers over them. He must be in Jersey by now - the drive isn't long and she wonders if he's thinking about her. If he's also remembering how she felt, what her kisses tasted like. Or if he's just being Frank and pushing all of that to the back of his mind and focusing on Luna and whether this place - whatever it is - is right for her.
He hasn't said when he'll be back and she didn't push him. This is about him giving up something he loves desperately and dearly. This is about doing the right thing even if it is hard. And, as she suspects, it's about reconnecting with this woman she knows only as Kat and whatever reason it is that she owes him the favour she does.
And no, she didn't ask and he didn't tell. Not because he wants to keep secrets but maybe because she's not ready to deal with that aspect of his life just yet. She's glad though, glad that there are people other than her to look out for him, glad that others can see the goodness in him as well. Even if there are times that he can't.
"Buy you a cup of coffee Page?"
It's like a needle scratching across a record, a horrible jolt out of her own head as she turns to look at her door.
Ellison. Leaning. Ill-fitting pants and his beard looks terrible. So not much has changed. Except he looks sheepish, contrite in a way she hasn't really seen before. And his smile is hopeful. Fake, but hopeful nonetheless.
"You can say no. I'm not pulling rank," he says and his humour is also fake. "But I really hope you say yes. It'll do us some good to get out anyway."
"Not like I've spent much time here over the last couple of days," she says pointedly and he shrugs.
"You'll make it up. You always do." He stands for a while waiting for her to say something and when she doesn't he starts again. "Come on. It's just coffee. And I know a place where the mugs are clean and they don't use instant."
Despite herself she smiles.
"I should only agree if it's Josie's," she says and his smile falters. "You deserve a mug that used to be home to a cockroach."
He recoils a little at that and his expression is enough to tell her that imagining a roach is as bad for him as actually seeing one, like the very thought dirtied his mind.
"You want Josie's, we'll go to Josie's," he sighs. "Do they even serve coffee there?"
"Uh-huh," she nods. "Salmonella's on the side though."
He makes a face like he can't believe she would even joke about this.
She lets him ponder that a while and then she relents. "Okay, let's go see your fancy coffee shop. We'll see how it compares."
The relief on his face is almost comical and she finds that she is struggling to stay angry at him. It doesn't help that he was 90% right in pretty much everything he said on Friday. And not just the stuff about Frank but the fact that he does look out for her and he does give her a hell of a lot of leeway. And it is patently ridiculous that Karen Page who was an unqualified legal secretary who is now technically an unqualified journalist, despite her actual skill, has an office of her own and the freedom to write almost anything she pleases on account of Ellison's belief and defence of her.
And his mentoring. She can't forget that.
He is good to her. She can be good back.
She grabs her purse and they head out.
xxx
It's not as awkward as she expects. Still though it's a hell of a thing to realise that, simply on account of his absence, Matthew Murdock is just about the only man in her life who has not given her some kind of trouble today. The bar is apparently very low.
Very, very low.
But Ellison is reserved and kind and the mugs are indeed clean and the coffee shop cosy.
He apologises first and foremost. Tells her he was out of line and insufferable and if she wants to go the HR he won't contest it and is happy to go on whatever people skills training they think he needs. Or alternatively, join a chain gang, because he thinks that will have much the same effect on his personality.
And she snorts. Tells him she agrees there's no cure for being a jerk and he purses his lips at her and sips his caramel latte frappe with extra cream and chocolate sprinkles.
"You do know where he is though,"
He isn't asking. And it doesn't seem like he's trying to ferret any information out of her but she's been here before and she doesn't trust him. Not that much anyway.
"You've made up your mind Mitchell. It doesn't matter what I say."
He looks at her over the top of his glasses.
"Evasive. I like that. It's clever. And you're better at that than lying. But your game face Karen…"
She doesn't answer. Sips her coffee too; he's right about it, it's good. Deep and rich.
"Okay look," he says. "I'm going to be straight with you. The board is a bunch of dicks. They have no idea how news works and all they can do is lament the death of print.
"Now I'm not saying print isn't dying. It is. And maybe that isn't the worst thing in the world. We need the goddamn trees. And technically loss of paper shouldn't mean loss of news. We still have to populate the website and the app. Just because people don't want to hold a paper doesn't mean they don't want to read the news. But the board is still desperate for that big splash. They want the print edition to do better because we can sell the space for more…"
He trails off and she knows this grates him. He told her once how he hates that in its most cynical definition a reporter's job is putting words on a page so that readers will see the advert next to it. She loathe to admit it, but it's true.
"Anyway, what I'm saying here is that if we could position ourselves as the paper that can get the exclusives... if we can interview Daredevil, if we can start talking to these people who apparently are, well, a little larger than life, I could get the board off my back. A book itself could come later but we could start building hype now. And, like I said on Friday, Daredevil could just be the beginning."
He makes sense, more than she wants him to. And the truth is while she can turn down the book, getting a directive from her boss to interview Daredevil is a little less cut and dry. She's a reporter and that's a story.
"Look I'm not gonna force you," he says. "And I'm sorry I can't ask you to do this for Frank Castle."
She snorts. "Like Frank Castle would agree if I asked."
He doesn't laugh though. Instead he looks at her long and hard.
"I think we both know he would Karen," He's dead serious. "If you asked he would. Even if it would mean exposing himself."
She doesn't know how to answer that and she can feel her cheeks turning pink under his gaze.
"Seems to me a while ago you were convinced Frank Castle was trying to kill me."
He inclines his head and takes another sip of coffee, cream catching in his moustache.
"And I was wrong. Look I'm not saying I like Frank or what he does. He's unhinged and even you know that, no matter what else is going on there. But he's saved your life at least twice that I know of and I'd say that's probably about a third to half of the actual total."
He's right again. And she realises how much she underestimates him. He's annoying and curmudgeonly and he can be a bully but he's also smart and not just because she sucks at lying and he can catch her out.
"Anyway, enough about Frank Castle. Right now the world thinks he's dead and I'm guessing I'd lose you if I did anything to change its mind."
She gives him a sharp look and he holds up his hands. "Sorry. Sorry. Look I'm not going to say anything. Even if I was stupid enough I have no proof and Page, despite what happened on Friday, I care about you. I don't want to jeopardise that."
Okay …
"So what are you asking me Mitchell? Why are we here?"
He puts his empty mug down and wipes his mouth with a serviette, looks at it like it's now infected and puts it on his saucer, pushes it slightly further away than he needs to.
"Honestly, right now I don't know. I want to say I'm sorry. I was wrong…" he trails off and she knows that he's not admitting to being wrong in his assessment of the situation, but rather his execution. "And I would very much like to continue working with you and I would like it if you felt the same."
"That's okay," she says. "Water. Bridges. Etcetera, etcetera."
He grins and sits back in his chair, pulls off his glasses and starts cleaning them on his shirt.
"I guess, I just wanted to put our heads together. You get this journalism gig. You're young and idealistic…" he gives her a long and pointed look. "But you get it. You're good.
"The board was harsh Karen and I need something. Something to get those numbers up, some exclusive. I'm asking you because you can get people to talk, to tell you things," he huffs, looks to the side and wipes some imaginary crumbs off his shirt. "I want the book. I'm not letting that go. I want it because I think it's an opportunity. I think it could be big and I think you're the person to kick it off. But that's a little far into the future. We can put a pin in it until you're ready, but I need something and I need it soon, before the next board review which is in August. Because if we don't get it, the board is going to start overruling me and they're going to insist on retrenchments and cuts or worse."
"Worse?"
"Yeah… cat blogs…"
She chuckles and he smiles with her. And she's not angry with him anymore. She can't be. Not about the clickbait, not about Friday either. She doesn't even hate the book idea as much as she used to, although she's not going to say anything about that just yet. Ellison is difficult and used to getting his own way but when he's honest and aboveboard she finds it hard to turn him down.
"Okay," she says and he looks up at her like he must have heard her wrong. "Give me some time and I'll find your exclusive."
He nods and she continues.
"Does it have to be Daredevil though? Could it be something else?"
He shakes his head. "No, just something big. What were you thinking?"
She looks at him pointedly and it doesn't take long before he sighs exasperatedly and bangs his hands on the table.
"Oh god Page, not Smirnov again."
He rolls his eyes and she gives him an annoyed look. And fair enough, it's not that she has anything concrete but it feels like there's something coming. Something in the air that'll deliver him into her lap, a false move that'll expose him. And she'll be ready.
"Give me a little leeway with it. Just a few more days and if it doesn't work out, I'll ask Daredevil for the interview. I'll get you something one way or another, just don't force my hand on this."
He starts. She knew he would. The theatre. The sports field. The town hall. She waits him out. Sometimes he's like a child with this. A lot of bluster and then he wears himself out.
But then again he's also smart. Too smart for his own damn good. And when he's eventually gotten through his rant he gives her a knowing look.
"What is it with you and Daredevil? I know you and Castle have some kind of history, which I'm putting down to you wanting to save rabid dogs or something, but the man in the red suit? Why are you so dead set on avoiding him? So dead set that you'd rather go on this wild goose chase instead of just giving him a call?"
The question catches her off guard. And that in itself is stupid because it's not really unexpected that Ellison would ask it. It's also not unexpected that it doesn't take him long to figure out the answer.
"Jesus Christ Karen," he says as understanding dawns on his face. "The Punisher and Daredevil? Really? Do you have a death wish or do you just wear eau de vigilante on your days off?"
"It's really not like that. It was a one-time thing … it wasn't really even a thing," she says and he gives her a look that tells her he doesn't believe her for one millisecond.
"How can you be so anti-clickbait when you're basically delivering that shit right into my lap?" he asks. "'Area woman reveals seven-point plan to nabbing your own crime fighter. Number four will blow your mind!'"
She can't help it and she giggles and seemingly encouraged he continues.
"Have you got what it takes to stand up to the Punisher? Find out with this one easy quiz.
"Daredevil saves woman from ninja kidnapper. You won't believe what happens next."
She knows he'll carry on as long as he can, and while he's amusing, that could easily be the rest of the day, so she takes charge of the conversation, steers him away from both his amusement at his own ingenuity and his interest in her love life. She knows it won't deter him but at least they can get through this coffee without another bust up about lady boners.
"Tell you what. Let me worry about my social life and getting you something big. You worry about clean crockery and evading the cat blogs."
His smile falters and he narrows his eyes at her and for a second she thinks he's going to push. Ask her for details, demand a blow by blow account of her love life, such as it may be. But he doesn't.
Suddenly sober, he sighs, runs a hand through his hair and looks away, calls the waitress for the check.
"Karen, be careful. I'm not saying this as a boss or whatever. I was wrong about Castle and I own that. But these people you know, him, Daredevil. They're dangerous even if they are not trying to kill. Hell, even if Castle's protecting you it's still not safe. In fact him caring for you could make things even more dangerous for you."
It's sweet. It's so sweet of him and she reaches across the table and squeezes his hand briefly.
"You and your patriarchal bullshit," she says lightly and he purses his lips.
"You can't embarrass me with that Page. I said what I said and I'm sticking with it."
He's good to her and it means something knowing he cares. But she's not ready to let him off the hook that easy.
She narrows her eyes. "Local reporter investigates sexism in the workplace. What she finds shocks the nation."
"Yeah, yeah. Come on," he says, grinning despite himself. "You have time to make up."
And she nods.
She does.
xxx
Later that night lying in an empty bed with Pickle pressed into her side she doesn't think about any of this. Smirnov, Daredevil, Ellison. No stories or interviews or exclusives. She leaves her work at work for once, where it belongs.
Instead, she touches her lips again, imagines Frank kissing her, his mouth hot and fevered on hers, little butterfly kisses against her jaw, her throat, scattered over her shoulders and breasts.
Lower maybe. Her belly, her thighs and that burning space between.
The bed smells of him. Heavy and warm. Soap and gunpowder and coffee. And she holds his pillow to her nose, breathes him in; imagines him lying beside her, hot as a blast furnace as he pulls her closer and his hands brush lightly over her skin, turning it to gooseflesh and making her arch against him. She thinks of him at the cabin and what would have happened if he turned around, if he saw her standing there naked… naked save for a small pair of translucent panties that showed off more than they covered. If he would have taken her.
How he would have taken her.
She closes her eyes, thinks of his gaze and the way it eats her up, the hunger on his face and how he doesn't even try to hide it. Not that he could. Not anymore. Not with the way she felt him pressing hard against her today, not with the way he put his mouth on hers and swallowed her whole.
A breathy moan in the back of her throat and she lets her hand travel down over her breasts, her stomach, her hip, under her shorts and nestle between her thighs.
She's hot and wet. Soaking soaking wet. And her skin is swollen. She's not surprised. She's done nothing but think about him like this for the longest time and today they took another step closer to making it a reality. Today she touched him and tasted him and felt the desire in him. Today they crossed that point of no return, that line in the sand.
There's no going back. They both know it. And that's okay. She doesn't want that option on the table anymore. And, despite everything he's lost and all his rage and pain and confusion, he doesn't either.
She runs her fingers over the crease of her thigh where her skin is hot and slippery. And then up her soft, smooth flesh to the hard little bead at the apex of her lips. She sighs, lets out a little moan and rubs downwards in a firm stroke. Her hands aren't like his. Not nearly as rough and demanding as she imagines they would be on her, but still, it feels good. It feels really good and she chokes back a sob, does it again, lifts her hips to her palm, slips a finger inside herself, then another. Gently she presses upwards, gasps hard as she finds the right spot even if the angle feels awkward.
She hasn't done this in a while. A long while. Not with him here but also not for a long time before that too. And she wonders why. Why she's neglected this part of herself, why she's deemed it inconsequential until now.
Another small sound pushes itself out of her throat and she imagines him lying next to her, curled around her, mouth to her throat, hands in her hair, whispering in her ear. His voice like gravel as he tells her things. Things like he loves her and she's beautiful and then things like how to touch herself, what to show him.
She presses hard inside herself again, takes a breath, another stroke on her clit.
And she's about to give herself over to it. Let this happen, even if part of her wants to wait for it, for him. But this waiting has gone on for so long now that she's not even sure when it became "waiting" as such, when it morphed from her everyday life into expectation, anticipation. So no, she wants it. She wants him but she wants it too.
And then she hears her phone ring and when she opens her eyes she can see its light burning brightly and throwing blue shadows across the room.
She sighs and pushes herself up onto her elbows, leans across Pickle to grab at it, but as her hand closes around it, it goes dead and the light starts to fade.
She doesn't recognise the number. There's no voice message either and when she calls back all she gets is a generic answering service which gives no indication of who the caller is. She wonders if it's Frank but something tells her it's not. He's unlikely not to have a private number and either way he'd leave a message. But she doesn't let it bother her. Wrong number, ass dial, cold calling to sell her insurance she doesn't need, she has bigger things to worry about.
Much much bigger things. Like the fact that she doesn't have the man she loves' cell number and the fact that she doesn't know how to get hold of him, that he could just disappear and she'd never ever know where he went.
Except he promised he'd come home. He promised. And she said she'd be waiting for him.
And they don't lie.
She rolls back onto her side and buries her face in his pillow.
They don't lie.