A/N: The timekeeping method sort of broke down on this section, but I think it still makes sense. I don't have a lot of practice writing action sequences, so my apologies that there isn't more here. But this is it, the final section for this piece. Thank you for reading, and feel free to review.
8:23pm, December 3
He hated Canada. She had to insist several times that it wasn't Canada he hated, but the unexpected "bend in our path" that had his paranoia up. He was prepared to march straight across Ontario to the Bay on his own two feet if necessary. But instead, the border contact had set them off on a combination of plans A and C. His own contact.
She trusted the guy. She was still on edge, but she was ready to be flexible now she was clear of American soil. She was going to go whether he came or not, she told him, the tattooed Canuck glancing back and forth between the pair with feigned nonchalance.
She could see the fury in Frank's eyes, could feel the coiled tension all around him, and stared him down anyway. The smile split her face before the contact even heard the grunt of acquiescence, and they were off, following a stranger through the dark alleys of the port town.
December 3-5
They made their way across Ontario, and up along the Saint Lawrence through Quebec, in a series of pick-ups and rattling off-road SUVs, never far from the Trans-Canada Highway. She realized that she might have gone straight through Vermont to get here, but it's too late and there's no point in regretting lost time now.
For some reason Quebec City got to him, and she thought he might disappear there. Something about the steep river banks and the old buildings like castles…
But he showed up, with a black bag over his shoulder, as she was passing off keys and confirming an address with the last contact, a Quebecker who spoke the sort of French that sounded familiar but not quite natural to a long-ago Karen. The house would be ready, the utilities taken care of, the pantry stocked. No one would be out there again until well into March, or even April, the Quebecois promised. There would be total privacy.
But if she needed, "You can call this woman for any help. Give her my name and she will help. She is like you," he said, the slightest note of embarrassment or hesitation in his voice as he passed her the slip of paper. She wasn't quite sure what to make of that statement. Could practically feel Frank bristling somewhere behind her.
Otherwise, the college town wasn't too far, and the little villages, she could snow-shoe to the road and catch a ride if necessary.
She trusted his quiet manner and earnest eyes less and less the longer Frank stood behind her, and quickly handed off the last of her payments. He air-kissed her cheeks before she could get around him, and the atmosphere in the old truck as she continued alongside the Saint Lawrence felt hostile.
12:12am, December 6
His eyes still agitated, and his fingers tapping, he pressed her back into the driver's seat.
"I'll do the sweep," he said; practically dared her to protest with a pointed look. She watched him mount the stairs, circle the porch and disappear. Twenty minutes later the light over the front porch went on, and she hauled as much gear as she could carry into the house, then went straight for the bathroom. He had the rest of it in, and had begun to catalog everything, spread across the floor at the bottom of the stairs, by the time she got back to the front door.
He eyed her around the stock of the rifle she didn't know how he'd managed to get hold of, and the exhaustion in her limbs flared away in momentary, inexplicable rage.
It's not worth it, she told herself, let him be Frank. With quiet scoff, she turned and disappeared up the stairs. Collapsed onto the bed, and almost immediately succumbed to unconsciousness.
December 6
He walked the tree line, then pressed out to the property's boundary, checking the fences. He set trip lines and motion alarms, carefully creating a mental map of the terrain, the various approaches toward the house.
He counted rows of leafy vegetables in the green house; no pot. Surveyed the food stores in the pantry. Re-checked all the obvious places for hidden cameras or microphones. Re-checked all the non-obvious places, too. Unpacked and stowed the things he knew Karen wanted access to. Left most of his things consolidated into one duffel.
He made himself coffee and toast as the sun rose. Contemplated waking her to eat something. Thought better of it.
By noon he'd exhausted his paranoia, showered, and allowed himself to doze, sprawled over the old davenport in the front room.
A tearing, retching sound brought him to consciousness.
She gasped between bouts of heaving, tears streaking down her face as she held her ribs. All the resolve and too-long-held agitation rushed out of him, and he sank to her side, sweeping the sweaty tendrils of gold away from her face.
She stared up at him with incredulity and the barest edge of defiance. "You don't wanna be here."
"It's the stress," he said to her, flat and matter of fact, not patronizing. "The exhaustion. Used to happen to me."
He waited until the gasping, wracking wretches were mostly dry and brought her a bottle of water. She didn't say anything, but let him help her to her feet. She eyed him, something resigned and unreadable about the expression. Almost like fear, though he couldn't fathom why.
She shrugged him off and climbed the stairs alone.
A few hours later she was down in the kitchen, warming chicken soup on the ancient stove. They sat across from one another and ate, and her eyes were so resistant to meeting his he finally broke down.
"What is it? What did I do?" He tried to keep the edge out, but his fingers twitched against his spoon.
"You didn't do anything," she spoke to her bowl.
The feeling of his eyes on the crown of her head grew unbearable.
When she finally looked up, it was as though he'd never really seen her eyes before.
He had, of course. They're an unbelievable, pure blue that practically glows. But the weight behind them was something he hadn't seen before. Or had failed – or, miserably struggled not – to ever acknowledge. They'd been tethered for years now, the two of them, but there were so many things he had never learned about her. And in that moment, it felt like he'd be crushed to death under the weight of her story if he cracked that spine.
She felt the mask slip as he watched her. She didn't expect him to understand, knew she was being purposefully obstinate. But it was all she could do to keep her composure, keep from begging. Because she was afraid. Afraid that he would disappear just as easily as he so often showed up in her life. There hadn't been any promise he'd stay.
She shifted in her seat, staring into her soup, and readjusted her composure. "I'm just wiped out. Like you said. Exhausted." She gave him a weak smile. "I'm sorry. I'm not myself."
October – New York
Micro finally acknowledged the trepidation that had been eating him up since late September and got in touch with Frank.
"I hate to say this, buddy, I really do," he'd said. "But I don't see her ever coming back from this if things go south. I know, she says it's all just back-up planning, but I feel like she's anticipating never coming back."
Frank managed to play it cool, but he poured over everything Micro gave him. He made his own contacts, mapped his own paths – overlapping here and there with hers – and then went back to punishing.
But a skeleton in a black ball cap, too big even to be a teenager, knocked on her door Halloween night, and she knew Micro had blabbed.
"I'm gonna be fine," she said. "Y'know, even if I'm not. It'll be fine. It's all worked out."
He managed not to ask if the Devil knew about all this.
They finally agreed that he would meet her when it was over, travel with her if she had to go run, see her off. And she said he was welcome.
Everything had been an open invitation with her, for a long time. It wasn't as easy between them as it was at one point. He'd made it clear, been just hardline enough with her on enough occasions, that she had grown quieter about his redemption. About a possible warless future. But her words, her eyes on his face, felt like a renewed, experimental stab at his defenses. Like a locked door being pried open. There were alarm bells going off in the back of his mind, but it didn't change the fact that she was the closest thing to family he had outside Curt and Micro. But Karen Page didn't carry even half the burden of knowledge those two did.
Or so he thought.
He still felt a responsibility to get her through with as little damage as possible. So they agreed, and she would get word to him the night of the final exchange. And he pressed his lips to the space behind her ear, held her in a half embrace, then disappeared into the Halloween night.
December – Quebec
He felt an alien sort of fear. A prickling sensation in his spine that had nothing to do with the adrenaline of the hunt. He wrestled with questions, trying to find a safe way to draw her out. But the tension between them grew. The weight behind every look was incredible, and doubt filled his mind.
She was trying not to care. Trying to prepare for the inevitable departure. She was grappling with hundreds of threads – from the investigation, from the run, for her future, for rationing supplies until she got all the way out – and simultaneously struggling to untie the knot inside that held her in Frank Castle's orbit. If she could cut him out now, it would be less painful than tearing him away later, she thought.
She was also trying to take as much of him in as possible, though. Hoarding details to carry with her. She maintained the façade of tired indifference while cataloging his own micro-expressions. She let him help her back up the stairs after dinner, leaning into the hand she placed on his shoulder. She silently counted the scars on his back as she watched him change shirts from her perch on those same stairs the next morning.
She sat beside him on the davenport while she sorted through photocopies of her sources and made notes on the air gapped laptop from Micro. Not touching, but close enough to feel the perpetual heat radiate from him.
She pretended like this would be enough, all the while feeling the ebb and flow of apprehension growing inside her, around her.
He watched her work in stolen glances while he disassembled and cleaned his weapons. He kept her company with a pot of coffee and one of the little house's many books after he was done with his work. He made her food, and nudged her to finish it when she was too absorbed in a detail to remember to get her sandwich the rest of the way to her mouth.
"Do you have to get it all done now?" he asked, and wished he hadn't when those heavy eyes turned on him again.
"I need something to hold onto," she said with a sigh and a groan of tired frustration.
"Okay," he nodded, "okay." That was familiar to him, too. The need to keep focused on something when a mission was done. When the exhaustion relented just enough that real life began to creep back in.
For two days he patrolled the property, made sure she ate, and kept her company while she worked. And it seemed like the unspoken thing inside her slipped away. There were still shadows under her eyes, and the faint hiss of sore ribs when she sighed, but she seemed less haunted when her eyes met his.
On the third evening, she crowded into him, and he willingly gave way. He let the stacks of paper rest on his thigh, held the notes she handed him, kept track of numbers to repeat back to her when she asked. When she leaned against him with a notebook full of codes, he relaxed against her, letting her sink into his heat. When the book fell from her hand and she didn't grab for it, he let her sleep there. Ran a soothing hand up and down her arm. Listened to her breathe.
When he caught himself slipping into the purgatory of pre-sleep himself, he carefully hoisted her in his arms and carried her upstairs. She stirred for a moment when he lowered her down and covered her in blankets.
"Thanks, Frank," she murmured, eyes still closed.
"You're welcome," he whispered, kissing her hair. "You're welcome."
When the light around the curtains woke her in the morning, he was gone.
-Time Passes-
Although her eyes stung and her breath caught in her throat, she didn't cry. It had been coming from the start, she told herself. She was prepared to be alone.
Something stirred in her when the solstice came, and she thought for just a few minutes that he would come back. Then again on Christmas morning. And on New Year's Eve, she almost gave in to tears. But she didn't cry.
She had spent a lot of time alone in her life, and this really wasn't any different. She found a routine in her morning coffee, raiding and tending the greenhouse, working through her evidence, and reading the many books the house had accumulated in its years. There was a record collection, too, and sometimes she danced after pacing through her tai chi forms. For the length of a few songs she wasn't a fugitive, her pulse was up, and she made herself feel like someone else.
She adopted some of the clothes that had been left in the wardrobe, and considered cutting her hair. But the photo in Page Sayre's passport looked like long-haired Karen Page, so she took to braiding it instead, for the first time in decades. She began to sink into a new identity.
January 3
It was a particularly sunny day, and she had thrown the curtains open to savor the sunlight despite the persistent chill. The music was turned up, so she could hear it from every part of the house. She was sweeping, tidying her temporary home, and singing along to a deceptively mournful song.
With the last notes of music, she paused, leaning into the sunlight, head thrown back and eyes squeezed tight. For a moment, the consequences of her actions, the weight of her life, began to lift from her shoulders. She took several deep breaths. Two, three, four, five times.
A noise from the hallway cut through her introspection, like an exaggerated clearing of one's throat.
She whirled with the broomstick, ready to strike.
"'m I interrupting somethin'?"
Frank smiled his crooked half-grin at her from where he leaned in the doorway.
Her eyes were pools of light, watery blue.
"You came back," she spoke, voice a ragged whisper.
"Course I did," he answered, and the broom clattered to the ground.
She was across the room in a few quick, long strides, and he was ready to meet her. Her fear surged and crashed into her pride, and the tears that had been kept at bay for weeks pricked at her eyes once more.
"Will you stay?" she asked, choking on overwhelming emotions. She buried her face in his shoulder and clung to his jacket, afraid to look him in the eye.
"Course I will," he said, holding her tighter, with a fierceness she hadn't felt before. And as if he had heard her anxious thoughts, continued. "For as long as you'll have me. If you want me." His lips found her cheek and pressed.
"Yes," she said. "Yes." She leaned back and looked into his face.
His smile was tentative, but his eyes were on her, sweeping her expression. Waiting.
She wrapped her arms back round him, a hand finding the back of his neck, and pressed into him again. She kissed his jaw and inhaled deep into her lungs. He held her like he would never let go, tight in his two hands.
"Stay."