I don't know, Frank. ( it's a response that rings with a gentle finality, and for one of the few times that night, their eyes meet with one another. she doesn't shy away from it, doesn't back down from her stance; he knows a woman like her, regardless of how frail he's seen her, how shaken, would be the last to do that. )
I don't know if you get that; if I get that.
( it frustrates her, the knowing that neither of them may grow out of the people they've become; the feeling that she'll never truly escape hell's kitchen, that he'd never allow himself to get out if she were still here. she wants it for him, not to have to bat an eye back at her, not to let her safety dictate whether or not he could cut those last threads with a city that's never granted justice when it was so heart-shatteringly needed. ) You go somewhere and you... you don't worry about this place.
About me. There's always going to be something that pulls you back if you don't decide not to give a shit.
And if you figure out how— ( a huff of a breath, mirthless despite the brief curl at the edge of her mouth. ) That's a story worth writing.
[Don't worry. Easy to say. On some level he's aware that 'don't worry' isn't the same as 'give no fucks' but he's not sure he's capable of doing even just the 'don't worry' part. He'd be happy if worries were the only thing keeping him awake at night.
Once he's finished there'd be just about nothing keeping him here. He thought that'd be liberating for him, that the weight would finally be lifted and he'd be... 'at peace' or free to go or whatever. At peace. Ha. Maybe not that. But having spent twenty years doing missions, following orders, marching to someone else's drumbeat, he's not sure freedom is such a good thing for him. Freedom is probably just dressing up the state of being in limbo, not knowing where to go or what he should be doing.]
I have to. I have to give a shit. Otherwise I'm just... [He purses his lips and shakes his head.] I'm just any other killer.
( she knows. she knows, and thus leads them back in the same circle they've been murmuring along that dark riverside, with cuts along her temples in a stopped elevator, ears ringing from explosions that still echo within her bones. she can still feel his callous palm hovering over her crown, curling into her amongst the dust, rubble, shrapnels melodiously hitting the floor around them. )
So then what? ( there isn't an answer, he knows there isn't and she knows just as well. ) You stay, you take out the bastards that hurt your family, that even played a part, but when does it stop?
( her head ducks, and there's that crystalline glaze over her hues like a threat to drift those warm droplets down her cheeks; she hates it, an automatic response that wells up from caring too much, thinking too much, trying too much. not knowing when to stop, herself. right now, she's just preaching to the choir. )
( it's a wise idea, mr. stark; ensuring you keep an eye on those shadows, the fog-clouded alleys and what lingers on those rooftops. there's never really a moment of peace, not with her. see most of those targets on her back have been drawn so softly, so discreetly she hasn't noticed them, hasn't felt them with brittle hands running over her skin in the shower.
it's a waiting game, the teeming patience that comes with waiting for hell's kitchen to open it's mouth for you once more.
a snicker, then, as she buckles in and settles her purse across her lap. heart of her palm always resting just up against that weight beneath the leather, a pathetic means of protection for what she's up against, but something nonetheless. )
'Billionaire with a huge global presence.' ( a flash of blue hues over to him, now, reading what features she can make within the dim light of the cabin. )
Didn't realize you and discreetness knew one another.
[Tony isn't so scared of the city streets anymore. There was a time when his biggest fears whilst 'out and about' were being recognised and having to spend the next however many minutes smiling and signing whatever junk someone had on them at the time. That, or being yelled at for the general chaos that rained on Manhattan after the deal with Loki.
He's here for a very different reason, and although he is quite sure that someone like Karen Page has seen, witnessed and got her own strong opinions about the way he handled the clean up efforts - that is a time that has passed for him.]
Who else?
[He flashes a grin, and with a single press of a button the car fires up. It's quiet, and incredibly smoothly they're off on a journey to Stark Tower - because quite frankly he doesn't want to be seen anywhere in New York with a hot young blonde reporter.]
( the pearled gleam of his grin catches her attention, albeit for just a moment, before the light rumble of the car beneath her comes to life. she has to wonder what his honest intentions were, slipping into the nooks of the city like this when he could be safely tucked behind his layers of security, in buildings where privacy just meant going enough floors up, 'til it's just you and that deep indigo of the skyline.
elbow goes to rest at the window beside her, bed of her nails habitually falling to the pout of her mouth as gaze settles again on the gentle blur of streetlights. )
Not exactly.
( there's a relative unease that sits with her, the tug of unfinished stories, columns still waiting with that blinking cursor on a glaring screen. )
Then again I don't spend much of my time trying to figure out men who put themselves out there. Kind of ruins the mystery.
( she doesn't have a good excuse for what she's doing, intruding on a man who not long ago had gotten himself out of that city and the war that'd been raged on it's front, that'd been waged on him. she'd been a large part of that fight, seeking justice for a man who was so slandered by the so-called 'system'. well, the system was bullshit, and if it'd been bad then, it was only pitiable now. thing is, she's not going to him to talk about the further crumbling of hells kitchen, but of hers.
and maybe she can skirt around it, for a little while. cradle a tempered mug of coffee, black, and allow herself to take a breath. allow herself to believe that, even if just for tonight, she was safe.
but there was no greater delusion than believing she could ever be out of fisk's eyes, for he held them everywhere.
it's what leaves her sitting in her car, even after killing the heat. rounds of her cheeks are bitten red from the cold and breath fogs out before her, and she doesn't know how many times she counts the streetlights on that dimmed road, few and far between. she didn't park in front of the building he'd told her. she couldn't, not if someone came after her. but she has to tell herself that won't happen, that the corrupted agents had other tiers on their to-do list to tick off before coming for her.
because he doesn't deserve that. not ... any of this. and when she stands at his door, gives a lithe knock, she's wrapping arms around a thin frame, a hood pulled over golden locks. and she hopes. )
[Life since he first donned the Punisher's visage has felt very cyclical for Frank. His past just would not let go of him no matter how hard he tried to kill it, no matter how quickly he buried his demons, or literally burnt them down in fiery chaos. The moment he aimed for peace, something else would return and remind him of what he should be focusing on, that there is no room for peace in his life anymore. War is his home now.
The weeks after sending Russo to the hospital have been spent in solitude, off on his own again both for his own sake and the people left around him. Much as Frank pushes people away there are still the handful of those who just can't seem to let him go, and now with the Liebermans in his life the last thing Frank wants is to put them into more danger. It's always been the same for Karen too. This time around it seems like her trouble has nothing to do with Frank. For once. A part of him is somewhat nervous waiting for Karen, both in regards to her safety and also because he hasn't seen her in weeks. The last time they'd said goodbye it felt so final and Frank was okay with that. It was better that way. Yet he didn't exactly erase her number from his phone, did he?
This shitty little apartment isn't as shitty as the one he had in the city, but it's still clearly meant for someone on their own. He has the essentials and not much else, along with a locker full of weaponry and armor, including in his van downstairs, because much as Frank tries to fight it his personal war is not over. It never will be.
He's draped over his couch with a book in hand when the knock comes, and he doesn't even have to worry about who's on the other side. No one knows he's here other than Karen now - not even Curtis, guilty as Frank feels about it. When he opens the door he looks similar to when they'd reunited months ago, hair longer and beard starting to grow in fast. He visibly relaxes just knowing she made it here safely.]
Hey. Come in. [Door opening wider, he waits for Karen to step inside and takes a quick scan of the hall before shutting and locking the door behind him. The windows are shut and shades drawn, already having prepared in case someone did follow her.]
You want something to drink? The bathroom's in the next room if you need it.
( some part of her commiserates anyone that were to follow, only because it's likely they weren't doing it with a clear conscience or without some sort of underlying threat, a vulnerability. because that was the biggest target, wasn't it? it wasn't the countless bold-type articles she'd made first page of, exposes with her name spaced neatly beneath in italics. it wasn't even that she'd aided to putting wilson fisk back behind bars he'd manipulated himself out of, back into the lap of luxury and a penthouse steep in price enough to suggest he could pay off far more than a few federal agents, if need be.
she pities them because she knows what frank is capable of, if he shuts off. she's seen it, looked him in the eye when he's not frank anymore, but the punisher. and the city might've forgotten him, might've tucked his cases and those headlines under for the most recent big bad, but as selfish and as fucked up as it is, maybe she'd only allowed herself to come because to some degree, he's safety. and it's not that she's using him as much as she is pathetically clinging to the one thread of something that might keep her together. and he'd scoff at it, she's sure. grumble on about how he's the last thing to keep anyone whole.
and yet here she is, ushered into the humming of a heater, a quaint space tidy only because there wasn't enough in it to make a mess.
she revels in him the same way she always has, a gust of a breath—however silent it may be—dropping from lips that've clearly been worried with teeth. the door latches softly behind them and she has to tighten the clasp of her fingers into a thick coat to keep herself from reaching for him, even if just to assure herself he's here. alive. tangible.
she doesn't look around much, even taking a few steps inside and shucking off her boots; mostly because it's of little care to her the condition of the apartment. it looks better than the one she'd left paraded with bullets along the walls. what she should've known is that her griefs, her ghosts, her truth wouldn't leave itself at the door for long, and it's another half the reason why she's keeping hands occupied in fists. he has a trigger finger—how would he feel to know she does, too?
it's telling enough that the first thing she thinks of when he mentions a drink is whiskey. she'd do better with something sobering. coffee; tea, perhaps. )
Anything warm, if you have it. ( she doesn't want to be trouble, but a piping drink is the least of burdens she's shedding upon him by coming here. )
Probably sound neurotic to ask for coffee at this hour.
❪ pale fingers tremble something wicked, makes it look like the last thing she truly needs to indulge is the glass of whiskey cradled in her hands, having been topped off too many times to count. it's why she prefers josie's, why she ducks in at ungodly hours of the night after letting golden tresses down from their pin; after staring numbly off into rain-slated streets when her dad ends that call one more time; after that psychopath laying reign to hells kitchen once more conned himself out of prison, like a gift lacing itself up with an even grander, velvety bow.
she knows she's practically exuding cynicism, white blouse folded up her forearms and golden, petite necklace hanging between her collars, but the last thing she's looking for is company, and josie knows by now not to say a word, when to pour, and when to cut her off so she can still make it back to the apartment that sits idly in waiting for her.
she's already taunted her with a look as if another inch or two of the amber liquid would really do her in, and maybe it's the secretarial profile she eases into too well that rewards her another clink of a refill, responding with a gentle rap on the counter in thanks, and white teeth claiming purchase to lower lip. ❫
[ He's been watching her for days now, if he's being honest, and being careful about it. His memory is pretty shot at the best of times, but he remembers Karen was close to Frank. He's not sure how it started, or how close was their kind of close was.
He just knows that she's the best chance he has of finding Frank and making him pay for what he did. This asshole, Fisk, is threatening all of that, and he's not taking too kindly to it. Which is why he's ignoring the goons following Karen, like he hasn't noticed all five of their useless asses, and sliding up on the stool next to her, hood still drawn up over his head. ]
You know, for someone who stirs up as much shit as you do, you're really bad at noticing when you have a tail, Karen. [ He drawls it in her direction, smile making the scars tug strangely at his cheeks, and orders a whiskey from Josie. ]
Don't panic, and don't look around. Just look at me. Just two people, sharing a drink in a bar.
❪ for the ever-prying niche's that she has, she's yet to master the hints and subtleties that are left like cookie crumbs when she attracts attention. it's part of the job, part of posting those stories in bold, bleeding ink to get someone's truth out there, to expose the tarnished corners of new york and who nourishes them. truthfully, she knows she's been reckless. letting herself into fisk's loft with the sole intention of seeping herself into his nerves, letting her words poison him until she could catch something, anything on camera that would get him back behind bars where he belonged.
but manipulation was the city's voice. there was nothing fair, nothing just about him being back on the streets. money and power; and hells kitchen spins madly on.
she doesn't pay too much mind to the body that's nestled beside her until she hears the familiar syllables of her name, pink-rimmed eyes glancing over and ducking slightly to make out the side profile of a man she's seen only a few times before. russo, if she remembers correctly. brow furrows together softly, a blend of blond.
his words come to her in a daze, piece together beneath the lagging-veil of one too many whiskeys, neat. he tells her not to panic. tells her not to look around, and the thumping in her chest accelerates to a heavy, present echo. lips feel split; dry, and she's left tucking a stray tress behind her ear before calmly settling her gaze back to the golden liquid left pooled at the bottom of her glass. ❫
And what are you, just another person to add to that tail?
❪ it's not as sharp as it could be, but there's a thorn of concern underlying her tone, a curiosity too dangerous to satiate but just as much to tempt to do the opposite of what he says—to look. ❫
( she'd done well for awhile, keeping to herself, brushing over that tug within her that wondered, always wondered where he might be, if that glowering red of headlights lingering outside her apartment building was him, the rare rumble of her phone tangled within her sheets in the middle of the night. she knew better; every time she knew better. but it didn't keep her from indulging the idea. that sliver of hope she couldn't quite cut off, that the last time she'd seen him could never really be the last.
he catches his reflection in the coffee just as a meager waitress comes over with a fresh pot. she accepts with a soft nod, and just as quietly as she'd come, she goes. lithe fingers meet each side of the mug, reveling in the heat that's there. her own pause doesn't come from chasing an honest tongue—how many times she'd caught herself wanting to share something with him, and when he sits before her now, she just... wants to be. )
Guess I missed you too. ( it's that playful bite they share so well, and while the smirk that finds one edge of her lips is tired, strained, it's there. )
Some part of me thinks it'd be nice. Leave the city, become someone else... anything else. ( she draws in a breath, shoulders pulling into a thoughtful shrug as tongue clears across her lips. ) It's only a matter of time before you catch up with yourself.
Sounds like you're speaking from experience, miss Page.
( his voice and humour are both dry, dry as bone; it's the only way he can temporarily build that shell around himself and, for a moment, not have to face the fact that she's dead right. because of course. he's tried and tried and tried burying it all six feet deep, but there's just no escaping his past or himself.
by the time he's able to look back up at her, his gaze is unwavering this time, as if in the last few seconds frank's made a decision. if this is going to be one of the few times he gets to see karen, then he's not going to waste it. he'll watch her with a fixed, patient look, as if he could press this sight against his eyelids and never forget it. looking at her as if he's trying to memorise the angle of her knuckles, that rueful smirking twist of her lip. )
But you're right, though. Doesn't last. Curtis would probably have something to say about that. Repressing shit not being a good approach, or... something.
( the group sessions had been helpful, for the time he'd attented them. one of the worst things about leaving the city and going on the run again was losing out on that. )
How've you been, Kar? And I mean besides 'staying busy'.
( her earlier answer had been just as evasive as his was, and they both knew it. )
( when she'd woken up in the frigid, still air of her apartment and a puddle of crimson stained beside her, when fisk had been behind bars, when she'd had nowhere to turn. how many times had she wanted to run? too many to name, lest she face the shame that comes with the thought. in the end, though, she stayed right here—right in the angry mouth of the city that'd many times over feasted upon her just to spit her back out.
when he looks at her she burns. if a look could find a way to suffice as a goodbye, if it could narrate their last page, this would be it; a thick swallow, that tender gleam in his eyes she knows are reserved for moments and hours like this, hidden in the night when he can be frank. )
You have people here that care about you. Not many people in this city can say that. ( the bodies in hell's kitchen were often just as twisted as the city itself. finding warmth was a shot in the dark, and her only source sits before her now.
it's evident the question is one she'd rather avoid. they were honest with one another, even in their lies. she looks out the pane window beside them, across the freckle of lights she can make out, the bridge in the distance. it seems she'd accepted the coffee more to warm her hands than anything else. )
Honestly? ( rhetoric, and pierce of blue meets his eyes again. ) I don't know. I've barely slept. Even when I do it's just... it's not rest. It's like I should be doing something, like I'm missing something, but I can't—I can't figure out what it is. ( as much as she harps on others speaking up, more often than not as of late, words escape her.
( so it turns out that not all your problems go away with a presidential pardon.
bucky's been trying to make ends meet, scraping and picking up odd jobs for a local restaurant. immersing himself in normalcy as if rubbing shoulders with regular citizens is contagious; as if he could catch some semblance of a regular life if he just stayed near them long enough, followed the rules, talked to his stupid court-appointed therapist, and all-in-all tried his best to prove that his winter soldier days are long, long past.
but tonight, that past follows him home. it's not a gigantic alien invasion and it's not the end of the world, but it is this: the prickling between his shoulderblades, that familiar sawing on the edge of his nerves telling him that something is wrong. so move. faster. now. he breaks into a faster walk, his stride lengthening even as the shadows break into movement behind him.
anyone who tries to mug the winter soldier would be an idiot. but these aren't robbers, are they?
bucky looks at the approaching men, and notes the physical details in quick succession: military buzz-cuts; broad shoulders; their english is russian-accented. they might as well bark hail hydra at him when they come closer. he can guess what they want: it's him. recovering their prized asset.
it's the middle of the goddamned street in new york, but it's also past midnight. there aren't many civilians around to hear the crunch of bone as bucky slams one man into the wall; the staccato ping as he deflects some bullets with his arm and the fabric of his leather jacket rips; the howl of pain from the hydra operative as bucky snaps his hand. same shit, different day. and it's almost a relief: getting to cut loose, warm up these long-dormant muscles and hated instincts.
but he's outnumbered, and it's dark, and the twentieth bullet hits its mark. and then the twenty-first. the bullets lodge in his side and he jack-knifes over them, the breath driven out of him. another man uses some kind of goddamn high-tech taser on his metal arm and it short-circuits; it catches, the hinges creaking and the whole thing becomes dead weight hanging off his shoulder. by the time bucky ends the fight — and he ends it, hard, — he's stumbling and he can't move his arm. the sound of the gunshots still ringing through the neighbourhood.
he slumps against a brick wall, letting it prop him up.
you should call sam, he thinks. and then a second later: i will literally die before i call sam for help.
it's hyperbolic, sure. but he's gonna be okay. he thinks. or he's pretty sure. his healing is faster than the average human's. he just... needs to rest.
the thing he isn't counting on: the strawberry-blonde reporter, and the last man, coming in late to back up his buddies. )
a promise to herself, to check off every little god damn thing a man had told her not to do. it's foolish, she knows it is, knows that a chance to bite back at all of the chauvinists out there wouldn't really resolve to much more than a heightened chance at being in the wrong place at the wrong time. potentially putting herself in harms way for a point that'd never get across. hell's kitchen was full of those wrong places, and it's not so much that she has something to prove so much as it is her attempts to stubbornly paint a reality that isn't really there. one where a woman can walk home on the streets of manhattan, where she doesn't have to hold her breath between the halos of rusty-orange glaring down from the street lamps.
one where that .380 in the innermost pocket of her coat was nothing more than dead weight. unnecessary; just a precaution.
the clear coat of her fingertips finds the brisk steel of the barrel, arms crossed over her chest, thumbing over the safety the moment a shot resounds nearby, echo close and succinct enough that it feels as if it'd passed through her chest, rattled through flesh to the cage of her sternum where her heart lurches. breath fogs out before her, blonde strands tussling with the wind as she idles there, front of her heels teasing the crosswalk that'd land her no more than a block away from her apartment if she just kept going. and she should, tuck her head down and make it back to that tired building where scattered files and case notes wait for her in disarray on that kitchen table rather than inserting herself where she shouldn't.
but there's a howl in pain, a crippling sound that's swallowed by another succession of shots that seem to be the only catalyst limbs need to urge her toward the source. the moment she rounds the corner the mouth of that pistol sets it's sights on the male slouched up against the bricks, opposite hand lifting to support her wrist—and despite the tremor to her breath her aim is a hell of a lot steadier than it should be given the number of bodies scattered and unresponsive around her.
she does the math, hues flitting one by one over each of them and it doesn't take her long to realize that one of them is certainly not like the other. it's a safe bet who'd come with who, and almost as if directed by her gaze alone that gun's glare averts to the sound of approaching steps, boots meeting the quiet slap of puddles. it's evident that she's caught him off guard, taking a step closer the moment he so much as attempts to reach for his waistline. that tell tale hollow click sounds as she tabs the safety from it's place, encouraging him to take pause as tongue presses taut to the roof of her mouth. )
Walk away.
( it's spoken between her teeth, and a mocking chuckle rouses from him, eying the length of her figure, lingering on her heels before his sights drift back up to that pistol in her hands. ) You sure you know how to use that, милый? ( he raises his hands but he doesn't stop, drawing nearer in a calculative drawl of steps; calling her bluff.
her response comes with the shift of an eager trigger-finger, breath stammering, and that digit's just about to curl around that crescent piece when another shot speaks for her, coming from the man barely bracing himself upright against that wall behind her, and every bit of air within her lungs compresses with a single exhale. ) Shit.
( a swallow lodges in her throat, pressing off any acknowledgement of the tremor that's taken to her fingers as she crosses back towards him, tucking that gun into one of her pockets hastily. instinctively she reaches out a hand to support him, but it dawns on her that she doesn't know where he's hurt, so she merely settles for the outer round of his shoulder, ducking down a bit to get to his eye level as she scours him intently. )
Shit. ( it's not difficult to see that one of the many bullets in the chorus she'd heard had met it's mark. )
You need to get to a hospital. I can—it's not far.
( manhattan's a shitshow these days, and the defenders probably have bigger fish to fry. which just leaves these two to clean up this particular mess: when the woman approaches and her gun goes up, bucky raises his hands as if to gesture that he's harmless (even though the painted scene around him shows quite the opposite).
but then there's the new russian arrival and she moves the muzzle of the gun. just a couple inches over, but it's enough level it at the HYDRA agent instead.
bucky takes advantage of the distraction to end the confrontation, again, and this time he purposefully aims for the gut. it drops the other man like a stone anyway. a few moments later the woman is hurrying over to bucky and he tries to straighten himself, shoving up against the wall to get back to his full six-foot height, although it mostly just leads to the scrape of brick against his leather jacket. )
No. It's fine.
( it is very much not fine, but there's also a sudden clarion realisation rippling its way through his thoughts, like a roiling earthquake. don't do anything illegal. no one gets hurt. 'i am no longer the winter soldier; i am james "bucky" barnes and you are part of my efforts to make amends.' except these guys absolutely were not part of it, and so he's pretty sure he's broken the rules.
he scrabbles against the wall some more and then finally shoves himself up. he's not on parole, exactly, but whatever he's on, this battle is probably a violation of it. the pardon's in jeopardy if he's found out. he just hurt a lot of people, even if he aimed for nonlethal damage. because he might have missed. these hands were built for murder; hardwired for it; he's not entirely sure he walked that balance successfully.
and then his gaze clears as he looks closer at the woman beside him. he literally just shot a man in front of her, and yet she isn't running screaming from him. she very easily could've left him behind, but instead she seems to have decided he's the one in need of help. (a good judge of character, or a terrible one?) his gloved hand catches at her sleeve, bracing himself, startled blue eyes meeting hers. )
This probably isn't gonna sound believable. But they came after me first. I'm not—
( i'm not that man anymore. )
You're in no danger. You should keep going. I can take care of it.
( The Blue Heron, with its eclectic beaded décor and ostrich prints straight out of a 1920's speakeasy, is one of the few places in Gotham City that beckon outsiders that aren't serial killer tours, possible Batman sightings, and the chance to catch a glimpse at Arkham Island. The Blue Heron attracts so-called desirables unlike everywhere else in his city, a revolving door of ditzy trust fund kids and scions and socialites, exclusive enough to keep coming back. He wishes there were more places in the city, despite his efforts to help it rebuild. Gilding shit over with gold doesn't mean it isn't shit anymore, but his love of Gotham and its people doesn't let him veer on that train of thought for long. He could always leave the city’s limits, venture elsewhere to find another haunt - but he hates doing so unless it's necessary and he can't stay away long anyway, as if Gotham is his own personal tell-tale heart.
Tonight, he dines at the Blue Heron alone in a booth that should, by all means, insulate him from the attentions of the sycophants and socialites around him but does little, unfortunately. Since forming the League and returning to the way patrols used to be, it's been harder to put on this mask, the mask of Bruce Wayne, but it's a necessary evil that he can grin and bear.
The young daughter - twenty-four, at most - of a lawyer in the city seems adamant about making conversation, but is too shy and reserved to invite herself to sit beside him. He's unsure if he wants to invite her to sit with him and then back to his hotel room - she's well-known enough in the tabloids that it could look good, to be seen with her on the society pages, a long enough front until he has to do it again. A necessary evil.
Luckily, that decision bodes no further thought - the gaze that he's allowed to scan across the room catches on platinum blonde hair and the lithe, willowy frame of a woman whose face he should recognize but doesn't. Even better, she's approaching him, dressed in a sundress that she'd clearly chosen in an attempt to assimilate but makes her stand out even more. The girl's talking, but he's not listening not really.
Bruce Wayne's appreciative gaze flicks over the woman until he fixes her with a crooked sort of smile,. Finally, they're left in peace once it's realized his attentions are elsewhere. Now, it's time to fixate the sleazy attention on her. )
Do I know you? I feel like I should. ( There's intent in her face and he knows a journalist when he sees one, but she's not like the others. Not paparazzi. She's fresh-faced yet jaded, new to Gotham but not new to this. He pushes himself over, swigging back the ginger ale he's disguised as champagne. ) Why don't you take a seat and tell me about whatever it is you have on your mind. I can tell by the look on your face. Hopefully, it's to ask me to have dinner with you.
Edited (ah who needs html x 2 im so sorry lmao) 2021-04-17 07:21 (UTC)
( it's a little under a two hour drive out of the heart of manhattan, and it seems the gloom of the city is intent to follow, looming above as if to chide her, tell her by means of a grumbling tongue that she was getting herself in too deep — and it's likely she was. she'd been here before, taken down the king pin of hell's kitchen by an elicit word of mouth, a habit of digging her nose where it didn't belong all for the sake of restoring a bit of justice through the streets. no one man should be granted such exorbitant power, and she hadn't rested until it'd been stripped. karen wasn't one to heel to another's doubts of her capabilities — she knew herself well enough, and she was no dog on a leash. she was snapping jowls, a heel pressed to the throat of those that offered the challenge of underestimating her.
her target: an expose with bruce wayne. seems when one kingpin is put out of business, all too ready is another to take it's place, only this time it's far less narrowed than a single man. a group of mobsters known as the gnuccis settling rapidly in, polluting the system. matt had given her some sort of lecture when he'd spotted the newspaper clippings spilling out of one of her folders. she's told to stay back, that it wasn't her fight — but oh, how quickly it had become just that. and if she's in over her head, she certainly doesn't approach it as such.
the blue heron was renowned for it's courses and even more so, a frequented favorite of wayne. he's not a man she's ever crossed paths with, but it isn't difficult to recognize him — just as she's given a glimmering crystal glass, heavy in it's bottom and lined with a hint of whiskey — tucked off in the more private recesses of a booth, dining alone, suit black and crisp. there's a worn journal tucked into the purse over her shoulder, and she's downing that amber liquid in a single tip of her crown, before heels tut decisively his way.
it isn't missed how that harrowed, saddened gaze of his runs a study along her figure. she'd dressed for the occasion — a solitary man orphaned by crime, and her responsive smile is tight-lipped, but there's a kindness that exudes with her presence, a suggestion that she wasn't there to narrow into his space, but merely join alongside it. he finds his tongue easily, all coquettish and conversational wrapped up in the sight of a well-worn smirk fit right into it's usual place. though she may not admit it, there's a layer of charm there, however practiced.
she's tucking hair behind her ear, and she's not shy to accept an invitation she'd clearly sought — she wasn't here to tiptoe about things, but she still held held a respect for the idea of privacy. a beat, and she's slipping into the booth across him, situating her bag beside her thigh. )
Maybe a drink to start things off. I'm Karen— ( a hand is held out between them, blue eyes glittering in the dim of the room. ) Karen Page.
[ He says her name as if to test it out on his tongue, the way it sounds and tastes in his mouth like wine. If he really wanted to play it up, he'd push himself closer to her side of the booth, get in her space. But he doesn't, keeps his distance even with the smarmy smile that feels like a permanent fixture on his face.
It's a beat, but he shakes her hand after a moment. Her fingers are long, her skin soft. He allows his touch to linger on the heel of her palm, the pads of his fingers coarse against her skin, before his hand falls back to his side. ]
The pleasure's all mine. Order whatever you'd like - I'll be having whatever you're having. [ Now that that's out of the way, his eyes narrow, just minutely. He'd been right. It's not often he isn't. Karen Page may look like a doe in headlights, but she certainly is not.
Fingers tapping against the flute in his hand, he downs the rest of the ginger ale and exhales, looking back at Karen. That smile only spreads further, jejune and airy. ]
I'm old-fashioned, Ms. Page. I still drink my morning coffee with a newspaper, so I'm familiar with some of your work over at the Bulletin.
but everyone you meet's just passing through // hey look i made us an au
( once upon a dreary thursday morning, karen page with cellphone in hand (juggling a travel cup and a pastry bag) quite actually stumbles into his life when a headphone-wearing, backpack-on-the-floor, oblivious-to-the-world student scoots his chair back and yanks his bag out across the tiles, tripping her directly into oliver’s grasp. with reflexes not unlike lighting and a firm grasp, he catches her by the bicep just above her elbow and a steady hand near the small of her back. latte unspilled, pastry intact, call relatively uninterrupted. he steadies her with a commanding strength, then releases her back into the wild.
he excuses himself with a casual happens more often than you think and slips out the restroom window before she can wrap up her phone call and thank him. he's nothing if not a man afraid of opening himself up to new people.
( and occasionally, they would end up in the locally owned cafe, karen with an inquisitive glance and oliver with all the pretense in the world, used to project how wrapped up in his own universe he was. eventually, names are exchanged, phone numbers, and they trade off on paying it forward with each other’s orders. )
it isn’t until their schedules overlap, burning the midnight oil, that their paths cross in an undeniable manner. fate has a way of sidelining everything else when a man dressed entirely from head-to-toe in green leather goes crashing through a storefront window across the street as karen’s locking up. she does the smart thing and crouches behind a parked car while oliver tries to remember pain is a physical restraint and rolls over, crawling through shards of glass. he has to get up, he has to get the upper hand here. his bow's outside on the pavement and he's emptied the quiver on his back anyway. it's a flurry of fists and knee jabs, trying to powerhouse his assailant into a blackout. getting his jaw ground into a brick wall is not on the agenda.
a couple of warning gunshots ring out from across the street, aimed too high, but it's all the surprise oliver needs to get off of the wall and flip the tides. limping, bloody, hood down and mask slipping, he snaps the man's neck with gritted teeth because he can see the blonde creeping closer, gun raised. she won't kill for him, decision settled — what's one more bloodstain on his long, long list? )
Get out of here! ( he bellows over the sirens wailing in the distance. he makes it halfway down the alley, hand slipping off the edge of the dumpster right before his vision goes. he wakes up on a couch in an apartment he doesn't recognize, the smell of coffee in the air and bangs his shin on the coffee table in his effort to grapple up to the sound of: that was a pretty stupid stunt you pulled. the splintering pain in his shin or passing out like yesterday's trash? probably both.
which brings them to now — not exactly passing as normal by any means, but it isn't as if oliver can write karen off now that she's seen him unmasked. she saved him from a prison cell and answering uncomfortable questions, handcuffed in the ICU. ultimately, he's the stray cat she never should have stopped to feed.
if he drops in on her fire escape and slinks in through "unlocked" windows, it's because he can't have her tarnishing his good name in an exposé. not because he likes watching her updo come down in loose waves or her changing through a cracked door, reflected in a standing mirror. not for the way she kisses him when he pants out i have to go or for the fire she kindles in him when, instead of leaving, he hoists her up between him and whatever piece of furniture unlucky enough to be used as a prop. he cradles her cheek with gloved fingers, caressing her gently with his thumb. oliver betrays his alleged monstrousness with a sweet brush of noses and a chaste passing of lips. )
( always hers were the men with bloodied knuckles, the ones who opened their mouths back to the city, a glimmer of teeth for teeth — those who've gotten used to the dark, to the alone, the yawning expanse of always coming up on the other end with nothing soft to show for it. nothing to go home to — a home. she should really start to question why it was she seemed to attract men that knew no better than her how to stay put, that knew only to belong to themselves, offering themselves in fragmented pieces in those brief, stolen moments where they can let themselves believe they had anything to give at all.
and perhaps it's exactly why she is, drawn to them and them her, left stitching them up in the stale light of her kitchen just for them to slip out all too soon, not to be seen until the next chapter in their series of trying to put this city back together. like a moth to a flame — a need for a need; a want that's never had a mouth.
she may not be one to scale rooftops and glide limber and effortless through fire escapes, but she's found her own way to look out for those who need it, to give a voice to those left choked from the smoke of greed, of the wealthy, the corrupt systems that only grow all the more poisoned as the days pass. she doesn't expect anything from him because she knows that this, whatever it was they had, was something fleeting — that every time he slipped back out her window with one last brisk kiss to her lips, it may be the last she sees of him. maybe it'd be easier, leave her worrying less, leave apartment quiet rather than checking for snippets on the news to make sure she doesn't see him, and in some instances, where to find him.
they were far more similar than might meet the eye, a constant catch and release, a wanting without knowing how. and maybe that's why it worked, for now.
but wasn't that all anything could ever be?
so when he hoists her up on top of her dresser with ease, when a gloved hand raises to find a blush-splotched cheek, she's curling a calve around the back of his thigh, using it to lure him closer, yet. they were always dancing with stolen time — she might as well make sure she gets the better of it. karen's already grinning against his mouth, intent to interrupt anything that might sound even remotely like a parting of ways. he'd caught her off guard, apartment chilly from leaving the windows cracked for too long, wearing nothing but a too-big t-shirt and a linen set of sleep shorts. he's never seemed to mind, however he finds her — if she had a say, though, she might prefer something easier to navigate on his end than that green suit.
she hums on the brink of that last kiss, fingers raveling at each of his sides, clear by the hug of her thighs that she's not willing to let him go just yet —) Mmh. That sounds better. ( — or any time remotely soon, for that matter. she's a stubborn woman, and if he catches the glint in her eye, he'll know fighting against her would simply be for naught.
their noses stumble, spine straightening til foreheads meet, content to let their lips stumble with her words, to taste his breaths intermingle with her own. she's already a caricature of want, hungering thing that she is, catching the bed of his lower lip with a pinch of her teeth, a thoughtful note rumbling in her throat. )
( it’s a text in the middle of the night from an unlisted phone number, after too much radio silence. it’s been how long— months? years, even, since the last time he pressed down his heart and shoved her out of his life and swore up and down that she deserved better than to get tangled up in his bullshit.
but the wheel turns and time passes and at the end of the day, frank castle finds himself still missing karen page. he’ll always miss her. like he gnawed off his own leg to get out of the trap, and now he can’t stop limping.
so. the text. unlisted, unsigned, but there’s one telling emoji to explain who’s reaching out in the middle of the night (again): )
( there's something within her that tips her off to him the same way it always has—no matter how much time has passed, no matter how many times they do this, weaving in and out of one another's lives as if to check if there was anything left.
the little emoji left at the tail end of the message almost wins the slightest curl at the corner of her mouth, but there's something else festering beneath that surface that demands her attention. frustration. relief. a festering irritation—does he really think she wouldn't know? that she couldn't recognize him in the dark?
and after a long moment, a breath shatters from her as if winded, like some trapped thing she hadn't realized she'd held, pulling her ribs up with it.
a slow-prickling fear is the first to catch her again when it settles. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
→ ｆｏｒ：shitmagnet.
I don't know, Frank. ( it's a response that rings with a gentle finality, and for one of the few times that night, their eyes meet with one another. she doesn't shy away from it, doesn't back down from her stance; he knows a woman like her, regardless of how frail he's seen her, how shaken, would be the last to do that. )
I don't know if you get that; if I get that.
( it frustrates her, the knowing that neither of them may grow out of the people they've become; the feeling that she'll never truly escape hell's kitchen, that he'd never allow himself to get out if she were still here. she wants it for him, not to have to bat an eye back at her, not to let her safety dictate whether or not he could cut those last threads with a city that's never granted justice when it was so heart-shatteringly needed. ) You go somewhere and you... you don't worry about this place.
About me. There's always going to be something that pulls you back if you don't decide not to give a shit.
And if you figure out how— ( a huff of a breath, mirthless despite the brief curl at the edge of her mouth. ) That's a story worth writing.
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Once he's finished there'd be just about nothing keeping him here. He thought that'd be liberating for him, that the weight would finally be lifted and he'd be... 'at peace' or free to go or whatever. At peace. Ha. Maybe not that. But having spent twenty years doing missions, following orders, marching to someone else's drumbeat, he's not sure freedom is such a good thing for him. Freedom is probably just dressing up the state of being in limbo, not knowing where to go or what he should be doing.]
I have to. I have to give a shit. Otherwise I'm just... [He purses his lips and shakes his head.] I'm just any other killer.
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So then what? ( there isn't an answer, he knows there isn't and she knows just as well. ) You stay, you take out the bastards that hurt your family, that even played a part, but when does it stop?
( her head ducks, and there's that crystalline glaze over her hues like a threat to drift those warm droplets down her cheeks; she hates it, an automatic response that wells up from caring too much, thinking too much, trying too much. not knowing when to stop, herself. right now, she's just preaching to the choir. )
Does it stop there? ( for either of us? )
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karen too-good-for-this-world page
so sweet *_*
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→ ｆｏｒ：gbpp.
( it's a wise idea, mr. stark; ensuring you keep an eye on those shadows, the fog-clouded alleys and what lingers on those rooftops. there's never really a moment of peace, not with her. see most of those targets on her back have been drawn so softly, so discreetly she hasn't noticed them, hasn't felt them with brittle hands running over her skin in the shower.
it's a waiting game, the teeming patience that comes with waiting for hell's kitchen to open it's mouth for you once more.
a snicker, then, as she buckles in and settles her purse across her lap. heart of her palm always resting just up against that weight beneath the leather, a pathetic means of protection for what she's up against, but something nonetheless. )
'Billionaire with a huge global presence.' ( a flash of blue hues over to him, now, reading what features she can make within the dim light of the cabin. )
Didn't realize you and discreetness knew one another.
<3
He's here for a very different reason, and although he is quite sure that someone like Karen Page has seen, witnessed and got her own strong opinions about the way he handled the clean up efforts - that is a time that has passed for him.]
Who else?
[He flashes a grin, and with a single press of a button the car fires up. It's quiet, and incredibly smoothly they're off on a journey to Stark Tower - because quite frankly he doesn't want to be seen anywhere in New York with a hot young blonde reporter.]
You didn't work it out?
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elbow goes to rest at the window beside her, bed of her nails habitually falling to the pout of her mouth as gaze settles again on the gentle blur of streetlights. )
Not exactly.
( there's a relative unease that sits with her, the tug of unfinished stories, columns still waiting with that blinking cursor on a glaring screen. )
Then again I don't spend much of my time trying to figure out men who put themselves out there. Kind of ruins the mystery.
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→ ｆｏｒ：thegoodbad.
and maybe she can skirt around it, for a little while. cradle a tempered mug of coffee, black, and allow herself to take a breath. allow herself to believe that, even if just for tonight, she was safe.
but there was no greater delusion than believing she could ever be out of fisk's eyes, for he held them everywhere.
it's what leaves her sitting in her car, even after killing the heat. rounds of her cheeks are bitten red from the cold and breath fogs out before her, and she doesn't know how many times she counts the streetlights on that dimmed road, few and far between. she didn't park in front of the building he'd told her. she couldn't, not if someone came after her. but she has to tell herself that won't happen, that the corrupted agents had other tiers on their to-do list to tick off before coming for her.
because he doesn't deserve that. not ... any of this. and when she stands at his door, gives a lithe knock, she's wrapping arms around a thin frame, a hood pulled over golden locks. and she hopes. )
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The weeks after sending Russo to the hospital have been spent in solitude, off on his own again both for his own sake and the people left around him. Much as Frank pushes people away there are still the handful of those who just can't seem to let him go, and now with the Liebermans in his life the last thing Frank wants is to put them into more danger. It's always been the same for Karen too. This time around it seems like her trouble has nothing to do with Frank. For once. A part of him is somewhat nervous waiting for Karen, both in regards to her safety and also because he hasn't seen her in weeks. The last time they'd said goodbye it felt so final and Frank was okay with that. It was better that way. Yet he didn't exactly erase her number from his phone, did he?
This shitty little apartment isn't as shitty as the one he had in the city, but it's still clearly meant for someone on their own. He has the essentials and not much else, along with a locker full of weaponry and armor, including in his van downstairs, because much as Frank tries to fight it his personal war is not over. It never will be.
He's draped over his couch with a book in hand when the knock comes, and he doesn't even have to worry about who's on the other side. No one knows he's here other than Karen now - not even Curtis, guilty as Frank feels about it. When he opens the door he looks similar to when they'd reunited months ago, hair longer and beard starting to grow in fast. He visibly relaxes just knowing she made it here safely.]
Hey. Come in. [Door opening wider, he waits for Karen to step inside and takes a quick scan of the hall before shutting and locking the door behind him. The windows are shut and shades drawn, already having prepared in case someone did follow her.]
You want something to drink? The bathroom's in the next room if you need it.
thrusts more tl;dr at you
she pities them because she knows what frank is capable of, if he shuts off. she's seen it, looked him in the eye when he's not frank anymore, but the punisher. and the city might've forgotten him, might've tucked his cases and those headlines under for the most recent big bad, but as selfish and as fucked up as it is, maybe she'd only allowed herself to come because to some degree, he's safety. and it's not that she's using him as much as she is pathetically clinging to the one thread of something that might keep her together. and he'd scoff at it, she's sure. grumble on about how he's the last thing to keep anyone whole.
and yet here she is, ushered into the humming of a heater, a quaint space tidy only because there wasn't enough in it to make a mess.
she revels in him the same way she always has, a gust of a breath—however silent it may be—dropping from lips that've clearly been worried with teeth. the door latches softly behind them and she has to tighten the clasp of her fingers into a thick coat to keep herself from reaching for him, even if just to assure herself he's here. alive. tangible.
she doesn't look around much, even taking a few steps inside and shucking off her boots; mostly because it's of little care to her the condition of the apartment. it looks better than the one she'd left paraded with bullets along the walls. what she should've known is that her griefs, her ghosts, her truth wouldn't leave itself at the door for long, and it's another half the reason why she's keeping hands occupied in fists. he has a trigger finger—how would he feel to know she does, too?
it's telling enough that the first thing she thinks of when he mentions a drink is whiskey. she'd do better with something sobering. coffee; tea, perhaps. )
Anything warm, if you have it. ( she doesn't want to be trouble, but a piping drink is the least of burdens she's shedding upon him by coming here. )
Probably sound neurotic to ask for coffee at this hour.
\o/
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sorry for slow tags, work tires me out during the week
i can always wait! it's well worth it.
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→ ｆｏｒ：fancysuit.
she knows she's practically exuding cynicism, white blouse folded up her forearms and golden, petite necklace hanging between her collars, but the last thing she's looking for is company, and josie knows by now not to say a word, when to pour, and when to cut her off so she can still make it back to the apartment that sits idly in waiting for her.
she's already taunted her with a look as if another inch or two of the amber liquid would really do her in, and maybe it's the secretarial profile she eases into too well that rewards her another clink of a refill, responding with a gentle rap on the counter in thanks, and white teeth claiming purchase to lower lip. ❫
Why I love you, Jos.
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He just knows that she's the best chance he has of finding Frank and making him pay for what he did. This asshole, Fisk, is threatening all of that, and he's not taking too kindly to it. Which is why he's ignoring the goons following Karen, like he hasn't noticed all five of their useless asses, and sliding up on the stool next to her, hood still drawn up over his head. ]
You know, for someone who stirs up as much shit as you do, you're really bad at noticing when you have a tail, Karen. [ He drawls it in her direction, smile making the scars tug strangely at his cheeks, and orders a whiskey from Josie. ]
Don't panic, and don't look around. Just look at me. Just two people, sharing a drink in a bar.
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but manipulation was the city's voice. there was nothing fair, nothing just about him being back on the streets. money and power; and hells kitchen spins madly on.
she doesn't pay too much mind to the body that's nestled beside her until she hears the familiar syllables of her name, pink-rimmed eyes glancing over and ducking slightly to make out the side profile of a man she's seen only a few times before. russo, if she remembers correctly. brow furrows together softly, a blend of blond.
his words come to her in a daze, piece together beneath the lagging-veil of one too many whiskeys, neat. he tells her not to panic. tells her not to look around, and the thumping in her chest accelerates to a heavy, present echo. lips feel split; dry, and she's left tucking a stray tress behind her ear before calmly settling her gaze back to the golden liquid left pooled at the bottom of her glass. ❫
And what are you, just another person to add to that tail?
❪ it's not as sharp as it could be, but there's a thorn of concern underlying her tone, a curiosity too dangerous to satiate but just as much to tempt to do the opposite of what he says—to look. ❫
What are you doing here?
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— concusses.
( she'd done well for awhile, keeping to herself, brushing over that tug within her that wondered, always wondered where he might be, if that glowering red of headlights lingering outside her apartment building was him, the rare rumble of her phone tangled within her sheets in the middle of the night. she knew better; every time she knew better. but it didn't keep her from indulging the idea. that sliver of hope she couldn't quite cut off, that the last time she'd seen him could never really be the last.
he catches his reflection in the coffee just as a meager waitress comes over with a fresh pot. she accepts with a soft nod, and just as quietly as she'd come, she goes. lithe fingers meet each side of the mug, reveling in the heat that's there. her own pause doesn't come from chasing an honest tongue—how many times she'd caught herself wanting to share something with him, and when he sits before her now, she just... wants to be. )
Guess I missed you too. ( it's that playful bite they share so well, and while the smirk that finds one edge of her lips is tired, strained, it's there. )
Some part of me thinks it'd be nice. Leave the city, become someone else... anything else. ( she draws in a breath, shoulders pulling into a thoughtful shrug as tongue clears across her lips. ) It's only a matter of time before you catch up with yourself.
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( his voice and humour are both dry, dry as bone; it's the only way he can temporarily build that shell around himself and, for a moment, not have to face the fact that she's dead right. because of course. he's tried and tried and tried burying it all six feet deep, but there's just no escaping his past or himself.
by the time he's able to look back up at her, his gaze is unwavering this time, as if in the last few seconds frank's made a decision. if this is going to be one of the few times he gets to see karen, then he's not going to waste it. he'll watch her with a fixed, patient look, as if he could press this sight against his eyelids and never forget it. looking at her as if he's trying to memorise the angle of her knuckles, that rueful smirking twist of her lip. )
But you're right, though. Doesn't last. Curtis would probably have something to say about that. Repressing shit not being a good approach, or... something.
( the group sessions had been helpful, for the time he'd attented them. one of the worst things about leaving the city and going on the run again was losing out on that. )
How've you been, Kar? And I mean besides 'staying busy'.
( her earlier answer had been just as evasive as his was, and they both knew it. )
frank let her sleep on your chest, u are the cure
( when she'd woken up in the frigid, still air of her apartment and a puddle of crimson stained beside her, when fisk had been behind bars, when she'd had nowhere to turn. how many times had she wanted to run? too many to name, lest she face the shame that comes with the thought. in the end, though, she stayed right here—right in the angry mouth of the city that'd many times over feasted upon her just to spit her back out.
when he looks at her she burns. if a look could find a way to suffice as a goodbye, if it could narrate their last page, this would be it; a thick swallow, that tender gleam in his eyes she knows are reserved for moments and hours like this, hidden in the night when he can be frank. )
You have people here that care about you. Not many people in this city can say that. ( the bodies in hell's kitchen were often just as twisted as the city itself. finding warmth was a shot in the dark, and her only source sits before her now.
it's evident the question is one she'd rather avoid. they were honest with one another, even in their lies. she looks out the pane window beside them, across the freckle of lights she can make out, the bridge in the distance. it seems she'd accepted the coffee more to warm her hands than anything else. )
Honestly? ( rhetoric, and pierce of blue meets his eyes again. ) I don't know. I've barely slept. Even when I do it's just... it's not rest. It's like I should be doing something, like I'm missing something, but I can't—I can't figure out what it is. ( as much as she harps on others speaking up, more often than not as of late, words escape her.
a sad smile, a glaze over her stare. ) I'm tired.
help i love them... so much...
he's touching her hand don't speak to me
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HOW DID TWO WEEKS GO BY
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→ a perilous meet cute.
bucky's been trying to make ends meet, scraping and picking up odd jobs for a local restaurant. immersing himself in normalcy as if rubbing shoulders with regular citizens is contagious; as if he could catch some semblance of a regular life if he just stayed near them long enough, followed the rules, talked to his stupid court-appointed therapist, and all-in-all tried his best to prove that his winter soldier days are long, long past.
but tonight, that past follows him home. it's not a gigantic alien invasion and it's not the end of the world, but it is this: the prickling between his shoulderblades, that familiar sawing on the edge of his nerves telling him that something is wrong. so move. faster. now. he breaks into a faster walk, his stride lengthening even as the shadows break into movement behind him.
anyone who tries to mug the winter soldier would be an idiot. but these aren't robbers, are they?
bucky looks at the approaching men, and notes the physical details in quick succession: military buzz-cuts; broad shoulders; their english is russian-accented. they might as well bark hail hydra at him when they come closer. he can guess what they want: it's him. recovering their prized asset.
it's the middle of the goddamned street in new york, but it's also past midnight. there aren't many civilians around to hear the crunch of bone as bucky slams one man into the wall; the staccato ping as he deflects some bullets with his arm and the fabric of his leather jacket rips; the howl of pain from the hydra operative as bucky snaps his hand. same shit, different day. and it's almost a relief: getting to cut loose, warm up these long-dormant muscles and hated instincts.
but he's outnumbered, and it's dark, and the twentieth bullet hits its mark. and then the twenty-first. the bullets lodge in his side and he jack-knifes over them, the breath driven out of him. another man uses some kind of goddamn high-tech taser on his metal arm and it short-circuits; it catches, the hinges creaking and the whole thing becomes dead weight hanging off his shoulder. by the time bucky ends the fight — and he ends it, hard, — he's stumbling and he can't move his arm. the sound of the gunshots still ringing through the neighbourhood.
he slumps against a brick wall, letting it prop him up.
you should call sam, he thinks. and then a second later: i will literally die before i call sam for help.
it's hyperbolic, sure. but he's gonna be okay. he thinks. or he's pretty sure. his healing is faster than the average human's. he just... needs to rest.
the thing he isn't counting on: the strawberry-blonde reporter, and the last man, coming in late to back up his buddies. )
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a promise to herself, to check off every little god damn thing a man had told her not to do. it's foolish, she knows it is, knows that a chance to bite back at all of the chauvinists out there wouldn't really resolve to much more than a heightened chance at being in the wrong place at the wrong time. potentially putting herself in harms way for a point that'd never get across. hell's kitchen was full of those wrong places, and it's not so much that she has something to prove so much as it is her attempts to stubbornly paint a reality that isn't really there. one where a woman can walk home on the streets of manhattan, where she doesn't have to hold her breath between the halos of rusty-orange glaring down from the street lamps.
one where that .380 in the innermost pocket of her coat was nothing more than dead weight. unnecessary; just a precaution.
the clear coat of her fingertips finds the brisk steel of the barrel, arms crossed over her chest, thumbing over the safety the moment a shot resounds nearby, echo close and succinct enough that it feels as if it'd passed through her chest, rattled through flesh to the cage of her sternum where her heart lurches. breath fogs out before her, blonde strands tussling with the wind as she idles there, front of her heels teasing the crosswalk that'd land her no more than a block away from her apartment if she just kept going. and she should, tuck her head down and make it back to that tired building where scattered files and case notes wait for her in disarray on that kitchen table rather than inserting herself where she shouldn't.
but there's a howl in pain, a crippling sound that's swallowed by another succession of shots that seem to be the only catalyst limbs need to urge her toward the source. the moment she rounds the corner the mouth of that pistol sets it's sights on the male slouched up against the bricks, opposite hand lifting to support her wrist—and despite the tremor to her breath her aim is a hell of a lot steadier than it should be given the number of bodies scattered and unresponsive around her.
she does the math, hues flitting one by one over each of them and it doesn't take her long to realize that one of them is certainly not like the other. it's a safe bet who'd come with who, and almost as if directed by her gaze alone that gun's glare averts to the sound of approaching steps, boots meeting the quiet slap of puddles. it's evident that she's caught him off guard, taking a step closer the moment he so much as attempts to reach for his waistline. that tell tale hollow click sounds as she tabs the safety from it's place, encouraging him to take pause as tongue presses taut to the roof of her mouth. )
Walk away.
( it's spoken between her teeth, and a mocking chuckle rouses from him, eying the length of her figure, lingering on her heels before his sights drift back up to that pistol in her hands. ) You sure you know how to use that, милый? ( he raises his hands but he doesn't stop, drawing nearer in a calculative drawl of steps; calling her bluff.
her response comes with the shift of an eager trigger-finger, breath stammering, and that digit's just about to curl around that crescent piece when another shot speaks for her, coming from the man barely bracing himself upright against that wall behind her, and every bit of air within her lungs compresses with a single exhale. ) Shit.
( a swallow lodges in her throat, pressing off any acknowledgement of the tremor that's taken to her fingers as she crosses back towards him, tucking that gun into one of her pockets hastily. instinctively she reaches out a hand to support him, but it dawns on her that she doesn't know where he's hurt, so she merely settles for the outer round of his shoulder, ducking down a bit to get to his eye level as she scours him intently. )
Shit. ( it's not difficult to see that one of the many bullets in the chorus she'd heard had met it's mark. )
You need to get to a hospital. I can—it's not far.
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but then there's the new russian arrival and she moves the muzzle of the gun. just a couple inches over, but it's enough level it at the HYDRA agent instead.
bucky takes advantage of the distraction to end the confrontation, again, and this time he purposefully aims for the gut. it drops the other man like a stone anyway. a few moments later the woman is hurrying over to bucky and he tries to straighten himself, shoving up against the wall to get back to his full six-foot height, although it mostly just leads to the scrape of brick against his leather jacket. )
No. It's fine.
( it is very much not fine, but there's also a sudden clarion realisation rippling its way through his thoughts, like a roiling earthquake. don't do anything illegal. no one gets hurt. 'i am no longer the winter soldier; i am james "bucky" barnes and you are part of my efforts to make amends.' except these guys absolutely were not part of it, and so he's pretty sure he's broken the rules.
he scrabbles against the wall some more and then finally shoves himself up. he's not on parole, exactly, but whatever he's on, this battle is probably a violation of it. the pardon's in jeopardy if he's found out. he just hurt a lot of people, even if he aimed for nonlethal damage. because he might have missed. these hands were built for murder; hardwired for it; he's not entirely sure he walked that balance successfully.
and then his gaze clears as he looks closer at the woman beside him. he literally just shot a man in front of her, and yet she isn't running screaming from him. she very easily could've left him behind, but instead she seems to have decided he's the one in need of help. (a good judge of character, or a terrible one?) his gloved hand catches at her sleeve, bracing himself, startled blue eyes meeting hers. )
This probably isn't gonna sound believable. But they came after me first. I'm not—
( i'm not that man anymore. )
You're in no danger. You should keep going. I can take care of it.
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→ i bloom into ache.
Tonight, he dines at the Blue Heron alone in a booth that should, by all means, insulate him from the attentions of the sycophants and socialites around him but does little, unfortunately. Since forming the League and returning to the way patrols used to be, it's been harder to put on this mask, the mask of Bruce Wayne, but it's a necessary evil that he can grin and bear.
The young daughter - twenty-four, at most - of a lawyer in the city seems adamant about making conversation, but is too shy and reserved to invite herself to sit beside him. He's unsure if he wants to invite her to sit with him and then back to his hotel room - she's well-known enough in the tabloids that it could look good, to be seen with her on the society pages, a long enough front until he has to do it again. A necessary evil.
Luckily, that decision bodes no further thought - the gaze that he's allowed to scan across the room catches on platinum blonde hair and the lithe, willowy frame of a woman whose face he should recognize but doesn't. Even better, she's approaching him, dressed in a sundress that she'd clearly chosen in an attempt to assimilate but makes her stand out even more. The girl's talking, but he's not listening not really.
Bruce Wayne's appreciative gaze flicks over the woman until he fixes her with a crooked sort of smile,. Finally, they're left in peace once it's realized his attentions are elsewhere. Now, it's time to fixate the sleazy attention on her. )
Do I know you? I feel like I should. ( There's intent in her face and he knows a journalist when he sees one, but she's not like the others. Not paparazzi. She's fresh-faced yet jaded, new to Gotham but not new to this. He pushes himself over, swigging back the ginger ale he's disguised as champagne. ) Why don't you take a seat and tell me about whatever it is you have on your mind. I can tell by the look on your face. Hopefully, it's to ask me to have dinner with you.
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her target: an expose with bruce wayne. seems when one kingpin is put out of business, all too ready is another to take it's place, only this time it's far less narrowed than a single man. a group of mobsters known as the gnuccis settling rapidly in, polluting the system. matt had given her some sort of lecture when he'd spotted the newspaper clippings spilling out of one of her folders. she's told to stay back, that it wasn't her fight — but oh, how quickly it had become just that. and if she's in over her head, she certainly doesn't approach it as such.
the blue heron was renowned for it's courses and even more so, a frequented favorite of wayne. he's not a man she's ever crossed paths with, but it isn't difficult to recognize him — just as she's given a glimmering crystal glass, heavy in it's bottom and lined with a hint of whiskey — tucked off in the more private recesses of a booth, dining alone, suit black and crisp. there's a worn journal tucked into the purse over her shoulder, and she's downing that amber liquid in a single tip of her crown, before heels tut decisively his way.
it isn't missed how that harrowed, saddened gaze of his runs a study along her figure. she'd dressed for the occasion — a solitary man orphaned by crime, and her responsive smile is tight-lipped, but there's a kindness that exudes with her presence, a suggestion that she wasn't there to narrow into his space, but merely join alongside it. he finds his tongue easily, all coquettish and conversational wrapped up in the sight of a well-worn smirk fit right into it's usual place. though she may not admit it, there's a layer of charm there, however practiced.
she's tucking hair behind her ear, and she's not shy to accept an invitation she'd clearly sought — she wasn't here to tiptoe about things, but she still held held a respect for the idea of privacy. a beat, and she's slipping into the booth across him, situating her bag beside her thigh. )
Maybe a drink to start things off. I'm Karen— ( a hand is held out between them, blue eyes glittering in the dim of the room. ) Karen Page.
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[ He says her name as if to test it out on his tongue, the way it sounds and tastes in his mouth like wine. If he really wanted to play it up, he'd push himself closer to her side of the booth, get in her space. But he doesn't, keeps his distance even with the smarmy smile that feels like a permanent fixture on his face.
It's a beat, but he shakes her hand after a moment. Her fingers are long, her skin soft. He allows his touch to linger on the heel of her palm, the pads of his fingers coarse against her skin, before his hand falls back to his side. ]
The pleasure's all mine. Order whatever you'd like - I'll be having whatever you're having. [ Now that that's out of the way, his eyes narrow, just minutely. He'd been right. It's not often he isn't. Karen Page may look like a doe in headlights, but she certainly is not.
Fingers tapping against the flute in his hand, he downs the rest of the ginger ale and exhales, looking back at Karen. That smile only spreads further, jejune and airy. ]
I'm old-fashioned, Ms. Page. I still drink my morning coffee with a newspaper, so I'm familiar with some of your work over at the Bulletin.
but everyone you meet's just passing through // hey look i made us an au
( once upon a dreary thursday morning, karen page with cellphone in hand (juggling a travel cup and a pastry bag) quite actually stumbles into his life when a headphone-wearing, backpack-on-the-floor, oblivious-to-the-world student scoots his chair back and yanks his bag out across the tiles, tripping her directly into oliver’s grasp. with reflexes not unlike lighting and a firm grasp, he catches her by the bicep just above her elbow and a steady hand near the small of her back. latte unspilled, pastry intact, call relatively uninterrupted. he steadies her with a commanding strength, then releases her back into the wild.
he excuses himself with a casual happens more often than you think and slips out the restroom window before she can wrap up her phone call and thank him. he's nothing if not a man afraid of opening himself up to new people.
( and occasionally, they would end up in the locally owned cafe, karen with an inquisitive glance and oliver with all the pretense in the world, used to project how wrapped up in his own universe he was. eventually, names are exchanged, phone numbers, and they trade off on paying it forward with each other’s orders. )
it isn’t until their schedules overlap, burning the midnight oil, that their paths cross in an undeniable manner. fate has a way of sidelining everything else when a man dressed entirely from head-to-toe in green leather goes crashing through a storefront window across the street as karen’s locking up. she does the smart thing and crouches behind a parked car while oliver tries to remember pain is a physical restraint and rolls over, crawling through shards of glass. he has to get up, he has to get the upper hand here. his bow's outside on the pavement and he's emptied the quiver on his back anyway. it's a flurry of fists and knee jabs, trying to powerhouse his assailant into a blackout. getting his jaw ground into a brick wall is not on the agenda.
a couple of warning gunshots ring out from across the street, aimed too high, but it's all the surprise oliver needs to get off of the wall and flip the tides. limping, bloody, hood down and mask slipping, he snaps the man's neck with gritted teeth because he can see the blonde creeping closer, gun raised. she won't kill for him, decision settled — what's one more bloodstain on his long, long list? )
Get out of here! ( he bellows over the sirens wailing in the distance. he makes it halfway down the alley, hand slipping off the edge of the dumpster right before his vision goes. he wakes up on a couch in an apartment he doesn't recognize, the smell of coffee in the air and bangs his shin on the coffee table in his effort to grapple up to the sound of: that was a pretty stupid stunt you pulled. the splintering pain in his shin or passing out like yesterday's trash? probably both.
which brings them to now — not exactly passing as normal by any means, but it isn't as if oliver can write karen off now that she's seen him unmasked. she saved him from a prison cell and answering uncomfortable questions, handcuffed in the ICU. ultimately, he's the stray cat she never should have stopped to feed.
if he drops in on her fire escape and slinks in through "unlocked" windows, it's because he can't have her tarnishing his good name in an exposé. not because he likes watching her updo come down in loose waves or her changing through a cracked door, reflected in a standing mirror. not for the way she kisses him when he pants out i have to go or for the fire she kindles in him when, instead of leaving, he hoists her up between him and whatever piece of furniture unlucky enough to be used as a prop. he cradles her cheek with gloved fingers, caressing her gently with his thumb. oliver betrays his alleged monstrousness with a sweet brush of noses and a chaste passing of lips. )
Maybe I can put it off for one more hour.
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and perhaps it's exactly why she is, drawn to them and them her, left stitching them up in the stale light of her kitchen just for them to slip out all too soon, not to be seen until the next chapter in their series of trying to put this city back together. like a moth to a flame — a need for a need; a want that's never had a mouth.
she may not be one to scale rooftops and glide limber and effortless through fire escapes, but she's found her own way to look out for those who need it, to give a voice to those left choked from the smoke of greed, of the wealthy, the corrupt systems that only grow all the more poisoned as the days pass. she doesn't expect anything from him because she knows that this, whatever it was they had, was something fleeting — that every time he slipped back out her window with one last brisk kiss to her lips, it may be the last she sees of him. maybe it'd be easier, leave her worrying less, leave apartment quiet rather than checking for snippets on the news to make sure she doesn't see him, and in some instances, where to find him.
they were far more similar than might meet the eye, a constant catch and release, a wanting without knowing how. and maybe that's why it worked, for now.
but wasn't that all anything could ever be?
so when he hoists her up on top of her dresser with ease, when a gloved hand raises to find a blush-splotched cheek, she's curling a calve around the back of his thigh, using it to lure him closer, yet. they were always dancing with stolen time — she might as well make sure she gets the better of it. karen's already grinning against his mouth, intent to interrupt anything that might sound even remotely like a parting of ways. he'd caught her off guard, apartment chilly from leaving the windows cracked for too long, wearing nothing but a too-big t-shirt and a linen set of sleep shorts. he's never seemed to mind, however he finds her — if she had a say, though, she might prefer something easier to navigate on his end than that green suit.
she hums on the brink of that last kiss, fingers raveling at each of his sides, clear by the hug of her thighs that she's not willing to let him go just yet —) Mmh. That sounds better. ( — or any time remotely soon, for that matter. she's a stubborn woman, and if he catches the glint in her eye, he'll know fighting against her would simply be for naught.
their noses stumble, spine straightening til foreheads meet, content to let their lips stumble with her words, to taste his breaths intermingle with her own. she's already a caricature of want, hungering thing that she is, catching the bed of his lower lip with a pinch of her teeth, a thoughtful note rumbling in her throat. )
I can think of a few things to bide the time.
share the same space for a minute or two;
but the wheel turns and time passes and at the end of the day, frank castle finds himself still missing karen page. he’ll always miss her. like he gnawed off his own leg to get out of the trap, and now he can’t stop limping.
so. the text. unlisted, unsigned, but there’s one telling emoji to explain who’s reaching out in the middle of the night (again): )
hey, karen.
- 💀
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the little emoji left at the tail end of the message almost wins the slightest curl at the corner of her mouth, but there's something else festering beneath that surface that demands her attention. frustration. relief. a festering irritation—does he really think she wouldn't know? that she couldn't recognize him in the dark?
and after a long moment, a breath shatters from her as if winded, like some trapped thing she hadn't realized she'd held, pulling her ribs up with it.
a slow-prickling fear is the first to catch her again when it settles. )
Are you okay?
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