( 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.
( frank listens to that answer, and feels his heart twinge in his chest like someone's cracked through his sternum. it had been easier to leave karen behind when he told himself that she was better off without him. that she would flourish without the baggage of his issues and the risks of being associated with him, his dysfunction like an albatross around her neck. she would excel at the newspaper. she would be fine. her life would be good.
but instead, there's the living proof in front of him of the opposite: that exhaustion, the sallowness to her already pale skin, the bags under her eyes expertly covered with makeup. maybe it's time to accept that she's already a magnet for trouble and it doesn't have a goddamned thing to do with him.
he finally can't resist anymore. frank reaches out and covers her hand with his, heavy and warm and slightly chapped from winter dryness. there's nicks and cuts all over his knuckles; more proof that, even the black eye aside, he's been in a fight recently. when has he not? )
I know what you mean. Always been a light sleeper anyway, but it's worse these days.
( insomnia in an empty barebones studio apartment, more a closet than a place to live. sleepwalking through construction gigs and late nights as the punisher both: sleeping, waking up, doing it all over again, waking up with nosebleeds pressed into the pillowcase. a hollow shell of a man. it had gotten— better— since madani handed him a do-over and the feds weren't after him as much, but he still found himself sliding into those old patterns. still holding himself apart, not allowing himself the luxury of human contact. an anchor. karen.
it was a fucking stupid move, if we're being honest.)
Just wish it wasn't that way for you. You were supposed to— I don't know. Be a hot-shot reporter, go to potlucks, have fancy dinners. Have a life. A normal life.
( she could have told him better, he should have known better, she hadn't ever needed him around for the hellhounds of the city to find her. rather, how many times had he been at the frontlines of her making it out? when bullets had rained vertically throughout her apartment, when that bomb had been tucked within the very room in which she'd interviewed. he tries to blame himself for all of the bad, and she gets it. she does, because it's all she can do herself. pick apart what she could've done, should've done—but what about the people she's helped, by ensuring they're seen?
he flatters himself to think it's better for her, to stay away. but really, it's just the easy way out. to stay and care? that's terrifying.
one of those big palms of his seeks out her own, eclipses it in that roughened heat she's learned so well, distinguished as his, and she can't help but to sigh. a pathetic sound, a longing sound, inhale stammering despite how desperately she wishes she could just keep her shit together. this isn't the karen she wants him to see, fragile and human. she was never meant to be the girl he describes. not from the very beginning.
still, she laughs. and this time it's an honest sound, despite it's lacking tone, despite how breathy it exits her. )
Yeah, well. I guess we can't all be so lucky.
( her fingers lift a little, under his touch, thumb giving just a ghost of a caress along the edge of his. )
I wish you'd stay, you know? ( he'll tell her not to say it, to stop, he can't, but she can't help herself. it bubbles over, teeth dragging at the edge of her lip, chewing at the inner of her cheek. ) It doesn't matter how long. Just... something.
( and. this. this is why he's kept himself away so long, because tearing himself away from her the first time, and the second, was already hard enough. refusing her in the hospital room particularly felt like sawing off one of his limbs, gnawing off his own leg. carving out his own heart and leaving himself feeling indefinably empty and hollow afterwards.
coming back and facing that question all over again is tempting fate. frank isn't sure he can look her in the eye and do it a third time. not with karen asking like this, again, with her thumb curving against his and her face looking so wide-open and vulnerable and wanting. it's asking for something so little. so paltry and small. 'it doesn't matter how long.' and she can see the way the request settles over his shoulders, tightens in the muscles of his neck, as he stops and considers it properly. even as the waitress comes, tops off frank's coffee — the older woman's gaze sliding over the pair of them, obvious that something of significance is passing between the people at this rundown booth, even if she can't identify exactly the nature of it.
they probably can't, either.
when his answer finally comes, it's gruff, as if he's having to wrench it out of himself: )
—Yeah. Okay. I could. Just for a while.
It's not like I get to be back in town that often. Grew up here. Been away a while.
( for good reason— or at least, he'd told himself that at the time. with the warmth of karen page's hand beneath his, though, all those reasons feel like they're tumbling and flying right out the window. )
( she doesn't like to think about all of the times they've said goodbye without really saying it. all of the times she'd been convinced that once she turned her back, once he did, he'd go rogue. but really, this time. what pricks at her more is she wouldn't blame him, couldn't. not with what he's lost, the myriad of places he's left fragments of himself around that city. it was hard to accept the idea of home when you couldn't sit still, when you couldn't get comfortable.
did she really know how it felt, even when she had it?
she knows what she's asking. knows there's a very real possibility that when sleep finally takes her, she'll wake to find his ghost in his place. but if she can steal a few more hours with him, isn't it worth that open wound? karen watches as he digests the request, as it breaks him in some small way that she almost—almost takes it back. he agrees and at first, it doesn't set in. she should feel relief, that he doesn't immediately shrug it off, grumble up an excuse. she doesn't. she damns herself for it, but it's so hard for her to really, really be here with him when she's waiting on the end. anticipating it, when it's the furthest thing from what she wants.
at first, she just nods, sights dropping to the pair of their hands, looping one of her fingers up and around his own. )
I don't have much, but... ( a shrug as words fall to a hush, smile turning into something almost bashful, the slightest tinge of pink hinting at the rounds of her cheeks. some cheap beer, a comfortable couch. somewhere warm for him to rest, at least.
a heavy swallow, speaking on a drawn breath— )
Promise me you'll say something, before you leave.
( what karen's offering — this temporary rest, a reprieve, a stopover in an actual home rather than the near-monastic place he's rented, lodgings meant for people just passing through — it feels selfish to take it. he doesn't deserve it, shouldn't take it.
but he wants it.
and at her next request, there's a subtle shift in frank's expression. less stricken and weighty with portent, and instead there's first hints of amusement creeping back into his expression, a glint of mischief in his dark eyes. a little glimmer of that pete castiglione facade he's been having to wield in the world, a picture of a more carefree man — except where it's shallow around others, just banter in some dive bar with an anonymous stranger he'll never see again, here that playfulness touches on something more genuine. )
What, so I don't ghost you in the morning? I haven't done a walk of shame in my life, ma'am, and I'm not planning on starting now.
( he meant it as a joke, as a way to gently puncture some of this tension, but— shit. in a way, it just made it worse. because now it's applied some weight on the scales and shifted the context. because now he's thinking about what precedes a walk of shame, and why the fuck did he even have to conjure that image.
and if he were any other man than frank castle, maybe he could've let it sit there like that, wait to gauge her reaction and that pretty blush just starting to heat her cheeks, but instead he trips over his words to try to reel it back: )
Sorry. Not— that's not what I meant. But I mean, I'll let you know. I promise.
( he swallows, his adam's apple bobbing. his fingers twitch slightly, a flicker that would normally be that automatic nervous tic of his, but the movement is stilled by the weight of her hand. he's grateful for it. )
( countless nights she'd found herself wondering—cheek pressed to a cold pillow, night glaring into her room like a cool blue bath—where he might be. if he was warm, if he was tucked under a comfortable set of blankets or crashing wherever he could, the soonest place his body would give out. turns and turns on the thought of picking up her phone, finding that familiar set of numbers—where that glaring screen might interrupt him. if he was in bed, too. if he was out in the brisk hands of the city. if he was forgetting himself with someone else.
she never lets herself call. like it's some sort of sick test, like there was anything she had to lose from trying—there wasn't. it's just the fragility of only having him through that device, something that could be shattered so easily, lost, left behind. he exists so many ways for her except in the flesh.
karen watches the crinkles beside his eyes, how light he looks even if just for a moment when amusement sparks within them, pieces of a man that were so often hidden. it's moments like these she holds like a snapshot within her mind, replays over and over so as not to forget the details, every last one of them. he hits home, at first, but then she's sinking teeth into lips around a laugh, brows furrowing together while he fumbles to dig himself out. )
Well, Mr. Castle, tell me what you're really thinking.
( she's toying with him, of course, free hand abandoning her mug to take place over top of his own, pressing warmly there as if to assure him, aside from jovial tone alone, that she hadn't taken it that way. his apology is dismissed with another dwindled snicker, a thick strand of blonde falling to brush along her temple, previously tucked behind her ear. )
I wouldn't peg you as the type. —for the walk of shame, at least. The ghosting... ( she gives a little squint, like she's mulling it over, and tease as she may it doesn't hide the truth of it. she's just as guilty, neglecting to answer her phone, leaving others with no choice but to stop by to make sure she was still intact. each of her digits falls between the swollen, abused valleys of his knuckles, giving a light squeeze. )
( he's perennially polite, well-behaved in that particular aspect. even back in his rougher years, frank had still liked those drowsy morning-afters, waking up with someone's limbs tangled in his, the warmth of someone's presence beside him. it was a nice counterpoint to all those cold nights on rough terrain overseas. more recently he'd even tried to slip out from beth's place, but instead wound up buying the woman and her son pancakes and having breakfast together, almost like a family. typical. absolutely typical. for being a stealthy vigilante, he was terrible at sneaking out. the ghosting, though... )
Fair point.
( he accepts the affectionate rebuke for what it is. the tease hits its mark, but it doesn't sting this time, even if it's true; a well-deserved little jab. )
Haven't changed my number yet, at least. So I'm glad you reached out tonight. Even if it was just to make sure I'm still alive. ( there's a ruefulness to his voice. an awareness that that question straddles an uneasy balance between being a joke and being too-close-to-home, too: it's highly possible that one day she'd text him and he really would be dead and gone.
he takes another sip of his coffee. tries not to look too closely at that stray wisp of hair where it falls across karen's face; resists the urge to reach out and tuck it back behind her ear. he's already in enough trouble. there's already that quiet chiding voice in the back of his head, a siren going off at the mere sensation of her hand in his, and it sounds like: what the fuck do you think you're doing, castle. this conversation, just being around karen at all, feels dangerous in a way that firefights aren't. )
( when was the last time karen had another over, let alone within her sheets? she doesn't know. months span to years when it comes to a lacking touch, and eventually, it's easier to be absent of a thing when you no longer no how to long for it. it's a collection of things—work, files scattered across her coffee table, her kitchen counter, sometimes the floor of her bedroom where the light glints through, as if it could give her a spark. and then there's the city itself, the place she holds, what she's learned and what she wishes she hadn't—she has all the time in the world, coming home late to her apartment and nursing a coffee, or something stronger. she tells herself she doesn't. she tells herself she isn't missing anything.
she's the furthest thing from whole.
as much as she wants him to stay, it's not as simple as that. it's never simple with her. she knows how to sit in the quiet of her own place. what she didn't know was how to sit in the quiet with him. )
Either you're getting into less trouble, or you were holding out. ( for her to reach. to see if she could meet him somewhere in the dark. of course, when he did switch numbers, she'd come to learn it by an alert, a message from unknown. it's the only time she heard from him first. )
Sometimes it helps. ( when she finally caves, when she sends a message and sometimes even hours later, she receives a response. ) Like a push to get through the week. The month. The night, even. ( she makes a face like it's silly, like she knows, and draws in a breath, almost like she's retracting again to try and cover up the vulnerable. )
It'll be a change. ( for tonight. ) Not worrying what you're getting yourself into out there.
( it feels like this is glancing too closely onto something of dire significance, turning over stones that had been sitting untouched for too long. hearing from him gets her through the night? through the month?
thankfully, she keeps talking before he can address it. it's an importance that he simply doesn't deserve, to have someone like her hanging off his messages and waiting for a reply. for proof of life. this was why frank had surgically severed his connections as best he could. even his messages to curtis, amy, david, had tapered off and become sporadic over the last few months. he was bad at staying in touch. bad at keeping up the semblance of normalcy. had forgotten how to do it. they'd all wormed their way under his skin — this woman especially — and yet.
a muscle works in his jaw, like he's chewing over his words. his coffee's getting cold but he can't bring himself to indulge in that distraction anymore; hyper-fixated instead on the warmth of karen's skin, that self-conscious twist of her expression and the way she scrunches her nose. he could drown in these details. )
Keeping me under supervision, huh?
I don't mind. Already wrapped up my work here, anyway, so there shouldn't be any trouble following me home. ( because of course that was what he worried about, all the time. then, after a moment, he adds: ) Probably.
( the thing is, frank doesn't get to choose who he is or isn't important to. it's few and far between when it comes to karen garnering any sort of interaction, let alone anything that hummed on the edge of intimate. she's learned better than to put a label on things, whatever it was that'd flourished between them wasn't in the bounds of the ordinary, but who was anyone to tell her where she could or couldn't gather warmth from? it's a futile effort, his attempts to paint himself a ghost, something no one could love, all rough knuckles and spat out blood. she'd never needed the soft. it'd never come home to her.
she didn't need it's company now.
she notes that grit to his jaw, how the skin beside his ear flutters in response. her gaze is steady where it resides: on him, eyes an overcast blue and that subtle hint of a tilt returning to her mouth once more. this is how it was between them, ever oscillating, a delicate balance. )
I have my ways. ( seeing as she had a bit of experience with another vigilante in particular who had a knack for throwing himself into the carnivorous belly of the city. )
I can't promise the same. ( having her name in rigid type frequenting headlines on top of interviewing a bruising array of potential clientele at the firm, she didn't always put herself into the best light. it wouldn't be the first time she'd been followed—tonight, though, they'd be wise to keep their distance. before he can question what exactly she means, she's digressing; they had many more hours of the night to go, and for one frank castle, karen's an open book. )
I'm not so sure my work here ever ends. ( briefly, she chews at the inner of her cheek. ) Speaking of following... you need a ride?
I mean, me either. Already told you it's like playing whack-a-mole. No matter how many criminals I put down, there's always more.
( all the more reason this monolithic quest was neverending; was a snake eating its own tail; maybe wasn't worth pouring his whole life into and shearing off all the parts of him that weren't the punisher. killing any part of him that existed for something more than killing. when she asks about a ride, though, frank glances at his watch and realises how time has unexpectedly slid onwards. the coffee is utterly cold and sludgy by now, although he still disengages from her long enough to swig the last of it down in one straight shot.
he had noticed the waitress discreetly dropping off the check at his elbow, though. once upon a time, he might've missed that sort of quiet attentiveness — service people were stealthier and more unobtrusive than most thieves, even — but these days, he always noticed whenever someone moved into and out of his space. )
Could do with a ride, yeah. Faster than the subway.
( he tended to move around the city on public transit and by foot. he liked getting reacquainted with new york by the soles of his boots, getting his physical bearings. he fishes in his pockets and drops some crumpled bills on the table, paying for both their drinks and tipping generously, as he grabs his coat and slides back out of the booth, waiting for her. )
You still live at the same place?
( there's a good chance that frank keeps somewhat invasive tabs on her and already knows the answer to that question, but he asks it anyway. that semblance of normalcy. )
All looking to get their shot at the infamous Castle.
( she finishes the narrative, a comfortable habit. how disappointed those darker nooks of the city and those who inhabit them would be to learn of his return, but what a hell of a pair they'd make, taking them down both in print and with brute force. she providing the finesse while he that roughened touch. it's an idea she could easily keep warm, but in the same vein, she wants better for him. more than stalking the streets looking for signs of trouble, and if he were to try, could she really say that with her was the best place for him to be? like leaving an addict right at the glaring entry of a liquor store.
in a lot of respects, she's no better than he is at getting out, hells kitchen or no hells kitchen.
he grabs for his coat after leaving a few bills atop that faint receipt, and she can already feel the bitter draft sneaking beneath the neck of her coat, biting that strawberry flush to her cheeks. she'll have to kick the heat on a bit higher when they get back—a means of skirting a too-high bill, living in too-big knit sweaters and the pacing scuff of slippers. as if she'd let him take the subway, let him part from her so soon when there was no promise that he'd follow—he could change his mind, decide to try that righteous route again.
she slips from the booth, standing alongside him with a quiet tut of heels still laced about her ankles. ) Yeah. ( when she starts, she finds gaze with his until he falls in line beside her. )
Must be taking it too easy on them. ( a playful nudge to his side once they've stepped out into the brisk night, weak ding of the door's bell sounding overhead. she's not. just... trying not to pick fights with someone who might encourage a blind target practice through her walls. )
I could scale up. Put a little more elbow grease into it.
( both of them are speaking about it so breezily, like it's just a matter of a particularly bad roach infestation or something. but there's a ghost of a smile on his face at the fact that she's able to joke about it. most people would recoil in horror at the realities of frank's life.
but she had kept coming back, and coming back, and coming back, and frank hadn't let himself think too closely on that just yet.
they set off in the night, heading towards her car and walking side-by-side. frank castle isn't actually a tall man — he's all compact muscle rather than height, and karen's heels bring her just about to eye-level, but something in him always radiates more personal space. taking up a wide berth where people unconsciously give way on the sidewalk, step aside when he's barreling forward with his shoulders hunched in his jacket.
and yet, here, with her, it's his shoulder bumping just as companionably back against hers, like a wild animal de-clawed. and then it's him standing beside her car, head ducked down, scuffing at some pebbles in the parking lot while karen's unlocking the driver's door. )
Can't remember the last time I just hung out at someone's place.
( it's a quiet, thoughtful admission, murmured more to the night air than directly to karen. most of the time, the things that brought him to her door or curtis' or lieberman's lately meant something had gone dreadfully wrong and he needed help or a favour. heading to her place just for the sake of spending time together, with no other underlying emergency? that's new. that's precious. )
( she notes how he stands by, casts his gaze down to the stray gravel on the pavement as she worries the key into place, and it dawns on her how out of place it all was, the two of them coming together willingly rather than by necessity, rather than their lives messily weaving in and out of the others. as it is, there's instances of time where she doesn't know what her life looks like without him; terrifyingly so, that reality still nips at her ankles, follows close at her heels. )
Most don't get an invitation.
( it's a little taunt spoken above the hood of her car just as she manages the door open, smirk sure to be caught before she's ducking in. to be honest, she'd never brought a man back to her place. at least, not to this one. and the idea of even imagining frank in that capacity leaves heat flourishing to the rounds of her cheeks, hidden well by the cold as the heat kicks on in the car, engine humming to life. it was easier to keep them separate, for that apartment to be hers and only hers—without the image of someone else painted around the surfaces, without memories sleeping with her like a ghost.
and how starved they were that intimacy found them at the slightest opportunity: in gazes cast over coffee mugs; in walking side by side along that sidewalk, just close enough to touch, but not quite there; in the way he waits to join her in the cab of that car 'til she's settling in to the driver's side, leaning over to pop the handle of his. like he's waiting for permission, waiting for the gentle reminder, reassurance that he was wanted, here.
she waits to pull from the curb til he's settled beside her, streetlights soon passing over them in blinks. )
It's easier to keep people out of... ( she shrugs vaguely, tucking lips in on one another. ) all of it.
I get that. Although, not sure if that's what I expected for you. So you haven't been...?
( he doesn't blush like she does, but something catches in the back of his throat, the words grinding to a halt as he can't find the right way of phrasing what should be an innocent question. funny, that. he tells himself he's just curious. asking about a friend's social life. just as part of catching up. it's fine, everything's fine.
(sure.)
frank's watching the streets around them rather than looking over at her — old habit, constantly evaluating their surroundings, looking for a suspicious lurch of motion or a car tailing them, but it also means he's safely not looking over at karen so she can't see the way his expression flickers. she wouldn't be with red — he had a feeling that particular ship had already sailed, for so many reasons — but... someone. someone normal and good for her, so she doesn't have to weather those cold nights alone. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
— 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.
no subject
( 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...
but instead, there's the living proof in front of him of the opposite: that exhaustion, the sallowness to her already pale skin, the bags under her eyes expertly covered with makeup. maybe it's time to accept that she's already a magnet for trouble and it doesn't have a goddamned thing to do with him.
he finally can't resist anymore. frank reaches out and covers her hand with his, heavy and warm and slightly chapped from winter dryness. there's nicks and cuts all over his knuckles; more proof that, even the black eye aside, he's been in a fight recently. when has he not? )
I know what you mean. Always been a light sleeper anyway, but it's worse these days.
( insomnia in an empty barebones studio apartment, more a closet than a place to live. sleepwalking through construction gigs and late nights as the punisher both: sleeping, waking up, doing it all over again, waking up with nosebleeds pressed into the pillowcase. a hollow shell of a man. it had gotten— better— since madani handed him a do-over and the feds weren't after him as much, but he still found himself sliding into those old patterns. still holding himself apart, not allowing himself the luxury of human contact. an anchor. karen.
it was a fucking stupid move, if we're being honest.)
Just wish it wasn't that way for you. You were supposed to— I don't know. Be a hot-shot reporter, go to potlucks, have fancy dinners. Have a life. A normal life.
( don't be like him, in other words. )
he's touching her hand don't speak to me
he flatters himself to think it's better for her, to stay away. but really, it's just the easy way out. to stay and care? that's terrifying.
one of those big palms of his seeks out her own, eclipses it in that roughened heat she's learned so well, distinguished as his, and she can't help but to sigh. a pathetic sound, a longing sound, inhale stammering despite how desperately she wishes she could just keep her shit together. this isn't the karen she wants him to see, fragile and human. she was never meant to be the girl he describes. not from the very beginning.
still, she laughs. and this time it's an honest sound, despite it's lacking tone, despite how breathy it exits her. )
Yeah, well. I guess we can't all be so lucky.
( her fingers lift a little, under his touch, thumb giving just a ghost of a caress along the edge of his. )
I wish you'd stay, you know? ( he'll tell her not to say it, to stop, he can't, but she can't help herself. it bubbles over, teeth dragging at the edge of her lip, chewing at the inner of her cheek. ) It doesn't matter how long. Just... something.
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coming back and facing that question all over again is tempting fate. frank isn't sure he can look her in the eye and do it a third time. not with karen asking like this, again, with her thumb curving against his and her face looking so wide-open and vulnerable and wanting. it's asking for something so little. so paltry and small. 'it doesn't matter how long.' and she can see the way the request settles over his shoulders, tightens in the muscles of his neck, as he stops and considers it properly. even as the waitress comes, tops off frank's coffee — the older woman's gaze sliding over the pair of them, obvious that something of significance is passing between the people at this rundown booth, even if she can't identify exactly the nature of it.
they probably can't, either.
when his answer finally comes, it's gruff, as if he's having to wrench it out of himself: )
—Yeah. Okay. I could. Just for a while.
It's not like I get to be back in town that often. Grew up here. Been away a while.
( for good reason— or at least, he'd told himself that at the time. with the warmth of karen page's hand beneath his, though, all those reasons feel like they're tumbling and flying right out the window. )
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did she really know how it felt, even when she had it?
she knows what she's asking. knows there's a very real possibility that when sleep finally takes her, she'll wake to find his ghost in his place. but if she can steal a few more hours with him, isn't it worth that open wound? karen watches as he digests the request, as it breaks him in some small way that she almost—almost takes it back. he agrees and at first, it doesn't set in. she should feel relief, that he doesn't immediately shrug it off, grumble up an excuse. she doesn't. she damns herself for it, but it's so hard for her to really, really be here with him when she's waiting on the end. anticipating it, when it's the furthest thing from what she wants.
at first, she just nods, sights dropping to the pair of their hands, looping one of her fingers up and around his own. )
I don't have much, but... ( a shrug as words fall to a hush, smile turning into something almost bashful, the slightest tinge of pink hinting at the rounds of her cheeks. some cheap beer, a comfortable couch. somewhere warm for him to rest, at least.
a heavy swallow, speaking on a drawn breath— )
Promise me you'll say something, before you leave.
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but he wants it.
and at her next request, there's a subtle shift in frank's expression. less stricken and weighty with portent, and instead there's first hints of amusement creeping back into his expression, a glint of mischief in his dark eyes. a little glimmer of that pete castiglione facade he's been having to wield in the world, a picture of a more carefree man — except where it's shallow around others, just banter in some dive bar with an anonymous stranger he'll never see again, here that playfulness touches on something more genuine. )
What, so I don't ghost you in the morning? I haven't done a walk of shame in my life, ma'am, and I'm not planning on starting now.
( he meant it as a joke, as a way to gently puncture some of this tension, but— shit. in a way, it just made it worse. because now it's applied some weight on the scales and shifted the context. because now he's thinking about what precedes a walk of shame, and why the fuck did he even have to conjure that image.
and if he were any other man than frank castle, maybe he could've let it sit there like that, wait to gauge her reaction and that pretty blush just starting to heat her cheeks, but instead he trips over his words to try to reel it back: )
Sorry. Not— that's not what I meant. But I mean, I'll let you know. I promise.
( he swallows, his adam's apple bobbing. his fingers twitch slightly, a flicker that would normally be that automatic nervous tic of his, but the movement is stilled by the weight of her hand. he's grateful for it. )
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she never lets herself call. like it's some sort of sick test, like there was anything she had to lose from trying—there wasn't. it's just the fragility of only having him through that device, something that could be shattered so easily, lost, left behind. he exists so many ways for her except in the flesh.
karen watches the crinkles beside his eyes, how light he looks even if just for a moment when amusement sparks within them, pieces of a man that were so often hidden. it's moments like these she holds like a snapshot within her mind, replays over and over so as not to forget the details, every last one of them. he hits home, at first, but then she's sinking teeth into lips around a laugh, brows furrowing together while he fumbles to dig himself out. )
Well, Mr. Castle, tell me what you're really thinking.
( she's toying with him, of course, free hand abandoning her mug to take place over top of his own, pressing warmly there as if to assure him, aside from jovial tone alone, that she hadn't taken it that way. his apology is dismissed with another dwindled snicker, a thick strand of blonde falling to brush along her temple, previously tucked behind her ear. )
I wouldn't peg you as the type. —for the walk of shame, at least. The ghosting... ( she gives a little squint, like she's mulling it over, and tease as she may it doesn't hide the truth of it. she's just as guilty, neglecting to answer her phone, leaving others with no choice but to stop by to make sure she was still intact. each of her digits falls between the swollen, abused valleys of his knuckles, giving a light squeeze. )
We all have our reasons.
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Fair point.
( he accepts the affectionate rebuke for what it is. the tease hits its mark, but it doesn't sting this time, even if it's true; a well-deserved little jab. )
Haven't changed my number yet, at least. So I'm glad you reached out tonight. Even if it was just to make sure I'm still alive. ( there's a ruefulness to his voice. an awareness that that question straddles an uneasy balance between being a joke and being too-close-to-home, too: it's highly possible that one day she'd text him and he really would be dead and gone.
he takes another sip of his coffee. tries not to look too closely at that stray wisp of hair where it falls across karen's face; resists the urge to reach out and tuck it back behind her ear. he's already in enough trouble. there's already that quiet chiding voice in the back of his head, a siren going off at the mere sensation of her hand in his, and it sounds like: what the fuck do you think you're doing, castle. this conversation, just being around karen at all, feels dangerous in a way that firefights aren't. )
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she's the furthest thing from whole.
as much as she wants him to stay, it's not as simple as that. it's never simple with her. she knows how to sit in the quiet of her own place. what she didn't know was how to sit in the quiet with him. )
Either you're getting into less trouble, or you were holding out. ( for her to reach. to see if she could meet him somewhere in the dark. of course, when he did switch numbers, she'd come to learn it by an alert, a message from unknown. it's the only time she heard from him first. )
Sometimes it helps. ( when she finally caves, when she sends a message and sometimes even hours later, she receives a response. ) Like a push to get through the week. The month. The night, even. ( she makes a face like it's silly, like she knows, and draws in a breath, almost like she's retracting again to try and cover up the vulnerable. )
It'll be a change. ( for tonight. ) Not worrying what you're getting yourself into out there.
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thankfully, she keeps talking before he can address it. it's an importance that he simply doesn't deserve, to have someone like her hanging off his messages and waiting for a reply. for proof of life. this was why frank had surgically severed his connections as best he could. even his messages to curtis, amy, david, had tapered off and become sporadic over the last few months. he was bad at staying in touch. bad at keeping up the semblance of normalcy. had forgotten how to do it. they'd all wormed their way under his skin — this woman especially — and yet.
a muscle works in his jaw, like he's chewing over his words. his coffee's getting cold but he can't bring himself to indulge in that distraction anymore; hyper-fixated instead on the warmth of karen's skin, that self-conscious twist of her expression and the way she scrunches her nose. he could drown in these details. )
Keeping me under supervision, huh?
I don't mind. Already wrapped up my work here, anyway, so there shouldn't be any trouble following me home. ( because of course that was what he worried about, all the time. then, after a moment, he adds: ) Probably.
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she didn't need it's company now.
she notes that grit to his jaw, how the skin beside his ear flutters in response. her gaze is steady where it resides: on him, eyes an overcast blue and that subtle hint of a tilt returning to her mouth once more. this is how it was between them, ever oscillating, a delicate balance. )
I have my ways. ( seeing as she had a bit of experience with another vigilante in particular who had a knack for throwing himself into the carnivorous belly of the city. )
I can't promise the same. ( having her name in rigid type frequenting headlines on top of interviewing a bruising array of potential clientele at the firm, she didn't always put herself into the best light. it wouldn't be the first time she'd been followed—tonight, though, they'd be wise to keep their distance. before he can question what exactly she means, she's digressing; they had many more hours of the night to go, and for one frank castle, karen's an open book. )
I'm not so sure my work here ever ends. ( briefly, she chews at the inner of her cheek. ) Speaking of following... you need a ride?
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( all the more reason this monolithic quest was neverending; was a snake eating its own tail; maybe wasn't worth pouring his whole life into and shearing off all the parts of him that weren't the punisher. killing any part of him that existed for something more than killing. when she asks about a ride, though, frank glances at his watch and realises how time has unexpectedly slid onwards. the coffee is utterly cold and sludgy by now, although he still disengages from her long enough to swig the last of it down in one straight shot.
he had noticed the waitress discreetly dropping off the check at his elbow, though. once upon a time, he might've missed that sort of quiet attentiveness — service people were stealthier and more unobtrusive than most thieves, even — but these days, he always noticed whenever someone moved into and out of his space. )
Could do with a ride, yeah. Faster than the subway.
( he tended to move around the city on public transit and by foot. he liked getting reacquainted with new york by the soles of his boots, getting his physical bearings. he fishes in his pockets and drops some crumpled bills on the table, paying for both their drinks and tipping generously, as he grabs his coat and slides back out of the booth, waiting for her. )
You still live at the same place?
( there's a good chance that frank keeps somewhat invasive tabs on her and already knows the answer to that question, but he asks it anyway. that semblance of normalcy. )
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( she finishes the narrative, a comfortable habit. how disappointed those darker nooks of the city and those who inhabit them would be to learn of his return, but what a hell of a pair they'd make, taking them down both in print and with brute force. she providing the finesse while he that roughened touch. it's an idea she could easily keep warm, but in the same vein, she wants better for him. more than stalking the streets looking for signs of trouble, and if he were to try, could she really say that with her was the best place for him to be? like leaving an addict right at the glaring entry of a liquor store.
in a lot of respects, she's no better than he is at getting out, hells kitchen or no hells kitchen.
he grabs for his coat after leaving a few bills atop that faint receipt, and she can already feel the bitter draft sneaking beneath the neck of her coat, biting that strawberry flush to her cheeks. she'll have to kick the heat on a bit higher when they get back—a means of skirting a too-high bill, living in too-big knit sweaters and the pacing scuff of slippers. as if she'd let him take the subway, let him part from her so soon when there was no promise that he'd follow—he could change his mind, decide to try that righteous route again.
she slips from the booth, standing alongside him with a quiet tut of heels still laced about her ankles. ) Yeah. ( when she starts, she finds gaze with his until he falls in line beside her. )
Must be taking it too easy on them. ( a playful nudge to his side once they've stepped out into the brisk night, weak ding of the door's bell sounding overhead. she's not. just... trying not to pick fights with someone who might encourage a blind target practice through her walls. )
HOW DID TWO WEEKS GO BY
( both of them are speaking about it so breezily, like it's just a matter of a particularly bad roach infestation or something. but there's a ghost of a smile on his face at the fact that she's able to joke about it. most people would recoil in horror at the realities of frank's life.
but she had kept coming back, and coming back, and coming back, and frank hadn't let himself think too closely on that just yet.
they set off in the night, heading towards her car and walking side-by-side. frank castle isn't actually a tall man — he's all compact muscle rather than height, and karen's heels bring her just about to eye-level, but something in him always radiates more personal space. taking up a wide berth where people unconsciously give way on the sidewalk, step aside when he's barreling forward with his shoulders hunched in his jacket.
and yet, here, with her, it's his shoulder bumping just as companionably back against hers, like a wild animal de-clawed. and then it's him standing beside her car, head ducked down, scuffing at some pebbles in the parking lot while karen's unlocking the driver's door. )
Can't remember the last time I just hung out at someone's place.
( it's a quiet, thoughtful admission, murmured more to the night air than directly to karen. most of the time, the things that brought him to her door or curtis' or lieberman's lately meant something had gone dreadfully wrong and he needed help or a favour. heading to her place just for the sake of spending time together, with no other underlying emergency? that's new. that's precious. )
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Most don't get an invitation.
( it's a little taunt spoken above the hood of her car just as she manages the door open, smirk sure to be caught before she's ducking in. to be honest, she'd never brought a man back to her place. at least, not to this one. and the idea of even imagining frank in that capacity leaves heat flourishing to the rounds of her cheeks, hidden well by the cold as the heat kicks on in the car, engine humming to life. it was easier to keep them separate, for that apartment to be hers and only hers—without the image of someone else painted around the surfaces, without memories sleeping with her like a ghost.
and how starved they were that intimacy found them at the slightest opportunity: in gazes cast over coffee mugs; in walking side by side along that sidewalk, just close enough to touch, but not quite there; in the way he waits to join her in the cab of that car 'til she's settling in to the driver's side, leaning over to pop the handle of his. like he's waiting for permission, waiting for the gentle reminder, reassurance that he was wanted, here.
she waits to pull from the curb til he's settled beside her, streetlights soon passing over them in blinks. )
It's easier to keep people out of... ( she shrugs vaguely, tucking lips in on one another. ) all of it.
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( he doesn't blush like she does, but something catches in the back of his throat, the words grinding to a halt as he can't find the right way of phrasing what should be an innocent question. funny, that. he tells himself he's just curious. asking about a friend's social life. just as part of catching up. it's fine, everything's fine.
(sure.)
frank's watching the streets around them rather than looking over at her — old habit, constantly evaluating their surroundings, looking for a suspicious lurch of motion or a car tailing them, but it also means he's safely not looking over at karen so she can't see the way his expression flickers. she wouldn't be with red — he had a feeling that particular ship had already sailed, for so many reasons — but... someone. someone normal and good for her, so she doesn't have to weather those cold nights alone. )
There hasn't been anyone?