( on kneejerk instinct, frank starts to tap out a half-joking reply, wanting to run with it as if they were normal people with normal problems: why wouldn’t i be okay, why, do i gotta be dying to reach out to you,
except he knows himself and he knows them and, honestly, it’s a fair and realistic concern. he’s rarely okay. he always comes to her with blood in his mouth and shattered ribs and broken-hearted. frank darkening her doorstep usually means something’s gone wrong, he needs help, he needs stitching-up, there’s some bullshit coming down on his head. and she deserves better than that. which means it’s a relief to be able to admit: )
same as ever
not actively bleeding at the moment if that’s what you mean i’m good
( he is not, in fact, good, but that’s relative. )
( it's a question that holds a different weight, isn't implied with the same sort of baited breath as one might if they were catching up with just someone. perhaps more fitting might've been a 'how bad is it?', because she's never known him without the garish hue of bruises, without a tight-set jaw and a trigger finger to flee. )
Okay. ( is all she manages at first, an assurance that beckons her back from the ledge, as if there wasn't something else waiting to sink its teeth into her.
it feels... stiff. unfamiliar, at least for now. how long has it been? she reaches back into her memories, fingertip idly circling the coffee mug sat before her. how many times can she keep picking up from where they left off? she winces, internally, as if she doesn't know how to hold conversation. as if he had to want something from her to reach out again, after all this time. )
( they weren’t exactly texters; he didn’t often pin his thoughts down in writing; all of this was easier when they were together in-person. when he could see her face and she could read the battered meat of his. those quiet spaces they carved out for each other. )
yeah. just got back from chicago last night
( and if she goes digging later with all her journalistic instinct, she’ll find the traces of him between the lines, the clues in each news article and what they weren’t saying: a dead mobster here, a dismantled human trafficking ring there. there’s a pattern once you know what to look for. )
got invited to lieberman’s for thanksgiving and curtis said i oughta make an effort. ( and not just with david. ) you in town?
( she's done her homework. not enough to know the gritty details, but more of a scouring to keep a birds eye view on him, to make sure nothing grim made it to any headlines. she likes to think he'd reach out to her, if anything were to happen. that she'd have a chance at saying goodbye to him—but she's immediately curtailing the thought.
he's here. he's home, living and breathing and, going off of his word, in one piece. )
He reached out to me, too. Honestly I wasn't sure if I'd make it or not. ( a home cooked meal during the holidays would look good on him. )
But yeah, I'm still here. Strangely enough the city's been pretty quiet.
( the city’s quiet — red and his cohort have been doing their job well — which is in large part why frank hasn’t been around. less work for him to do, less mess needing mopping up.
so probably it says something, that he’s come slinking back regardless. he hesitates over the reply for a while, awkward, trying to figure out exactly what he wants to say. how to say it. how to bridge this newfound gap. )
maybe i’ll see you there i hope you wind up goi i
( she tries to busy herself within the pause, like she doesn't quite know how to hold the quiet, something she's gotten so used to keeping her company. between them it's something different.
and then he responds and she doesn't know what to do with that, either. together. when had that ever been a word for them, if not temporary? wouldn't it be easier to keep him at a distance, rather than let him in just to leave again?
( here’s the problem: these messages are too little, not enough. it can’t carry the whole weight of everything that flickers across his face and his heart and what he wants to say to her. how about right now. where are you. i miss you.
he’s only such a coward with karen page.
but in the end, frank forces himself to keep on this blunt track, like ripping off band-aids, tearing out his stitches, addressing the elephant in the room and exactly how badly he fucked it up last time: )
don’t think i’m allowed to say that i missed you.
( her heart thuds like something that doesn't fit, loud in her ears, hot across her cheeks, and she hates the way it feels. like something curled within her stomach, that she hasn't learned by now to think of him and not be so affected, not still so hung up on the last time. )
Have you tried?
( the fickle thing about messages: he doesn't know how sharp the words should be. if it's a hint of something softer beneath the surface, or a deserved jab. as much as it aches within her to suggest it, for him to come now, tonight, she doesn't want to come across so undone. like she's no better at having her shit together, despite all this time—so she leaves it to linger. )
( maybe it’s testing the waters. checking the ground underfoot, watching his footing, waiting to fall. waiting to see if the ice will hold his weight when he walks out onto it; if she’ll let him cross that boundary again. he wouldn’t have blamed her for slamming the door in his face. fool me twice, etc. but: have you tried, she asks. has he tried saying it?
he tries saying it. )
i missed you, karen. shouldn’t’ve stayed away so long. wasn’t sure if you’d ever want to see me again, considering
( it feels like a knife to say it. but isn't it more of a confession than anything else? which ached more: his being so close, or keeping himself away? she doesn't know.
still, she reads his words over, and over again. another stretch of silence—throat, ribs, chest tight.
he's trying. she knows he is. how can she damn him? )
( frank’s social calendar was light to begin with, and he’d made sure tonight was clear for this conversation, whatever shape it took. he’d had a swig of whiskey for liquid courage before grabbing his phone. he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t expected—
something, something like this. a fair shake to have it out in-person. they don’t text. it’s discreet private meetings in diners, hospital rooms, by the waterfront; white flowers in her windowsill and him lurking on her stoop. )
( the thing is, there's no such thing as going back to a normal night once she's heard from him; now that she knows he's close. how could she, when she's missed him just as much? when she's been left unable to do anything but think of him, and hope he would still be there—wherever he was—come morning. )
Same place. ( the same doorstep. another means of asking without asking— )
( seeing her was inevitable, ever since frank booked a set of train tickets and came back to town. he’s had curtis’ voice nudging him along, the conscience on his shoulder saying: you gotta make things right with her, man. face your fears, frank.
which might leave someone scoffing and saying surely the punisher isn’t afraid of talking to karen page,
except, well, he so clearly is. a fist clenched around his heart, winding him tighter. he is so goddamned afraid of what she offers, what she signifies, and what might happen to her if he lets her get too close. but that ship’s probably sailed. he already cares. she’s already gotten in plenty of trouble without him.
so frank goes to her apartment. same place as ever, same approach; he rings the front door, and when karen buzzes him into the building, he lopes up the stairs in quick strides. winds up at her apartment door, familiar, he’s been here before, christ, this shouldn’t be as nervewracking as it is —
by the time her door opens, his heart is hammering in his throat. )
( there's no response, and it's a tell of it's own, every minute between the last message she'd sent and the startling clamor of the buzzer dragging madly, infinitely on.
she has to convince herself to the door, cursing beneath her breath at herself. at the cowardice, at how pathetically she's kept herself bound, allowing him to unravel her within the span of a single night. but there will always be that thing within her that calls to him, that needs to feel him broad and alive beneath the heat of her palms. to run her gaze over him and see for herself that he's okay, stirring within her refusing to quiet until then. she tells herself that's all it is, that it's all this is.
she's crossing to the door donned in nothing more than an old t-shirt and a pair of lounge sweats, a single window in the living area perched despite the chill of the city, and the rest of the apartment is exactly how he'd remember it. an ever-constant scatter of books and papers, an unmade bed, his silhouette in her doorway.
and when she sees him she can't stop the tremble in her fingers, how this doesn't feel at all like the last time, or the time before that, the slightest furrow of a brow. )
Hey. ( a hushed breath, tucking hair behind her ear, keeping hands busy before it dawns on her she's yet to open the door properly. ) Ah. Come in.
( she opens the door. and he’s looking at her and looking at her, as if he can drink up the sight of karen alive and safe, a balm for all his ills. despite shoot-outs at the bulletin, despite her stirring up a nest of hornets with fisk, despite everything.
the last time they stood here, she had surprised him by flinging herself into his arms. he’d been left stunned and at a brief loss, hands floating empty, before he finally crushed her to him.
this time, frank hesitates for a moment — a stutter-stop, a blink of an eye, if he were staring down someone’s pistol-sights he’d be dead right now — before he clears the doorway. and that hesitation seems to waver on the edge of something, maybe he’s going to be the one to pull her into his arms, an embrace. instead, he lingers and then presses a quick kiss to her cheek hello, brief and fleeting, before he moves further in past her.
( suddenly she feels the chill, is utterly aware of her own figure as he crosses beside her into the heart of her apartment, taking the brief moment of slipping the lock into place to steel herself, to still the thundering skip of her heart. the fragrant memory of him, the familiar tickle of stubble as he presses a chaste kiss to her cheek. it's late, and the night seems to carry with it some assumptious narrative, telling her that maybe she could've waited til morning. but could they really face this, everything, in daylight? shouldn't it be easier, now, with the rest of the city hushed?
when she turns to him, she's wrapping arms around her own frame—as if this wasn't her place, like she can't quite relax with so much noise still sitting between them. she doesn't know how long she can keep up the pleasantries, a flutter at the crux of her jaw as their eyes meet again. infuriatingly, she feels the familiar pinch of ducts, a glaze over hues she blinks rapidly away. she gestures away his apology. )
I was up. ( a beat. busy. she needs to keep herself busy, quell the tremble of digits fisted into her shirt. as if remembering she could move, that this space was her own, she makes way to the kitchen, mumbling with her back turned as she does. )
( it’s never, ever been this strained between them: not even when they first met, the punisher shackled to a hospital bed like a rabid animal, the man himself insisting he was dangerous. she’d still stepped over the line. talked to him. he’d been polite and more open than she expected.
frank skulks in like a restless stray, his shoulders tighter than usual. in the light of karen’s living room, she can see he does have a fading bruise beneath one eye, but it’s mottled and paling yellow; an old one, then, and nowhere near the scale of injuries she’s seen on him before. just background noise.
his hands are shoved in the pockets of his jacket, new york winter still clinging to the outer fabric, his boots, the exposed skin of his face, as he trails her over to the kitchen. )
You think I drink tea? ( frank cracks a smile, crooked beneath his stubble. ) Beer’d be great, if you got it.
( part of the trouble, he thinks, is the fact that they don’t really do social calls either. there had always been some emergency underpinning their relationship: checking up on her, making sure she was alright, solving mysteries together, sinking their teeth into clues. he’d always had a reason, an excuse to see her that verged on professional. now, there’s no excuse sitting between them except that he wanted to see her. the pleasure of her company, even if he doesn’t deserve it. )
( she can hear the crook of a smirk, and it's not the first time they'd toed this line—trying to find a little light in circumstances that were otherwise dreary, but she keeps telling herself tonight is different. keeps feeling it, no matter how they try to fit into the shell of their pattern. she wants to return the smile, grant him that smallest bit of warmth, quip back a 'you think i don't have beer?', but she can't bring herself to be dishonest. she's never slathered on any facade for him, and she's not going to start now.
the glow of the fridge illuminates the kitchen for a moment before it's snuffed out, the telltale clink of glass bottles as she wraps fingers around their necks.
and when she makes her way back to him, she knows he'll see it. she's never been any good at keeping anything from him—she's never wanted to. she bites back the bitterness that rises at the back of her throat, doesn't want to come off cruel, like she doesn't want him here when she's the one that'd opened that door.
it's when she's standing before him that she cracks both bottles open, tossing the caps to the coffee table while holding out one in offering. she didn't miss the bruise. )
How long are you planning to stay? ( heart catches in her throat. ) In the city.
( frank grasps the bottle like a lifeline. it makes for an easy ritual and distraction: hand around throat, cold glass to lips, that slight fizz on his tongue. it’d need to be something stronger to help tide him through this conversation properly, but he wasn’t going to show up at her door wavering and drunk and messy, either. this is already going to be difficult enough. )
Just through the holidays, probably. Wanna see the tree lighting at Rockefeller.
( his kids had loved it — ice-skating at the rink — new york in the season, the macy’s windows lit up — all of the reminders makes it harder, but that’s exactly why he comes back. he marinates in it like pushing his fingers down on the bruise, making sure he still feels something, waiting to see if it still hurts. if it does, that’s good. it means he still cares.
and unfortunately, as he scrutinises karen over this bottle, he finds himself having to conclude that this hurts, too. he takes a deep breath, pushes out the exhale, holds the drink to his chest. )
Listen. Thanks for letting me in. Didn’t know if— things weren’t great, the way we last left off. And I don’t like leaving unfinished business.
( she’s not business, frank, you idiot, but that’s the closest to how he can think to broach it. to start broaching it. )
( for all the city offered during the season, it was something estranged to karen. to her, it was no different than any other part of the year, only the pain was worse. memories of the holidays back home, how they'd always start soft and end in someone slamming the door closed, no telling when they'd be back. christmases before her mom had gotten sick, when she hadn't convinced her brother into that car, when her dad didn't mind her around. she doesn't need to press a finger into the bruise to know it's there, to know it still hurts.
a nod at his reply, like a surface level graze. she can hear the wind outside, and the swig she takes of the bottle is hearty, needed. maybe she should've gotten more beer, for this.
she leans back against a slim wooden table—a small, ceramic dish holding her keys, a case folder sat at its edge, a row of books tucked in no particular coordination against the wall. she appreciates that he makes an effort until he reaches his closing argument, and the scoffed, brittle thing that leaves her lips only resembles a snicker. )
Don't you? ( a raised brow, hops on her lips. ) Why weren't they great, Frank? You left. ( she shrugs, as if to say the usual— ) That's what you do. ( it's sharp, the way the words leave her, and already she can feel her pulse start to kick up. the thing is, it's not about what she'd said, or tried to say before he left, it's that he leaves. he always leaves.
doesn't he know what he leaves behind? doesn't he know that she needs him, too? ) And I wait. Thinking every day... that's going to be the day I read something, or—or hear something. Because you didn't call.
( it’s deeply, agonisingly unfair to her. this push-and-pull, a cycle they’d fallen into even before she bailed him out of the latest hospital.
they help each other. she tries to get closer. he lets her. he snaps his teeth like a stray unaccustomed to tender touch, to the hope of safety and comfort and home. he bites the hand that feeds. she tells him she’s done with him if he keeps on walking down this path. he does it anyway. he goes away, might be dead as far as she can tell — he buries all semblance of a normal life and then he inevitably resurfaces, coming up from the underground. she lets him in again. he leaves again.
it’s no way to live. )
I’m sorry, ( frank says again; and it’s not about the late hour anymore. it’s everything. everything between them, and that he’s had such trouble addressing. has been terrified of addressing. he puts the nearly-untouched beer down on the dining table, then scrubs his face. digging his fingers into the metaphorical wound: )
Every time. I tell myself you’re better off without me, every time, and that it’s— fucking better if I just stayed away, that you don’t need to get sucked into my bullshit, not after everything. And then I do this to you, which kind of proves my point, but at the end of the day I just can’t. Stay away.
( she thinks to brush away the apology, and her gaze drifts across the room. settles on the stir of curtains, how the radiator hums into overdrive with the cracked window contesting its efforts—and every inch of her reads tired. the slump of her shoulders, the barely there violet hue beneath her eyes, the disarray of a typically neater apartment. he continues, and it's not that she doesn't believe him, that she can't hear the earnest crawling up his throat with the words. but at this point, it feels a bit too much like old dog, new tricks.
she's heard this before. karen, go. karen, get out of here. karen, stay away from me.
how many times has he told her to leave, and how many times did she listen? how many times has she asked him to stay, and how many times did he listen? the answer is the same. )
Can't stay away from what? ( the city? the taste of blood in his mouth? why do they all feel more likely than her? no. he doesn't get to do that, now. he doesn't get to come to her and tell her she's the reason, doesn't get to come here after months and reopen a wound she's stitched desperately shut time and time again. jaw cruxes to the side, lifting a hand to her temple with a vexed breath, bottle ringing against the table as she presses it down to stand back on her feet. )
This is your bullshit, Frank. You run away. ( each word punctuated, that lick of heat returning to her gaze, threatening to well if she doesn't keep herself tempered. ) And then you think you get to tell me what I should be afraid of. What I'm supposed to feel. ( her voice wavers, and it only adds kindling to her frustration, an exhausting combination of defeat and desperation. )
( this is the conversation they should’ve had last time. he’d known it was unfinished and unresolved; has felt it the whole time since, gnawing at him like a thorn in his side, a pebble in his shoe.
but he’d been panicked at the time, wounded, karen unlocking his handcuffs and amy in disguise outside the door, trouble on his heels as always, and he’d needed to go go go go, on the run, getting out of there before law enforcement found him. they’d had to keep their voices low and hushed so they weren’t overheard, and hurried before someone inevitably interrupted them. if amy hadn’t walked in at just that moment, maybe —
but he’s here, now. they have time, now. there’s no one outside the door. there’s no one here but them.
frank can keep asking her are you sure, but how many times can you demand the same question before you just have to fucking believe their answer? )
You deserve better, ( he blurts out, his expression pained. not a speech, just: those three words. he knows. he knows. )
( futile. she watches as her words burrow themselves into him, as they conquer him so easily, and she can't help but to think: that's it? after all he's been through, all of the bullets and the gashes, all of the loss and shrapnel buried permanently within bone, he can't give her any more than that? she deflates, and it's not so much her anger dissipating as her understanding that she has no where left to put it. that she was only hurting herself further, thinking anything she says could mean anything at all. that she could get through that skull of his when even a bullet couldn't.
that blurring well of tears builds traitorously at her lash line, giving her away. she was always giving herself away, to him.
when she finally manages to find her voice again it's at the back of her throat, exasperated, straining from her as if with every last bit of breath she has. like that stubborn fight within her is so close to being snuffed out, but there's a finality, still. )
( he can take the hits, take the punches, except for this. karen’s anger hurts more than a bullet, hurts more than a knife to the side; it gets inside him and rips him up. there’s a steady-seething energy to some of the ways they’ve parted: they have fought, they have screamed at each other, he has railed against this, even as the merest thought of karen page in danger sets him off even harder, like a lit match to gasoline —
frank had always been unfailingly honest with her, except that one time, lying through his teeth: there’s no warm, cozy ending. not for me. there’s no light at the end of the road. i don’t want that. i can’t. i don’t want to.
how many times can he keep protesting this, while still coming back to her with his tail between his legs?
there’s a furious grieving finality in her voice and he can’t shake the sense that if he squanders it now, one more time, then that’s fucking it. she’ll finally call his bluff and put her money where her mouth’s at. she’ll leave him. won’t answer the text, won’t open that door to him next time. as she shouldn’t.
make it mean something.
karen can see that roiling turmoil beneath the surface, the muscle leaping in frank’s jaw; his trigger-finger twitches, loose spasmodic muscles firing, a restless tic. it’s a tectonic shift, struggling to accept the fact that he’s already a goner and maybe he should let her make that choice herself instead of cutting off the avenue for her. his teeth grind down on it.
he is so goddamned afraid of losing her. by his actions or others. )
Everything you said before. In the hospital, ( he finally starts, slowly. because of course he’s been stewing over it in all the time since, weighing the words and letting them run on a hopeless loop through his mind, ) Finding a better way. Figuring it out together. Would you still?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
why wouldn’t i be okay,
why, do i gotta be dying to reach out to you,
except he knows himself and he knows them and, honestly, it’s a fair and realistic concern. he’s rarely okay. he always comes to her with blood in his mouth and shattered ribs and broken-hearted. frank darkening her doorstep usually means something’s gone wrong, he needs help, he needs stitching-up, there’s some bullshit coming down on his head. and she deserves better than that. which means it’s a relief to be able to admit: )
same as ever
not actively bleeding at the moment if that’s what you mean
i’m good
( he is not, in fact, good, but that’s relative. )
no subject
Okay. ( is all she manages at first, an assurance that beckons her back from the ledge, as if there wasn't something else waiting to sink its teeth into her.
it feels... stiff. unfamiliar, at least for now. how long has it been? she reaches back into her memories, fingertip idly circling the coffee mug sat before her. how many times can she keep picking up from where they left off? she winces, internally, as if she doesn't know how to hold conversation. as if he had to want something from her to reach out again, after all this time. )
Are you in the city?
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yeah. just got back from chicago last night
( and if she goes digging later with all her journalistic instinct, she’ll find the traces of him between the lines, the clues in each news article and what they weren’t saying: a dead mobster here, a dismantled human trafficking ring there. there’s a pattern once you know what to look for. )
got invited to lieberman’s for thanksgiving and curtis said i oughta make an effort. ( and not just with david. ) you in town?
no subject
he's here. he's home, living and breathing and, going off of his word, in one piece. )
He reached out to me, too. Honestly I wasn't sure if I'd make it or not. ( a home cooked meal during the holidays would look good on him. )
But yeah, I'm still here. Strangely enough the city's been pretty quiet.
no subject
so probably it says something, that he’s come slinking back regardless. he hesitates over the reply for a while, awkward, trying to figure out exactly what he wants to say. how to say it. how to bridge this newfound gap. )
maybe i’ll see you therei hope you wind up goi
i
you wanna go together?
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and then he responds and she doesn't know what to do with that, either. together. when had that ever been a word for them, if not temporary? wouldn't it be easier to keep him at a distance, rather than let him in just to leave again?
still, as always for him, she reaches. )
Yeah.
It'd be nice to see you before then.
no subject
he’s only such a coward with karen page.
but in the end, frank forces himself to keep on this blunt track, like ripping off band-aids, tearing out his stitches, addressing the elephant in the room and exactly how badly he fucked it up last time: )
don’t think i’m allowed to say that i missed you.
no subject
Have you tried?
( the fickle thing about messages: he doesn't know how sharp the words should be. if it's a hint of something softer beneath the surface, or a deserved jab. as much as it aches within her to suggest it, for him to come now, tonight, she doesn't want to come across so undone. like she's no better at having her shit together, despite all this time—so she leaves it to linger. )
no subject
he tries saying it. )
i missed you, karen. shouldn’t’ve stayed away so long. wasn’t sure if you’d ever want to see me again, considering
no subject
( it feels like a knife to say it. but isn't it more of a confession than anything else? which ached more: his being so close, or keeping himself away? she doesn't know.
still, she reads his words over, and over again. another stretch of silence—throat, ribs, chest tight.
he's trying. she knows he is. how can she damn him? )
Are you busy now?
no subject
( frank’s social calendar was light to begin with, and he’d made sure tonight was clear for this conversation, whatever shape it took. he’d had a swig of whiskey for liquid courage before grabbing his phone. he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t expected—
something, something like this. a fair shake to have it out in-person. they don’t text. it’s discreet private meetings in diners, hospital rooms, by the waterfront; white flowers in her windowsill and him lurking on her stoop. )
you still in the same place?
no subject
Same place. ( the same doorstep. another means of asking without asking— )
I'll be up for awhile still.
no subject
which might leave someone scoffing and saying surely the punisher isn’t afraid of talking to karen page,
except, well, he so clearly is. a fist clenched around his heart, winding him tighter. he is so goddamned afraid of what she offers, what she signifies, and what might happen to her if he lets her get too close. but that ship’s probably sailed. he already cares. she’s already gotten in plenty of trouble without him.
so frank goes to her apartment. same place as ever, same approach; he rings the front door, and when karen buzzes him into the building, he lopes up the stairs in quick strides. winds up at her apartment door, familiar, he’s been here before, christ, this shouldn’t be as nervewracking as it is —
by the time her door opens, his heart is hammering in his throat. )
no subject
she has to convince herself to the door, cursing beneath her breath at herself. at the cowardice, at how pathetically she's kept herself bound, allowing him to unravel her within the span of a single night. but there will always be that thing within her that calls to him, that needs to feel him broad and alive beneath the heat of her palms. to run her gaze over him and see for herself that he's okay, stirring within her refusing to quiet until then. she tells herself that's all it is, that it's all this is.
she's crossing to the door donned in nothing more than an old t-shirt and a pair of lounge sweats, a single window in the living area perched despite the chill of the city, and the rest of the apartment is exactly how he'd remember it. an ever-constant scatter of books and papers, an unmade bed, his silhouette in her doorway.
and when she sees him she can't stop the tremble in her fingers, how this doesn't feel at all like the last time, or the time before that, the slightest furrow of a brow. )
Hey. ( a hushed breath, tucking hair behind her ear, keeping hands busy before it dawns on her she's yet to open the door properly. ) Ah. Come in.
no subject
the last time they stood here, she had surprised him by flinging herself into his arms. he’d been left stunned and at a brief loss, hands floating empty, before he finally crushed her to him.
this time, frank hesitates for a moment — a stutter-stop, a blink of an eye, if he were staring down someone’s pistol-sights he’d be dead right now — before he clears the doorway. and that hesitation seems to waver on the edge of something, maybe he’s going to be the one to pull her into his arms, an embrace. instead, he lingers and then presses a quick kiss to her cheek hello, brief and fleeting, before he moves further in past her.
(coward.) )
Hey. Sorry for— the late hour. Lack of notice.
no subject
when she turns to him, she's wrapping arms around her own frame—as if this wasn't her place, like she can't quite relax with so much noise still sitting between them. she doesn't know how long she can keep up the pleasantries, a flutter at the crux of her jaw as their eyes meet again. infuriatingly, she feels the familiar pinch of ducts, a glaze over hues she blinks rapidly away. she gestures away his apology. )
I was up. ( a beat. busy. she needs to keep herself busy, quell the tremble of digits fisted into her shirt. as if remembering she could move, that this space was her own, she makes way to the kitchen, mumbling with her back turned as she does. )
Can I get you something? Tea? Beer?
no subject
frank skulks in like a restless stray, his shoulders tighter than usual. in the light of karen’s living room, she can see he does have a fading bruise beneath one eye, but it’s mottled and paling yellow; an old one, then, and nowhere near the scale of injuries she’s seen on him before. just background noise.
his hands are shoved in the pockets of his jacket, new york winter still clinging to the outer fabric, his boots, the exposed skin of his face, as he trails her over to the kitchen. )
You think I drink tea? ( frank cracks a smile, crooked beneath his stubble. ) Beer’d be great, if you got it.
( part of the trouble, he thinks, is the fact that they don’t really do social calls either. there had always been some emergency underpinning their relationship: checking up on her, making sure she was alright, solving mysteries together, sinking their teeth into clues. he’d always had a reason, an excuse to see her that verged on professional. now, there’s no excuse sitting between them except that he wanted to see her. the pleasure of her company, even if he doesn’t deserve it. )
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the glow of the fridge illuminates the kitchen for a moment before it's snuffed out, the telltale clink of glass bottles as she wraps fingers around their necks.
and when she makes her way back to him, she knows he'll see it. she's never been any good at keeping anything from him—she's never wanted to. she bites back the bitterness that rises at the back of her throat, doesn't want to come off cruel, like she doesn't want him here when she's the one that'd opened that door.
it's when she's standing before him that she cracks both bottles open, tossing the caps to the coffee table while holding out one in offering. she didn't miss the bruise. )
How long are you planning to stay? ( heart catches in her throat. ) In the city.
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Just through the holidays, probably. Wanna see the tree lighting at Rockefeller.
( his kids had loved it — ice-skating at the rink — new york in the season, the macy’s windows lit up — all of the reminders makes it harder, but that’s exactly why he comes back. he marinates in it like pushing his fingers down on the bruise, making sure he still feels something, waiting to see if it still hurts. if it does, that’s good. it means he still cares.
and unfortunately, as he scrutinises karen over this bottle, he finds himself having to conclude that this hurts, too. he takes a deep breath, pushes out the exhale, holds the drink to his chest. )
Listen. Thanks for letting me in. Didn’t know if— things weren’t great, the way we last left off. And I don’t like leaving unfinished business.
( she’s not business, frank, you idiot,
but that’s the closest to how he can think to broach it. to start broaching it. )
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a nod at his reply, like a surface level graze. she can hear the wind outside, and the swig she takes of the bottle is hearty, needed. maybe she should've gotten more beer, for this.
she leans back against a slim wooden table—a small, ceramic dish holding her keys, a case folder sat at its edge, a row of books tucked in no particular coordination against the wall. she appreciates that he makes an effort until he reaches his closing argument, and the scoffed, brittle thing that leaves her lips only resembles a snicker. )
Don't you? ( a raised brow, hops on her lips. ) Why weren't they great, Frank? You left. ( she shrugs, as if to say the usual— ) That's what you do. ( it's sharp, the way the words leave her, and already she can feel her pulse start to kick up. the thing is, it's not about what she'd said, or tried to say before he left, it's that he leaves. he always leaves.
doesn't he know what he leaves behind? doesn't he know that she needs him, too? ) And I wait. Thinking every day... that's going to be the day I read something, or—or hear something. Because you didn't call.
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they help each other. she tries to get closer. he lets her. he snaps his teeth like a stray unaccustomed to tender touch, to the hope of safety and comfort and home. he bites the hand that feeds. she tells him she’s done with him if he keeps on walking down this path. he does it anyway. he goes away, might be dead as far as she can tell — he buries all semblance of a normal life and then he inevitably resurfaces, coming up from the underground. she lets him in again. he leaves again.
it’s no way to live. )
I’m sorry, ( frank says again; and it’s not about the late hour anymore. it’s everything. everything between them, and that he’s had such trouble addressing. has been terrified of addressing. he puts the nearly-untouched beer down on the dining table, then scrubs his face. digging his fingers into the metaphorical wound: )
Every time. I tell myself you’re better off without me, every time, and that it’s— fucking better if I just stayed away, that you don’t need to get sucked into my bullshit, not after everything. And then I do this to you, which kind of proves my point, but at the end of the day I just can’t. Stay away.
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she's heard this before. karen, go. karen, get out of here. karen, stay away from me.
how many times has he told her to leave, and how many times did she listen?
how many times has she asked him to stay, and how many times did he listen?
the answer is the same. )
Can't stay away from what? ( the city? the taste of blood in his mouth? why do they all feel more likely than her? no. he doesn't get to do that, now. he doesn't get to come to her and tell her she's the reason, doesn't get to come here after months and reopen a wound she's stitched desperately shut time and time again. jaw cruxes to the side, lifting a hand to her temple with a vexed breath, bottle ringing against the table as she presses it down to stand back on her feet. )
This is your bullshit, Frank. You run away. ( each word punctuated, that lick of heat returning to her gaze, threatening to well if she doesn't keep herself tempered. ) And then you think you get to tell me what I should be afraid of. What I'm supposed to feel. ( her voice wavers, and it only adds kindling to her frustration, an exhausting combination of defeat and desperation. )
For once, just—let me decide what that is.
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but he’d been panicked at the time, wounded, karen unlocking his handcuffs and amy in disguise outside the door, trouble on his heels as always, and he’d needed to go go go go, on the run, getting out of there before law enforcement found him. they’d had to keep their voices low and hushed so they weren’t overheard, and hurried before someone inevitably interrupted them. if amy hadn’t walked in at just that moment, maybe —
but he’s here, now. they have time, now. there’s no one outside the door. there’s no one here but them.
frank can keep asking her are you sure, but how many times can you demand the same question before you just have to fucking believe their answer? )
You deserve better, ( he blurts out, his expression pained. not a speech, just: those three words. he knows. he knows. )
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that blurring well of tears builds traitorously at her lash line, giving her away. she was always giving herself away, to him.
when she finally manages to find her voice again it's at the back of her throat, exasperated, straining from her as if with every last bit of breath she has. like that stubborn fight within her is so close to being snuffed out, but there's a finality, still. )
Then be fucking better.
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frank had always been unfailingly honest with her, except that one time, lying through his teeth: there’s no warm, cozy ending. not for me. there’s no light at the end of the road. i don’t want that. i can’t. i don’t want to.
how many times can he keep protesting this, while still coming back to her with his tail between his legs?
there’s a furious grieving finality in her voice and he can’t shake the sense that if he squanders it now, one more time, then that’s fucking it. she’ll finally call his bluff and put her money where her mouth’s at. she’ll leave him. won’t answer the text, won’t open that door to him next time. as she shouldn’t.
make it mean something.
karen can see that roiling turmoil beneath the surface, the muscle leaping in frank’s jaw; his trigger-finger twitches, loose spasmodic muscles firing, a restless tic. it’s a tectonic shift, struggling to accept the fact that he’s already a goner and maybe he should let her make that choice herself instead of cutting off the avenue for her. his teeth grind down on it.
he is so goddamned afraid of losing her. by his actions or others. )
Everything you said before. In the hospital, ( he finally starts, slowly. because of course he’s been stewing over it in all the time since, weighing the words and letting them run on a hopeless loop through his mind, ) Finding a better way. Figuring it out together. Would you still?