( 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
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. )
no subject
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.
no subject
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. )
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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. )
no subject
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.
no subject
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?