[Life since he first donned the Punisher's visage has felt very cyclical for Frank. His past just would not let go of him no matter how hard he tried to kill it, no matter how quickly he buried his demons, or literally burnt them down in fiery chaos. The moment he aimed for peace, something else would return and remind him of what he should be focusing on, that there is no room for peace in his life anymore. War is his home now.
The weeks after sending Russo to the hospital have been spent in solitude, off on his own again both for his own sake and the people left around him. Much as Frank pushes people away there are still the handful of those who just can't seem to let him go, and now with the Liebermans in his life the last thing Frank wants is to put them into more danger. It's always been the same for Karen too. This time around it seems like her trouble has nothing to do with Frank. For once. A part of him is somewhat nervous waiting for Karen, both in regards to her safety and also because he hasn't seen her in weeks. The last time they'd said goodbye it felt so final and Frank was okay with that. It was better that way. Yet he didn't exactly erase her number from his phone, did he?
This shitty little apartment isn't as shitty as the one he had in the city, but it's still clearly meant for someone on their own. He has the essentials and not much else, along with a locker full of weaponry and armor, including in his van downstairs, because much as Frank tries to fight it his personal war is not over. It never will be.
He's draped over his couch with a book in hand when the knock comes, and he doesn't even have to worry about who's on the other side. No one knows he's here other than Karen now - not even Curtis, guilty as Frank feels about it. When he opens the door he looks similar to when they'd reunited months ago, hair longer and beard starting to grow in fast. He visibly relaxes just knowing she made it here safely.]
Hey. Come in. [Door opening wider, he waits for Karen to step inside and takes a quick scan of the hall before shutting and locking the door behind him. The windows are shut and shades drawn, already having prepared in case someone did follow her.]
You want something to drink? The bathroom's in the next room if you need it.
( some part of her commiserates anyone that were to follow, only because it's likely they weren't doing it with a clear conscience or without some sort of underlying threat, a vulnerability. because that was the biggest target, wasn't it? it wasn't the countless bold-type articles she'd made first page of, exposes with her name spaced neatly beneath in italics. it wasn't even that she'd aided to putting wilson fisk back behind bars he'd manipulated himself out of, back into the lap of luxury and a penthouse steep in price enough to suggest he could pay off far more than a few federal agents, if need be.
she pities them because she knows what frank is capable of, if he shuts off. she's seen it, looked him in the eye when he's not frank anymore, but the punisher. and the city might've forgotten him, might've tucked his cases and those headlines under for the most recent big bad, but as selfish and as fucked up as it is, maybe she'd only allowed herself to come because to some degree, he's safety. and it's not that she's using him as much as she is pathetically clinging to the one thread of something that might keep her together. and he'd scoff at it, she's sure. grumble on about how he's the last thing to keep anyone whole.
and yet here she is, ushered into the humming of a heater, a quaint space tidy only because there wasn't enough in it to make a mess.
she revels in him the same way she always has, a gust of a breath—however silent it may be—dropping from lips that've clearly been worried with teeth. the door latches softly behind them and she has to tighten the clasp of her fingers into a thick coat to keep herself from reaching for him, even if just to assure herself he's here. alive. tangible.
she doesn't look around much, even taking a few steps inside and shucking off her boots; mostly because it's of little care to her the condition of the apartment. it looks better than the one she'd left paraded with bullets along the walls. what she should've known is that her griefs, her ghosts, her truth wouldn't leave itself at the door for long, and it's another half the reason why she's keeping hands occupied in fists. he has a trigger finger—how would he feel to know she does, too?
it's telling enough that the first thing she thinks of when he mentions a drink is whiskey. she'd do better with something sobering. coffee; tea, perhaps. )
Anything warm, if you have it. ( she doesn't want to be trouble, but a piping drink is the least of burdens she's shedding upon him by coming here. )
Probably sound neurotic to ask for coffee at this hour.
[Frank feels a warmth in his chest he hasn't felt in these weeks of isolation, and with it, a surge to protect. Karen can hold her own but clearly her situation has spooked her to the point of needing help, and if Frank can offer that much with one night safely tucked away in this small town with him, then so be it.
He watches her carefully as she enters the apartment and doesn't let go of that coat. There's a tension about her that he hasn't seen for some time, the kind reserved for moments she's being threatened or worse. Frank doesn't know if it's in his place to prod and ask why, ask if she's okay again, to make her talk to him. He can't make her do anything.]
You're telling the wrong guy. [There's a lightness to his voice and a smirk on his lips as he heads toward the small kitchenette, an open space offering room to still see one another as he starts up the coffee machine. To Frank, it counts as an essential.] I'll join you.
[While the brew starts Frank moves to lean against the counter top where he can watch her, arms resting against it while eyes scan her for any jumpiness.] Make yourself comfortable if you plan on staying.
( he doesn't have to ask in order for her to hear it, the bold tuft of his brows expression of his concern enough. but she's grateful for the fact that he doesn't yet ask her a second time, now that she's here. now that she knows he'll be able to read whether or not it's truth befalling her lips or an efforts to put up a front. she's like him in that way—sometimes it was better not to talk about it, to let oneself try and get comfortable first before letting it rise up their throat like a haunting bile.
the light touch of humor that paints his lips doesn't go unappreciated, two lost souls in the night trying to make it a little easier to stay awake when sleep wouldn't come; when body begged but mind forbade. it's still a creature comfort, even if her body has long ago become immune to any normalized amounts of caffeine. )
Or the right one.
( the familiar sound of the espresso drips as the heat hums and bubbles within the maker fills her senses, and it's not long before the sharp notes of the beans threaten to fill the petite space. he surveys her like it's habit, to know someone's exterior before digging any further. she supposes she can't really be uncomfortable with it, seeing as she prodded into the lives of others when they wanted it least, the knife to journalism.
it's prompting enough to un-pry fingertips from her jacket (so long as it means he'll ease up on the analytics), allow it to shrug from her shoulders, revealing the thin white blouse and jeans beneath. she's far away from her secretarial days, after all. a few steps, and she's laying it over an arm of the couch, eyes skimming over the title of a nearby book. )
How long have you been here?
Edited 2018-10-23 18:43 (UTC)
sorry for slow tags, work tires me out during the week
[Nothing beats a smooth cup of coffee late at night when they aren't supposed to be drinking it at all. Somehow, that's when it tastes best. Not that Frank drinks his coffee for the taste but these days he seems to have more luxury to do just that. The fact that he never lets the pot sit too long or burn is a testament to how much he actually cares about a good cup.
He feels better once she starts to shrug off her coat and at least try to relax a little. Frank can't blame her for being tense. The last time he dropped on her rather abruptly and now the tables have turned. He hopes to offer her the same kind of selfless help she'd shown him... even before she really knew him.]
A while. Couple weeks after we last saw each other, I left the city.
[New name. New identity. It's done him some good in his time away, even if it feels a lot like running at times.]
I always planned on coming back eventually. Just needed some... time.
[The coffee machine roars to life and then the sound dies down, ending the brew. He pushes off the counter to pour them each a mug-full and brings hers over.]
Can't remember how you take it. Do you want any milk or sugar?
( it still seems a little surreal, that he'd let her come so easily, without any bit of a fight or restraint. maybe it's because he knows he's tucked off enough that he isn't putting her into harmful sights by allowing her to stay; maybe a night isn't as haunting as two; maybe he, too, could use the company both of their tongues find hesitance before admitting outright. loneliness was a human condition, a common one at that.
why was it, then, everyone seemed so ashamed to admit it?
for a moment, she wonders how the city would take him back. what the prints might put out there, if they'd even pay any mind at all given how wrapped around fisk's finger they were. then again, it'd give him a too-convenient means of keeping himself covered, introducing a distraction much like that psuedo-daredevil to the mix to rise himself up on the deceitful pedestal of helping hells kitchen. putting it back together while he fed on it's roots.
and she wants him back, selfishly, she does. and yet: ) I don't blame you.
( fingers of one hand prod habitually at the palm of the other, a fidgeting, needing something to occupy an empty, idle touch. )
For taking time, I mean. I can't imagine it's any easier to come back than it is to stay. ( because there's something always urging her, tugging her, begging her out. )
Just a little sugar is fine. ( an aftertaste of sweetness at first obscured by the bitter coffee. )
[Frank leaves momentarily only to return with a couple sugar packets he'd likely swiped form his latest diner visit, setting them down on the coffee table. Then he sits, hoping she'll do the same and relax as much as she's able, because even if his door is knocked down in the next few minutes, he isn't letting anything happen to her. He should have been there.]
No one knows I'm here except you. [Not David. Not Curtis. He thinks he's protecting the few people in his life left to care about by keeping his distance, but Frank is also aware of how long that can't last. Something or someone will always draw him back into the life.
Sipping at his coffee, Frank sighs through his nose, leaning back against the flimsy couch cushions in an effort to seem relaxed as well. He's more concerned about Karen than any impending doom.]
I know the situation is shit but I'm glad you reached out to me, Karen.
( if he'd known just how bad it'd gotten, he would have been there, and karen knows that. it's why she hadn't called, even when she'd sat with trembling hands, teeth, bones in the dark cab of her car after hearing the stinging dismissal of her father. no matter what she's going through, what fresh paint she's lathered over that crimson target on her back, he doesn't deserve to be tugged into the middle of it.
in new york city, hells kitchen, there's no such thing as really 'getting out'. the city chews you up and spits out a version that's a little more apathetic, a little more numbed. sooner or later it'd draw you back, kindly or unforgivingly, one never knew.
she doesn't want him to be glad. you wouldn't be if you knew why i was here, she wants to say, but she bites her tongue instead, reaching down for the coffee after tearing a few of those pale pink packets to dissolve the sugar into its rich bed. she uses a tiny spoon that's sat beside it, mesmerized momentarily by it's tiny clinks and the scarves of espresso dancing up to greet her. )
I told myself not to. ( quietly, she makes to sit down beside him, kitty-cornered against the armrest. a small sip of her coffee is drawn, and then it's cradled between both palms, watching it's reflective surface. she isn't one to ask for help, and she's not even sure that's what she's doing here. maybe to some extent, but mostly she craves the sense of safety. of a place, someone with she can rest her head. )
Multiple times, actually. After what you went through... ( a swallow, because no words could really do it justice. ) Shit situations is what Hells Kitchen does best. This may not be paradise, but... ( a chew at her lip, thoughtfully. ) It's something else.
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no subject
The weeks after sending Russo to the hospital have been spent in solitude, off on his own again both for his own sake and the people left around him. Much as Frank pushes people away there are still the handful of those who just can't seem to let him go, and now with the Liebermans in his life the last thing Frank wants is to put them into more danger. It's always been the same for Karen too. This time around it seems like her trouble has nothing to do with Frank. For once. A part of him is somewhat nervous waiting for Karen, both in regards to her safety and also because he hasn't seen her in weeks. The last time they'd said goodbye it felt so final and Frank was okay with that. It was better that way. Yet he didn't exactly erase her number from his phone, did he?
This shitty little apartment isn't as shitty as the one he had in the city, but it's still clearly meant for someone on their own. He has the essentials and not much else, along with a locker full of weaponry and armor, including in his van downstairs, because much as Frank tries to fight it his personal war is not over. It never will be.
He's draped over his couch with a book in hand when the knock comes, and he doesn't even have to worry about who's on the other side. No one knows he's here other than Karen now - not even Curtis, guilty as Frank feels about it. When he opens the door he looks similar to when they'd reunited months ago, hair longer and beard starting to grow in fast. He visibly relaxes just knowing she made it here safely.]
Hey. Come in. [Door opening wider, he waits for Karen to step inside and takes a quick scan of the hall before shutting and locking the door behind him. The windows are shut and shades drawn, already having prepared in case someone did follow her.]
You want something to drink? The bathroom's in the next room if you need it.
thrusts more tl;dr at you
she pities them because she knows what frank is capable of, if he shuts off. she's seen it, looked him in the eye when he's not frank anymore, but the punisher. and the city might've forgotten him, might've tucked his cases and those headlines under for the most recent big bad, but as selfish and as fucked up as it is, maybe she'd only allowed herself to come because to some degree, he's safety. and it's not that she's using him as much as she is pathetically clinging to the one thread of something that might keep her together. and he'd scoff at it, she's sure. grumble on about how he's the last thing to keep anyone whole.
and yet here she is, ushered into the humming of a heater, a quaint space tidy only because there wasn't enough in it to make a mess.
she revels in him the same way she always has, a gust of a breath—however silent it may be—dropping from lips that've clearly been worried with teeth. the door latches softly behind them and she has to tighten the clasp of her fingers into a thick coat to keep herself from reaching for him, even if just to assure herself he's here. alive. tangible.
she doesn't look around much, even taking a few steps inside and shucking off her boots; mostly because it's of little care to her the condition of the apartment. it looks better than the one she'd left paraded with bullets along the walls. what she should've known is that her griefs, her ghosts, her truth wouldn't leave itself at the door for long, and it's another half the reason why she's keeping hands occupied in fists. he has a trigger finger—how would he feel to know she does, too?
it's telling enough that the first thing she thinks of when he mentions a drink is whiskey. she'd do better with something sobering. coffee; tea, perhaps. )
Anything warm, if you have it. ( she doesn't want to be trouble, but a piping drink is the least of burdens she's shedding upon him by coming here. )
Probably sound neurotic to ask for coffee at this hour.
\o/
He watches her carefully as she enters the apartment and doesn't let go of that coat. There's a tension about her that he hasn't seen for some time, the kind reserved for moments she's being threatened or worse. Frank doesn't know if it's in his place to prod and ask why, ask if she's okay again, to make her talk to him. He can't make her do anything.]
You're telling the wrong guy. [There's a lightness to his voice and a smirk on his lips as he heads toward the small kitchenette, an open space offering room to still see one another as he starts up the coffee machine. To Frank, it counts as an essential.] I'll join you.
[While the brew starts Frank moves to lean against the counter top where he can watch her, arms resting against it while eyes scan her for any jumpiness.] Make yourself comfortable if you plan on staying.
no subject
the light touch of humor that paints his lips doesn't go unappreciated, two lost souls in the night trying to make it a little easier to stay awake when sleep wouldn't come; when body begged but mind forbade. it's still a creature comfort, even if her body has long ago become immune to any normalized amounts of caffeine. )
Or the right one.
( the familiar sound of the espresso drips as the heat hums and bubbles within the maker fills her senses, and it's not long before the sharp notes of the beans threaten to fill the petite space. he surveys her like it's habit, to know someone's exterior before digging any further. she supposes she can't really be uncomfortable with it, seeing as she prodded into the lives of others when they wanted it least, the knife to journalism.
it's prompting enough to un-pry fingertips from her jacket (so long as it means he'll ease up on the analytics), allow it to shrug from her shoulders, revealing the thin white blouse and jeans beneath. she's far away from her secretarial days, after all. a few steps, and she's laying it over an arm of the couch, eyes skimming over the title of a nearby book. )
How long have you been here?
sorry for slow tags, work tires me out during the week
He feels better once she starts to shrug off her coat and at least try to relax a little. Frank can't blame her for being tense. The last time he dropped on her rather abruptly and now the tables have turned. He hopes to offer her the same kind of selfless help she'd shown him... even before she really knew him.]
A while. Couple weeks after we last saw each other, I left the city.
[New name. New identity. It's done him some good in his time away, even if it feels a lot like running at times.]
I always planned on coming back eventually. Just needed some... time.
[The coffee machine roars to life and then the sound dies down, ending the brew. He pushes off the counter to pour them each a mug-full and brings hers over.]
Can't remember how you take it. Do you want any milk or sugar?
i can always wait! it's well worth it.
why was it, then, everyone seemed so ashamed to admit it?
for a moment, she wonders how the city would take him back. what the prints might put out there, if they'd even pay any mind at all given how wrapped around fisk's finger they were. then again, it'd give him a too-convenient means of keeping himself covered, introducing a distraction much like that psuedo-daredevil to the mix to rise himself up on the deceitful pedestal of helping hells kitchen. putting it back together while he fed on it's roots.
and she wants him back, selfishly, she does. and yet: ) I don't blame you.
( fingers of one hand prod habitually at the palm of the other, a fidgeting, needing something to occupy an empty, idle touch. )
For taking time, I mean. I can't imagine it's any easier to come back than it is to stay. ( because there's something always urging her, tugging her, begging her out. )
Just a little sugar is fine. ( an aftertaste of sweetness at first obscured by the bitter coffee. )
no subject
No one knows I'm here except you. [Not David. Not Curtis. He thinks he's protecting the few people in his life left to care about by keeping his distance, but Frank is also aware of how long that can't last. Something or someone will always draw him back into the life.
Sipping at his coffee, Frank sighs through his nose, leaning back against the flimsy couch cushions in an effort to seem relaxed as well. He's more concerned about Karen than any impending doom.]
I know the situation is shit but I'm glad you reached out to me, Karen.
no subject
in new york city, hells kitchen, there's no such thing as really 'getting out'. the city chews you up and spits out a version that's a little more apathetic, a little more numbed. sooner or later it'd draw you back, kindly or unforgivingly, one never knew.
she doesn't want him to be glad. you wouldn't be if you knew why i was here, she wants to say, but she bites her tongue instead, reaching down for the coffee after tearing a few of those pale pink packets to dissolve the sugar into its rich bed. she uses a tiny spoon that's sat beside it, mesmerized momentarily by it's tiny clinks and the scarves of espresso dancing up to greet her. )
I told myself not to. ( quietly, she makes to sit down beside him, kitty-cornered against the armrest. a small sip of her coffee is drawn, and then it's cradled between both palms, watching it's reflective surface. she isn't one to ask for help, and she's not even sure that's what she's doing here. maybe to some extent, but mostly she craves the sense of safety. of a place, someone with she can rest her head. )
Multiple times, actually. After what you went through... ( a swallow, because no words could really do it justice. ) Shit situations is what Hells Kitchen does best. This may not be paradise, but... ( a chew at her lip, thoughtfully. ) It's something else.