Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It feels like a punch to the gut, wind sucked straight out of her lungs.

Frank.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed since she’d last seen him, face caked with blood and body resembling that of a broken man. However, she’d replayed the moment time and time again in her mind, sometimes in a daydream as she struggled to finish a last-minute piece for Ellison, and other times visiting her unexpectedly in her sleep, aligning with the narrative but switching out the ending. Sometimes they stood in the elevator, clinging to something that felt like hope, but altogether coming back to their senses to put whatever this was on the back burner. But other times, she was completely alone in the elevator, hands covered in his blood, screaming, but knowing he wouldn’t be coming back. Not this time, and most definitely, never again.

Over and over and over again…

Things had shifted after that day, initially. Ellison ripping her a new one for acting so recklessly on air, followed with begging her to take time off to readjust. Coworkers sending cards and flowers to her apartment, wishing her well and eager for her to return back to The Bulletin. Even Foggy had invited her out to dinner at some five-star restaurant with prices so far out of her range that she’d nearly choked on her drink when he’d made the suggestion. Kind gestures and thoughtfulness made her feel a little less alone, but like always, it was only temporary. The police stopped hammering her for details. She returned back to work. People forgot about Frank Castle, again. And everything fell back into place.

Alone, alone, alone.

She stood at the doorway, unable to catch her breath. It had been weeks, maybe even months since the last time they’d crossed paths. There was no promise to see one another again and no way of knowing whether or not he was alive. He could have died just outside the hotel or he could have died weeks later, caught-up in the crossfire of places he shouldn’t have been in. There were a million and one scenarios that could have occured, and Karen was certain that she’d played out every single one of them when the thought infiltrated her mind. But nobody knew where he was, and frankly, they didn’t care. The world moved on, forcing Karen back into the swing of things whether she liked it or not.

However, this time, blood wasn’t trailing down his neck, escaping from where a bullet had grazed the side of his head. Shrapnel didn’t stick out from a dislocated arm. They weren’t escaping reality in an elevator, knowing that law enforcement would be waiting on the other side. Here he was, face not painted in black and blue for once, and physically, he looked unharmed. His expression wasn’t one of panic per se, but Karen struggled to pin down the emotion on his face—sadness, relief, pain perhaps, but above all, it looked like fear. Fear that he would knock on the door, but that she would refuse to let him back into her life. Maybe he deserved that though—she didn’t owe him anything. He’d done his damage and knew that re-entering her life whenever he wanted wasn’t fair to her, to them.

They stood facing each other for what felt like hours, both struggling to find the words to say how they felt, holding their breath in anticipation to see who would make the first move. Both stubborn, hard-headed, trying to find some kind of balance in light of knocking one another off course. Frank knew it would hurt Karen, knew that he would break her, eventually, whether that meant he stayed out of her life permanently or if he showed up to her doorstep unannounced. That much he knew was inevitable. However, the worst part about it was that Frank knew that if he truly needed help, Karen would do whatever she could without batting an eyelash. And he hated that because even though he would do the absolute same for her, imposing on her life like that wasn’t right. Karen deserved better than that, better than him.

But instead of slamming the door in his face, she welcomed him with open arms, wrapped so tightly that he swore he couldn’t breathe. And he knew he didn’t deserve this, but as his arms circled around her torso and he breathed in the faintest scents of lavender and jasmine, any force of reason was immediately tossed out the window.

I want there to be an after. For you.

It felt like the first time they’d reunited, Karen letting him into her space without hesitation. The warmth and touch was something he’d long forgotten, but there was always a hint of frigidness, something all too familiar.

We are all lonely. I sometimes think that is all that life is. We’re just fighting not to be alone.

“I thought you died, Frank…I thought I lost you...”

And then it hits him, all at once.

///

It’s the second time he’s set foot in her space, but the first time he’s entered without a war sitting in the back of his mind. He’d scanned the unfamiliar place the first time around, but this time, he made an attempt to take everything in. A bookshelf stacked with classic novels to books on law, pieces of artwork adorning nightstands, a handful of framed photographs, some with the blonde lawyer friend, others with people he didn’t know. This was Karen’s life put on display, and here she was, welcoming him in.

Back facing him, Karen started the coffee maker, filling the glass carafe with water to the brim. It was all muscle memory, something habitual to try to keep her hands busy while her mind raced. Neither of them wanted to address the elephant in the room, so they remained silent, trying to find ways to pass the time. Frank watched from across the counter as she reached for two coffee mugs, startled when one of them slipped from her grip, sending shards of glass flying across the tile. As he rushed over to help clean up, he hesitated when he noticed her, one hand gripping tightly on the edge of the counter while the other covered a muffled sob.

“Why…why didn’t you call?”

He had expected this, knew that Karen would be upset that they’d gone so long without contacting one another. While he wanted to stop by, he knew they both weren’t ready. The incident in the hotel was still raw, and Frank knew they both needed their space and time to heal. Even though he’d kept an eye on her apartment, taking notice of the potted roses on the windowsill, he continued to make up excuses. Perhaps she’d put the flowers out for sunlight or maybe she had simply forgotten about them, even when they had been left out for an entire week straight.

So where does that end, Frank? Because I look at you, and my heart breaks because all I can see is just this endless, echoing loneliness.

The thing was that Karen had been right. No bullshit, no sugarcoating, just the raw, simple truth that Frank had repressed time and time again. She’d been right, because he got what he wanted—Rawlins was dead, the truth had been exposed, and Frank had been able to avenge his family. He’d gotten good at pushing the thought of there being an after for him away, claiming he didn’t have time to think about those kinds of things. But now, he had time. Pete Castiglione was a free man—this much he knew—but what was he supposed to do with his loneliness now? The thought rang through his mind like an echoing gunshot, forcing him to ponder what getting a second chance actually meant, and whether someone like him was even capable of starting over and making something of himself.

If you’re going to look at yourself, really look in the mirror, you gotta, yeah, you gotta admit who you are. But not just to yourself, you gotta admit it to everybody else. First time, as long as I can remember, I don’t have a war to fight. And I guess, if I’m gonna be honest, I just...I’m scared.

Karen had been that voice of reason, making him face his fears head on and look at himself in the mirror. He squirmed under her gaze, feeling small and suffocated as the room began to feel as if it were shrinking, but somehow all the while felt safe.

“I—I needed time, Karen. Needed to figure things out.” He hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the next, “I figured you needed time, too.”

Karen nodded her head, pursing her lips. He wasn’t necessarily wrong, they needed time apart from one another to reassess. But after not hearing from him even when she had put the flowers out on display, she began to fear the worst.

“You know, you were right.”

Karen’s eyes shot up, a mixture of shock and confusion spanning across her face.

“Right? About—about what, Frank?”

“About all of it. I got what I wanted, yeah? They’re, uh, they’re gone, but that doesn’t…” Frank hesitated, eyes shifting across the room, trying to ground himself. “...it didn’t fix anything, Karen. And I’m scared.”

There was something about saying it out loud—the fear that had been sitting on the back burner for god knows how long. What Frank said didn’t necessarily roll off his tongue easily. If anything, it sounded completely foreign to Karen. The last thing she had ever wanted from any of this was to be able to say ‘I told you so,’ yet, here they were. At the end of the day, she knew she had been right—the truth hurt immensely—but she was certain that they had both known that Frank wouldn’t come out of this unharmed, physically or mentally.

“I’ve been talking about it, though. Old friend of mine, back from the marines, runs this uh, group with a handful of former soldiers. We talk, listen. It helps.” Frank glanced down at his hands, fiddling his thumbs as he tried to formulate his next thought. “I just, I’ve got this second chance, you know? And I’m so fucking scared to screw it up again. I mean, shit Karen, look at me. I couldn’t protect them, and what if—what if that’s just who I am? What if I don’t deserve that, yeah? Not worthy of having something decent in my life again without messing everything up.” Frank’s breathing accelerated, and as he choked on his words, he stopped trying to keep his tears from spilling over. The walls he so often kept up came crumbling down, and even though he probably looked twice as bad as he felt, for some god forsaken reason, Karen didn’t seem to care.

“We don’t get to pick our battles, Frank. I think that what happened in the past was…was bigger than just you. Sure, they used your family to get to you, but your wife and kids…their deaths? That wasn’t on you. In an alternate universe, sure, they would still be here, but no matter how you spin it, you’re never going to be the one responsible for what happened to them. I may not have known them, but I know they loved you, Frank. I’d do anything to take the burden of what happened that day away from you. But at the end of it all, I don’t think it necessarily has to define you.” Karen stepped closer, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other on his cheek, ever so gently as if she were afraid he would flinch and run away.

“You were given a second chance because you deserve it, Frank.”

Frank locked eyes with Karen, finding the statement hard to believe, yet still sensing some kind of truth underneath it all.

One thing I know is that the only way out is to find something that you care about.

Have you found something to do that for you?

Maybe, yeah. Maybe.

He wasn’t sure what his relationship was with Karen. Friends perhaps, but even that seemed like an odd label for whatever this was. He cared about her, and the feeling appeared to be mutual, but there was still so much that was left unsaid. But there was something about being with her where he felt comfortable enough to let his walls come down, shedding away the fake image of being fine that he so constantly projected. It was like speaking without a filter, not having to walk on eggshells, allowing himself a giant sigh of relief. Perhaps a bit ironic coming from a man who so constantly played judge, jury, and executioner, but valid nonetheless. He rarely had felt this way before, and although it was easy to get lost in the intoxication of it all, he knew he had to be careful. Had to be careful with her.

Frank nodded, resting his forehead against Karen’s.

“Okay. Yeah, okay.”

Chapter Text

7 Arrested in Prostitution Sting. By Karen Page.

Staring at an almost-blank screen, surrounded by countless articles and notes from police reports taking up her entire sofa, Karen throws her head back in frustration. It was well past midnight, and she had been working on wrapping her brain around the final details of a case Ellison had her following for the past few months. There was finally a resolution to the mess, thankfully ending with nobody innocent getting hurt, and Karen was expected to have a finished product by tomorrow at the very latest.

She typically didn’t work at home. There was something about the eerie silence late at night that disrupted her train of thought, making focusing on her work nearly impossible. All things considered, she didn’t mind living alone. Her apartment was located in a relatively quiet part of town, she never had any problems with other residents in the complex, and for the most part, she felt safe. But her work life was something she struggled to get past the doorway. Perhaps it was knowing in the back of her mind that her bedroom door would be only a few feet away, along with the bottles of wine and whiskey stashed in the cabinet above her stove. Or maybe it was the comfort of being in her own space. People usually left whatever stress they had from work at the office, coming home to relax and take a breather. However, considering the case files she was bringing home, it felt stupid to expect her work and living environment to somehow not clash.

On nights like these, she usually would be holed up in her—Ben’s—office, quickly typing as the hours on the clock adjacent to her desk ticked away. Workers at the Bulletin had access to the building after closing, so long as they made sure they were only taking care of business. Karen used this offer to her advantage, spending more nights alone in the office rather than at home. The environment, even when she was the only person there, kept her going—the framed front page articles she’d done, soft glow from the table lamp, and the quiet humming of the office refrigerator kept unrelated thoughts that so often crossed her mind at bay. She’d grown quite fond of the space, a bit too fond according to Ellison when he would show up to work to find her slumped over at her desk.

///

“I mean it, Page.”

“Oh, come on...”

“Don’t start with me.”

“Ellison, you know how big this article is going to be! You’re the one who put me in charge of it in the first place.”

“Yes, I did. But what I didn’t ask of you is to stay camped out here three nights in a row. When’s the last time you even slept in your own bed?”

“I’ll be fine, really. I can take care of myself.”

“This article may be important to the paper, but your health is a lot more important to me. Get out of here—I’m serious. Go home and get some rest. You can finish up sometime tomorrow.”

Karen ran her hand through her hair, ready to retaliate, but struggling to find the energy to fight back.

“Alright.”

As Karen locked the door to her office, purse slung across her body, she couldn’t help but dread the walk back home. She would have never admitted it out loud, but knew that the real reason she had been spending more and more time in the office recently was most definitely not because she found the ambiance soothing.

///

The bottle’s to her lips before she even realizes what she’s doing, alcohol hitting the back of her throat faster than she can take it, and she pulls the bottle away before she completely unravels. She’s sitting on the floor of the kitchen, not entirely sure how she got there in the first place, and her hands shake as she tries to ground herself back to reality.

January 2nd, 2009 was a Friday.

She isn’t sure what chokes her up first—the stinging sensation of the bourbon burning at the back of her throat or the inability to breathe as her tears come running down her face. Her voice hiccups as she attempts to silence her sobbing, fearing that her cries will wake all of Hell’s Kitchen.

Kevin Page was only 16.

The memories flood her conscious like a tidal wave, bringing back images she wished she could forget. The car that she had so often borrowed suddenly unrecognizable. The casket being ever-so gently lowered into the ground. The train ticket crumpled in the palm of her shaky hand as she made her way on board, leaving Vermont for the last time.

It wasn’t an accident.

Paxton and Penelope Page, the successful parents of star basketball player Karen Page and her well-known bookworm brother, Kevin. Everyone said that their family looked like something ripped straight out of a magazine—they were the perfect, white-picket fence family that everyone was trying to keep up with. Except Paxton consumed more alcohol than he cared to admit, and Penelope was hardly ever around to even take notice. They may have been a family on Sunday’s, but they were far from it any other day of the week. With parents that cared more about their image than their own family members, Karen and Kevin had grown to be absolutely inseparable, until they were separated by a force neither of them had seen coming. Karen knew her fair share about what it meant to be alone long before she’d ever been left behind by Matt and Foggy, but losing Kevin most definitely had hurt the most.

It was her hand on the trigger.

She flinches at the sound of knuckles rapping on the front door, heart ready to leap out of her throat. Getting up as quietly as she can, she makes her way to her purse sitting against the sofa, reaching in for the heavy metal that hasn’t graced the palm of her hand in quite some time. She closes her eyes as she takes a few deep breaths, interrupted by more knocking on the door. Whoever is at the door is persistent, and while she senses urgency, she knows that nobody should be showing up this late at night.

It only takes her a quick glance through the peephole for the front door to come swinging open, gun placed on a table next to her. Frank looks like an absolute mess, but he could argue that she looks the same. She takes notice of the gash in the arm of his jacket, blood trailing down his shoulder and threatening to stain the hardwood floors. Her eyes are wide, confusion coloring her face, but he can tell she’s been crying. Probably for quite some time now, too. He opens his mouth to speak, but she beats him to it.

“I...I have a first aid kit in the bathroom.”

Frank nods as he closes the front door quietly behind him, attempting to stay calm to keep her from worrying too much. On his way to the bathroom, he steals a few glances of the room, papers scattered around the sofa and coffee table and an open bottle of bourbon sitting on the kitchen floor. He quickly pieces it together that he was intruding, that this wasn’t a good time, but knows he can't turn back now. As Frank makes his way to the edge of the bathtub, watching Karen search through drawers, he begins to question why he even came here in the first place. Curtis’ apartment had probably been closer in proximity to where he had been, and Frank knew he could patch him up in no time, but the idea hadn’t even crossed his mind before his feet started making their way to Karen’s door. He wasn’t sure if Karen even knew how to stitch someone up, but figured that being her idea meant that she was willing to try. He wondered whether that was actually her or just the alcohol talking.

She’s gentle with him, hands steady as they clean the wound and prep a needle. He flinches a bit when the needle first goes in, and Karen hesitates, afraid that her amateur attempt at closing up his wound will only make things worse. He nods though, giving her the open invitation to continue. They sit in complete silence apart from a handful of choice words escaping under Karen’s breath. He feels like he takes up the entire space, spilling his blood on the edge of her bathtub and showing up to her doorstep at 2AM without notice.

You were given a second chance because you deserve it, Frank.

He contemplates her words and can’t help but laugh at the situation he has found himself in yet again. When Karen said he deserved a second chance, he was pretty sure she meant so he could start a new life, put the past behind him. And yet, here he was, unable to keep his trigger finger from twitching and fists in his goddamn pockets. Although he had gotten a new job at a construction company and was living a somewhat quiet life, he just couldn’t keep out of trouble. The nightmares never really went away either—the only difference was that this time, there were new ones. Sometimes his subconscious would replay the image of Rawlins, bloody, battered, and eyes-gouged in, but other times, he sees Lewis with his arm snaked around Karen, elevator doors closing before his eyes. A whole lot of nothing has changed since then. Things had gotten slightly better—he kept himself busy with work and Curtis’ therapy group sessions—but his grief still haunted him occasionally, whether in his dreams or when he least expected it. He missed the familiarity he’d grown accustomed to—the sound of Maria’s humming as she folded clothes or the faint giggling from Lisa and Frank Jr.’s rooms late at night when they were supposed to be asleep. Being alone for so long, Frank soon came to realize just how deafening the silence could truly be. But perhaps this was all he deserved out of a second chance.

Karen interrupts his train of thought as she cleans up the last of the blood on his arm. Her eyes are swollen and bloodshot from crying, and she looks beat. He doesn’t know if he’s ever seen her like this before—perhaps the day in the hotel could measure up, but being through hell and back naturally would do that to a person. However this time, he could sense the amount of vulnerability and pain she was trying so hard to mask. Cupping her cheek with his free hand, he brushes away new tears that had surfaced, shushing her quietly as she grabs ahold of his arm. As he pulls away, he realizes that the side of her face is lightly coated with the residue of blood from the palm of his hand, and he hates the image of it—it looks as if he’s tainted her, dragging her down along with him. He opens his mouth to apologize, but gets cut off before he can get a word out.

“It’s okay, Frank.” She smiles weakly, tears spilling over as she releases her grip from Frank’s arm, hand quick to wipe the tears away. Frank studies her, pondering whether she’s embarrassed of him seeing her like this. Rising from the edge of the bathtub, she makes her way over to the counter to clean up the mess, tossing wrappers and bloody cloth into the trash. She begins wiping the blood, along with her makeup, off her face, and she can’t help but laugh at how ridiculous this all seems.

Frank watches her in silence, soaking in the domesticity of it all. He isn’t quite sure why he’s still around, but can’t tear his eyes off of her either.

“Are you?” He shifts his weight, watching Karen’s expression change at the seemingly random question.

“Am I … what?”

“Are you okay?”

Karen’s thrown off by the question, and her throat tightens as she tries to speak. “I’m, uh, I’m fine.”

“Don’t bullshit me.” His hand tightens around the edge of the bathtub, leaving a deep red handprint that he knows he’ll have to clean up before he leaves. “Talk to me, Karen. You haven’t been fine since I walked through that door. And whatever’s goin’ on happened long before I showed up, alright? The bottle sitting on your kitchen floor speaks volumes, believe me.”

She shoots him a glare that tells him to back off, but struggles to find it in her to actually tell him to. They’re honest with one another, something she’s immensely grateful for, and she knows she can’t take advantage of. She rests her back against the countertop and stares down at her feet.

“Today’s the, um, anniversary of my younger brother’s death.” She watches as Frank’s body shifts, completely thrown off and uncomfortable with the situation they’ve now found themselves in.

“Shit, Karen. I didn’t...didn’t mean to pry like that. I’m sorry.” He watches as she bites her lip, trying to keep herself from falling apart. “You...wanna talk?” He holds his breath for her response, unsure whether he’s pushing his boundaries or not.

Her head turns up at Frank and she stares at him, searching for an answer as to why he even cares about her in the first place. She takes in his question, contemplating it over and over again in her head. And truthfully, she wants to lay everything on him. She wants to tell him all about her fucked up family and about how much she had loved, and still loves, Kevin. She wants to share her absolute favorite memories, have him try a slice of her grandmother’s famous cherry pie, and show him around the town she hadn’t stepped foot in for nearly a decade now. She wants to explain to him what happened that night, why she ran away, and why she can never return back. She wants to tell him about Daniel Fisher, Elena Cardenas, and Ben Urich—about everyone who had died fighting for the truth—about James Wesley, Wilson Fisk, and just every other person who ever tried to lay a finger on her. She wants to tell him about Matt Murdock, about how she loved him, and about how she lost him. But most of all, she wants to tell him about how much she’s missed seeing him, how she’s in need of a new pot of roses, and how she’s so happy that he is here. But she knows that she can’t—could never ask that much from him—but instead of saying no, she puts everything on hold. Tells herself that there will be a time and a place, and that maybe, one day, she will tell him everything. But tonight isn’t the right time, for her or for Frank. She looks across at him, at the concern on his face, and nods her head lightly.

“I want to, eventually. I just, I’m not sure if I’m ready right now.”

Karen lets out a deep breath, and it’s all the confirmation Frank needs.

“Okay.”

///

They’d left the bathroom a while ago after cleaning up and now stood in the kitchen as Karen pours herself a glass of water. She had a lot of questions, and Frank just as many, but exhaustion was winning both of them over.

“Thanks, again, Karen. Look, I’m sorry for intruding on you like this tonight. I’ll, uh, I’ll get out of your hair.” He knows he’s being an asshole, but he has no idea what to do. He recalls calling Red out once on being a half-measure, but he realizes that he’s no better. Karen deserves better than him, and he knows he’s not worthy of her kindness and hospitality.

As he walks over to the door, he hears a familiar request, and can’t help himself from stopping dead in his tracks.

“Stay.”

He turns around to look at her and can read the fear written all over her face.

“Please.”

He complies, placing his jacket on the arm of the sofa. “Okay, okay.” He looks down at the mess of papers scattered about, and smiles awkwardly. “I’ll, uh, clean this up. I can sleep on the couch.”

“No, no, take the bed. I’m going to be busy finishing up an article out here, anyway.”

Frank stares at her, a bit appalled by the response. “Karen.”

“I mean it, really. I’ll be just fine.”

Edging over to the kitchen, he places his hand gently on her arm, almost afraid that he’s somehow crossing a line. “It can wait.”

She’s ready to argue with him, but he interrupts her. “Look at me. The article can wait, alright? Think we both know you need some sleep.”

A chuckle escapes Karen’s lips as she shrugs her shoulders. “Guess you’re right.”

“I kinda like the sound of that.”

She gives him a playful shove, and he steps back, laughing softly. “Hey, watch it. That’s my good arm.”

///

They pester one another as they enter, dim lights from outside her window overcasting the tension in the room. They each take their respective sides of the bed, and Frank’s pulse suddenly picks up. He can’t remember the last time he’s shared a bed with someone—he knows that it was the day he had last returned from Kandahar, but he had quickly forgotten the familiarity of it all. As he pulls the covers up to his chest, he’s breathing in the familiar scent, breathing her in, and his heart begins skipping beats. It’s strange feeling this way again, feeling the heat radiate off of the person laying next to him, and he can sense himself drowning in the intoxication he swore he never would.

On the other side of the bed, Karen grapples with the conflict of this situation they’ve found themselves in. Her mind is racing at a million miles per hour, well aware of how the situation looks. As her brain tries to wrap itself around countless scenarios, Karen can’t help but take notice of the warm blush creeping onto her cheeks, and she kicks herself for feeling like a ridiculous schoolgirl again. It means nothing. This means nothing. “They” are nothing.

But as Frank’s arm wraps around her waist, pulling her closer to him, she can’t help but indulge in the warmth, feeling more protected in his arms than she has her entire life. Neither of them know what this means, nor do they want to address it, but they allow themselves something that feels like a new beginning for the both of them. As the voices in his mind quiet and her thoughts die down, they drift off into a deep slumber, both enticed by the idea that maybe this could be their second chance.