Work Text:
Karen Page watches as the clock on her laptop turns over to 5:30pm, and sighs.
Her date is officially late. It’s been two hours since she claimed the rickety little chair in the corner of the coffee shop a few blocks from The Bulletin. Her first coffee has long since grown cold, and her phone shows no frantic apologies for tardiness from the man in question. Karen reviews the facts.
Trish had been absolutely horrified to find out Karen hasn’t been on a date in nearly a year. As her friend, she had declared, it is her job to make sure that Karen finds someone to keep her from becoming a hermit. Since that conversation nearly a week ago, Karen has been bombarded with Facebook profiles, text messages, and not-so-subtle hints. At long last, Karen had agreed to one date of Trish’s choosing.
Just don’t pick someone terrible , Karen had pleaded, and in hours she had a time and location set.
As the day grew closer, Karen felt her apprehension build. It’s not as if she is scared of dating--she is more afraid that she’ll find someone nice, someone who treats her well. Someone that she’ll inevitably hurt. She’s not always the easiest or most compromising person to get along with. It’s always been more comfortable tumbling into bed with a stranger when the mood arises, rather than bare her soul over dinner. And so as the day of her date arrives, Karen forces herself to dress a little nicer than usual. She even puts on lip gloss. She leaves work early to stake out the venue Trish had picked, a quaint little coffee shop that she’s passed hundreds of times but never actually gone into. Arriving early might not have been the best ideas for her nerves--she alternates between watching the door, the clock, and absently re-writing the article she’s working on.
And now he’s late.
The bell above the door jingles, but when she looks up expectantly it’s just a woman and her daughter making their way to the cash register. Karen slumps back into her seat and represses another annoyed sigh. She’s just contemplating giving up on this failed venture when her eyes find the man behind the counter for the hundredth time in the last hour. He’s currently smiling at the little girl ducked behind her mother’s legs, and Karen gives herself a moment to admire him.
His nametag read Frank, she recalls. When she had ordered her first coffee he had been polite and kind, giving her a casual look over and a wide smile. Karen had taken her Americano and sat down, and since then she’s been unable to keep her gaze away for too long. Frank the barista has wide shoulders and strong arms that flex with muscles at every movement. He’s got a nose that looks like it’s been broken half a dozen times that’s startlingly endearing when mixed with his strong jaw and expressive brow. His beard is speckled with grey, but she estimates he’s not more than a couple years older than her. He looks like a man that has absolutely no business donning a maroon apron and dolling out pastries. He looks more suited for battle, or maybe chopping trees down in a flannel somewhere.
It’s just as he hands the woman her coffee and straightens, looking in Karen’s direction, that her attention is yanked away.
“Karen?” A voice to her right asks. “Karen Page?”
She turns. Like night and day, her date is blond with light green eyes, tall and thin. He towers over her seated position and grins down at her with blindly white, straight teeth.
“You must be Rich,” Karen says, forcing a smile. And very, very late.
“Not yet,” he winks, and then at her silence, laughs awkwardly and sits. “Yeah, that’s me. Sorry I’m late, I lost track of time.”
The half-hearted excuse only riles Karen’s irritation further, but she had promised Trish she would behave and so she keeps her smile and tries to play nice. “Sure.” When he doesn’t offer, she hedges: “I’m going to get a coffee.”
“Oh, that would be great! Cream and sugar. You’re the best.”
Karen’s smile freezes in place. Her eye definitely doesn’t twitch. She stands and heads towards the cash register, sure that smoke is absolutely pouring from her ears. When she gets to the counter, she stares at the menu and pushes away the scowl threatening to take over. It's a losing battle.
The handsome lumberjack named Frank raises a brow at her, bemused. “Ma’am, you alright?”
Oh that voice. Karen feels some of her frustration melt away at his deep, warm baritone. “Oh. Yeah, sorry. Can I get an americano and a coffee with cream and sugar, please?”
He nods, tallying up her order. As he types, he glances back at her table. “Guy got a problem with his legs?”
Karen blinks, yanked out of her perusal of his drawn brow and entirely too plush lips. “Huh?”
“Blondie.” He jerks a chin towards her waiting date. “Just don’t know why you’re up here buyin’ and not him.”
Karen raises a brow, torn between amused and chastising. “This is the 21st century you know, women can pay.”
He doesn't seem convinced, but hands her back her change anyways. “Guess I was just raised traditional,” he hedges before turning back to the espresso machine. For a moment, he pulls levers and pours and moves as Karen watches. She could watch him handcraft lattes all day long, looking like that.
After a moment, he speaks again. “Been with him long?”
The stone of dread in her stomach sinks deeper. The idea of being with Rich any longer than the next hour is unsettling and unpleasant. “Nope. Just met.”
Frank’s eyes flicker back to hers curiously. “How’s he doin?”
“Well, not great.” Karen flashes a wry smile. “If I blink the Morse code for SOS at you, come tell me my car’s being towed or something.”
“What d’you drive?”
“Nothing, I walked.”
They share a grin. Frank chuckles, a sound that stirs something warm in her belly. He circles back to her previous request.
“You really know Morse code?”
“Yeah. Don’t laugh--my brother and I learned it as kids as a way to mess with our parents.”
He huffs out another laugh and sits her drinks on the counter. “No shit. Well, I’ll keep an eye out. I learned for the Marines.”
Karen slots that piece of information into the meager scraps she’s feeding on. The muscles and the politeness and his everything start to make more sense in light of that. She smiles and lets her gaze slip to his nametag like she hasn’t memorized it already. “Got it. Thanks--”
“Frank. Frank Castle.”
“Nice to meet you. Karen Page.”
He very nearly stumbles. His eyes widen appreciatively. “From the Bulletin?”
The admiration in his tone is palpable and refreshing and too much all at once. Karen averts her eyes, feels a flush creep up her neck. “Yep, that’s me.”
Frank looks back at her date and looks as if he wants to say more, but he just shakes his head and hands her the coffees. “Hope your date gets better, Karen.”
Something in his tone conflicts with his words, making it seem both sincere and distinctly not. She huffs. “Yeah, me too.”
And as she walks back to her table, she pretends like she doesn’t wish it was her barista waiting for her.
--
The date doesn’t get better. Karen has long since finished her second cup of coffee, and she’s nearly vibrating out of her skin from the caffeine and restless energy. Rich has told her about his boring job, about his boring gym schedule, and about his boring ten year career plan. All things that, on anyone else, Karen could appreciate. He’s got a steady income and he takes care of himself. He’s not unattractive. He’s got a plan. It’s everything she should look for in a life partner. Or at the very least, in a date.
But here Karen is, nearly an hour in, zoned out. She’s in the middle of mentally restructuring her article on this month’s biggest charity when she realizes she hears some kind of--rhythm. Or pattern. It takes a moment to figure out what it is.
From the counter, Frank is shooting her a conspiring grin and tapping a pen.
.-. / ..- / --- -.-
R u ok
Karen stares, then slowly breaks into a grin. She gives barely a perceptible nod. Frank continues.
-... --- .-. . -.. ..--..
Bored ?
She locks eyes with him. Blinks three times fast. Glances at Rich, who isn’t paying attention. Blinks slowly three more times. Fast three more. The universal code for get me out of here.
That’s all it takes. Within moments, Frank has appeared at her side. Karen didn’t realize a man so noticeable could move so quietly. “Excuse me,” he rumbles, effectively cutting Rich off from a monologue on stocks. “But Miss Page, we’re closin’ early for a company birthday party. Would you be willin’ to move up our interview to--now?”
Oh, sneaky. Karen bites back a laugh and fixes a look of long-suffering on her put-out date. “Oh! Of course, yes, that would be totally fine. Rich, I’m sorry to cut this short but I'm supposed to do this interview today and my editor will positively kill me if I don’t get it done on time.”
Rich seems to deflate, shooting Frank a withering look. “Oh. Well, that’s alright. How about you call me tomorrow and we can pick this up somewhere a little less--...disruptive.”
It’s not a question, more of an accusation in the face of Frank’s fixed, polite stare.
“Sure, sure.” Karen nods quickly, and stands as he does. She steps backwards just as Rich comes close for a hug, which he plays off admirably with a stretch. And with one last annoyed scowl at Frank, Rich exits and sets off down the sidewalk.
Karen waits until he’s out of sight to grin at Frank, who looks entirely too smug. “You’re my hero,” she proclaims. “Maybe I should do a piece about this place.”
“Nah,” Franks balk, wiping his hands on his apron, “Nothin’ special about us. Just can’t stand the thought of someone like him takin’ up any more of your time.”
Karen can’t help the way her smile widens at his obvious annoyance with her choice in date. “Are you sure? I’ve been told I write pretty good stuff.”
His returning nod is emphatic. “You do. I read ‘em every morning.” There's a brief pause where they size one another up from a few feet away. He seems like he wants to say more, but finally shrugs and picks up Rich’s abandoned mug. “But we like the clientele here as it is--usually.”
“Suit yourself.” Karen is struck by how much she wants an excuse to spend more time here. “But there must be some way I can pay you back. You really saved me.”
Frank pinks, just so. It’s adorable and completely endearing and--and hot. He clears his throat, wipes his free hand on his apron again. “Nope. All good here. Need another coffee?”
Did she actually think he’d go for her thinly veiled flirting? Karen tries to keep the disappointment out of her voice. “No, I’m okay. I’m just going to wait a little while for the coast to clear.”
--
She stays longer than she means to. But really, how can she leave when Frank’s soft voice carries to her during his conversations with customers, or when she sees him glance her way in her peripherals, or when she returns to her table after a bathroom break to find a chocolate croissant on her table and Frank determinedly wiping down counters.
Just ask him out, Karen thinks in a voice that sounds suspiciously like Trish. Don’t dance around it; you’re not great at being subtle anyways. How long are you going to sit here like a creep? It gets less charming every hour, surely.
Even so, she can’t. There’s a feeling like she’s on the precipice of something great and one misstep would send her plummeting below. It’s terrifying and exhilarating. It’s what forces her to pack up her work bag and shoulder on her coat, eyes on the table top. Half her croissant sits there, accusatory. It’s as she tucks her notebook away that Frank ambles over.
“Need a bag for that?” he asks, dipping his chin towards her dessert.
Karen offers a small smile. “Yes, I would love a bag for the pastry that magically appeared on my table.”
Caught, he grins, and pulls out a small paper baggie from his apron. Karen deposits the treat inside and tucks that neatly into her purse. A moment passes, and then Karen clears her throat. They’re standing across the small table, watching each other. It feels as if Karen is drowning in all the words she wants to say. None of which, she thinks sourly, are appropriate to say to a practical stranger. Things like, so when are you off so I can make you fall in love with me? and how about you show me where the pastries are made?
Karen hides her grimace at her own wanton thoughts. “Um, thank you again, Frank. It was great to meet you.”
“My pleasure.” His eyes are intense and she has a feeling she knows what his next few words are going to be, so she stumbles forward into her own ineloquent stuttering before he can.
“Okay, I’ve got to get going. Um, thanks. For the pastry. And the help. Bye.”
She’s halfway down the street before Karen lets herself emit a strangled, embarrassed groan, slapping a hand to her forehead.
--
It takes two days for her to muster the courage to go back. This time when Karen opens the door of Castle Coffee there’s a young girl leaning against the cashier’s counter, phone in hand. She glances up when the door opens and then does a double take, a slow grin spreading across her face.
Before Karen can say anything, the girl holds up a hand. The nametag on her apron reads Amy. Her dirty blonde hair bobs precariously on the top of her head as she shakes it. “Nope, I’m off in one minute. But I know a certain cashier slash owner slash flirt who can definitely help you out.” She disappears into the swinging door of the kitchen, leaving a baffled Karen alone.
Well, not totally alone. There’s a man in the corner with a newspaper and a few college kids pouring over textbooks at the largest table by the door, but the sudden quiet is unnerving. She shifts nervously.
It's only a handful of seconds before the door swings open again and Frank appears, stopping short when he sees her. He looks like he wants to say something--her name perhaps, or a question, but he only steps up to the register and keeps his expression even.
“Ma’am,” he greets politely.
“Karen,” she reminds him, and then clears her throat. She thinks back to what she rehearsed on the way over: sorry for the other day, I was weird. I don’t date. I didn’t mean to be rude. Can we start over? Or Hey, I panicked. Want to go out? Before she can force any of these sentiments out, he scans her expression and seems to decide on mercy.
“Americano, black, right?”
She nods helplessly. He remembered her order--it makes her feel even more guilty for the way she acted. As he punches it into the register, she blurts: “And--one of those croissants. Please. For here.”
Frank pauses, glances up. Sends her a small, unsure smile. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
He tells her a total, swipes her card, makes her drink. “I’ll be out with the pastry in a sec, they're in the back.”
Karen nods and heads towards her table from the other day. She sits and places a hand on her forehead, agitated. It has never been this hard for her to talk to someone like a normal human being, but everything about Frank seems to completely override her common sense. Not to mention her social skills. He’s just too much of a total package: kind and funny, so unintentionally sweet and handsome. And hot.
As if summoned by her thoughts, Frank appears and sets down her pastry. He doesn’t say anything further, retreating back to the counter. Karen busies herself with pulling out her laptop. She’s waiting for it to boot up, contemplating exactly how much she's ruined any chance of him accepting an offer of a date, when something catches her eye. Beneath her plate there is a napkin peeking out. She can just make out an unusual pattern on it, one that starts her heart in a mad thundering of anticipation.
She pulls out the napkin. There in blocky, neat handwriting is ten numbers and a single name: Frank.
For a moment, Karen’s brain short-circuits. It’s not as if she hasn’t received a number before, but something about the painstakingly tidy little digits sends her pulse skyrocketing. By the time she’s wrapped her brain around yes this is Frank’s number enough to look up, he is helping another customer. She can make out the shit eating grin on his face as he works, and it makes her tension ease. He made the first move, he gave her his number. Now it's her turn. She waits until he’s finished cashing the customer out to pull out her pen.
She taps.
- --- -. .. --. .... - ..--..
tonight?
Frank meets her eyes from the counter, and she doesn’t need to use Morse code to read the emphatic yes she sees there.