Chapter Text
Foggy has seen his fair share of crazy shit— alien portals, ninjas, dudes with glowing fists and bulletproof skin, ninjas again. His best friend—who’s blind, by the way—spends his nights in a red spandex suit leaping across buildings and running down criminals. Foggy can’t say he’s used to any of it yet, but he’s getting there.
Well, he was. Frank Castle standing in the entryway to Josie’s might just be the final straw.
His first thought is why now? That shitshow of a trial was eons ago; there’s no way Frank’s back because of that, right? It’s not Foggy’s fault the guy went ballistic up on the stand. And how the hell did he manage to track Foggy here?
But then Foggy sees Karen standing next to Frank, her arm looped in his.
Huh. This must be what having a stroke feels like.
Karen spots him across the bar and waves. He just saw her at the office yesterday, but she looks, well, different. Her hair’s a little curly at the ends, and even from over here, he can tell she’s wearing makeup.
They’ve started walking toward him, and his brain kicks into overdrive, the past couple of weeks flashing behind his eyes like those flipbooks he used to make when he was a kid— Karen staring off into space at her desk, Karen’s face going tomato-red when Foggy asks if she finally caved and downloaded Tinder because she’s glancing at her phone every two seconds, Karen breezing into the office late, apologetic but also weirdly smiley—
Oh, no. No no no—
Frank turns his head, says something into Karen’s ear, and she laughs softly.
Okay, this is what having a stroke feels like.
They’re ten steps away, and Foggy’s hit with the absurd urge to arm himself with something. Not that there’s any point; Frank could probably murder him with his pinky finger and make it look like an accident. Instead, Foggy casts a quick glance around. Marci’s over at the bar talking to Josie, and Matt’s not here yet, per usual. There are a few other people hanging around, but none of them have looked twice at Frank. Maybe it’s because the guy has an honest-to-God mountain man beard and is wearing— is that flannel? Whatever, the point is that he actually looks halfway normal, not bruised to hell and bleeding like the last time Foggy saw him.
Which is weird.
Maybe Josie slipped something into his beer. That would explain why he feels like he’s been hit over the head with something very heavy.
“Foggy?” Karen’s voice. Karen’s right in front of him, and so is Frank.
“Uh— hi?” Foggy manages to croak out, waggling his hand in a tiny wave.
Frank presses his lips into a thin line, like he’s trying not to smile, or something, which, yeah, okay, add that to the list, because up until this nanosecond, Foggy was convinced the guy did nothing but brood, yell, and shoot things. Specifically in that order.
Karen glances between him and Frank. “Foggy, you remember”—her eyes skitter around the bar— “you remember Pete?”
Foggy’s mouth opens and closes a few times; then he’s bobbing his head like an idiot. “Pete! Totally remember Pete. Because that’s his name. Yep, no brand new information to process here at all.”
Frank snorts, ducking his head, and Foggy swears he sees a flash of teeth.
Well. At least one of them is enjoying themselves.
Karen gives Foggy a shaky smile that seems to say I’m sorry and please don’t freak out simultaneously, which is a mighty tall order, especially because now that he’s looking, he can see that they’re both holding what appear to be gift bags.
Karen follows the line of his eyes. “For the white elephant exchange,” she says, like this whole situation is completely normal and not what’s currently giving Foggy an aneurysm. “Unless— did we miss it? We’re a little late—”
“Nope,” Foggy says weakly. “Not late. Uh, our table’s back there, you can just—” he gestures toward the back of the bar, eager for the excuse to put space between himself and the known mass murderer who apparently just crashed his Christmas party.
Frank must have ESP or something, because he takes a step back, jerking a thumb at the bar. “Gonna grab some drinks. See you back there?”
Karen bobs her head, watching as he walks away. When he’s out of earshot, she turns back to Foggy. “Okay, I know you must have a million questions—”
Foggy barks out a laugh. “Uh, yeah, you could say that. Let’s start with: why? And more importantly: how? And then maybe circle back to why again, because I feel like my head’s gonna explode.”
“I didn’t plan for this, if that’s what you’re asking.” Karen dips her head a little, hand darting to tuck her hair behind her ear in a gesture that Foggy instantly recognizes as nerves. “God, I don’t even know where to start.”
“Give me the Spark Notes version.”
It’s her turn to huff out a laugh. “I’m honestly not sure I can, Foggy. So much has happened since the trial, things that you and Matt didn’t—” she bites her lip. “There’s a lot more to his story than we thought. I got caught up in some of it.”
“Got caught up in? Or ran headfirst into?”
“That’s fair. A little of both, I guess.”
“Okay, that checks out. But that still doesn’t explain why he’s here. I thought the guy was still, you know—” he mimes a stabbing motion with his fist.
“He’s not,” Karen says simply. “Not anymore.”
“So that’s why his name is Pete, now?”
Karen nods. “Clean slate.”
Foggy frowns. “And you’re— you’re okay? I mean, he’s not, like, holding you hostage, or something?” Karen quirks an eyebrow at that, and he holds his hands up. “Hey, just trying to determine if I should be calling the cops or trying to stage an intervention.”
“Again, fair,” Karen laughs. Then her eyes soften. “I really am sorry for springing this on you.”
Foggy searches her face. As long as he’s known her, he’s never seen her with her guard completely down. He remembers sitting here with her a lifetime ago, listening to her talk about the city and its dark corners. She was alone, then. Alone and scared. She doesn’t seem to be either of those things right now.
Hell with it. Maybe Josie really did spike his drink, or maybe Foggy can’t bring himself to be mad when his best friend is looking at him like that, like she’s mentally bracing for impact, like she expects him to freak out or yell or tell her she’s crazy. Which— she is. But maybe that doesn’t matter. After the year Foggy’s had—the year all of them have had—maybe it’s enough that they’re here, together, safe. Maybe it’s enough to enjoy a hard-earned night out with people he loves.
And Frank Castle.
Foggy heaves a sigh. “I’m not saying I understand, because I sure as hell don’t, but— if you’re happy, I’m happy. Or, I will be, after several more of these.” He lifts his beer, tries to give Karen a smile that says it’s totally fine and not at all insane that you’re maybe-possibly dating the freaking Punisher.
Relief spills across her face, and she reaches out to squeeze his hand. “Thanks, Foggy.”
“Couldn’t have just downloaded Tinder like the rest of us, huh?” he asks as they make their way to the back of the bar. Marci has commandeered a spot by the pool tables; she’s waving them over eagerly.
Karen smirks. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Fun. Yeah, scratch the beers. This is gonna be a drink-the-eel kind of night.