Chapter Text
How many times is she going to say it? It’s all for the best.
Frank (very insistently, she might add) pushed her away with a grand finality in that hospital room. He was right, anyway. Why should she throw everything away for a traumatized, unstable, and emotionally unavailable vigilante?
Oh, there are many reasons, Karen thinks with no small hint of sarcasm, thumbing through her hair in irritation. She’s in a dingy, hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, waiting for a source to show up. The source is for a story about a group of doctors giving free healthcare services to the homeless in Hell’s Kitchen.
It’s far from the usual crime-riddled pieces she writes, but Ellison (and Matt and Foggy) insisted that it would be good for her to work on some feel-good stories once in a while. Not that there’s anything ‘feel-good’ about the poor not affording healthcare. But she digresses.
It’s been six months since that fateful day in Frank’s hospital room. She asked Madani for updates about him not long after that. Apparently, Frank turned down a very promising job offer from the CIA. Given his experience with serving the country, Karen doubted he would even consider that offer. She told Madani exactly that. Madani gave her an offhand shrug. “It was worth a try,” she had said.
After that meeting with Madani, she heard no news about Frank for three months. Not from any TV channel. Not even from the Internet. Karen guessed he kept his kills on the down-low. Never would she have guessed that Frank- the infamous Punisher- has taken on other tasks. A prime example of this was fucking a random woman’s brains out.
Eventually, she found out from Micro that Frank was shacking up with a bartender and her son. Micro said Frank met the woman months ago, left her when it got too dangerous, and went right back after business with Amy was done. She’s not gonna lie (but she is going to oversimplify)- that stung. Frank goes on this pretentious speech saying Karen should run away from him and that he doesn’t want to love someone else- and then goes around and does… that.
Nevermind, she had thought, masking a sob with a serene smile. Micro couldn’t even see her (they were talking over the phone) but she could see her face reflected on the darkened screen of her laptop. She hated looking so fucking pathetic over vigilantes.
“Karen, are you still there?” Micro had said, his voice chock full of worry and hesitation. Maybe he was thinking that it was a bad idea to tell Karen about domestic Frank. For a moment, Karen thought that too. But in retrospect, it was the best thing that Micro could have said to her. The news that Frank had started a new life was all the push she needed to start to forget him.
“Yeah, I’m here,” Karen said, her voice shaking. Damn it. Might as well ride this wave. “I’m just so happy for him. He finally got that warm, cozy ending.” She added a cute little sniffle to the end of that last sentence. She hoped it was convincing.
“Oh, well,” Micro hesitated, “If that’s what you think.”
Karen spent approximately ten weeks wondering (overthinking) what Micro meant by that. She only let it go when she caught herself spending most of her time thinking about those words and not enough time checking the grammar of her articles. Boy, did that make Ellison mad.
She can be so stupid sometimes.
Plus, it’s not lost on Karen that when his criminal records were expunged, Frank chose to leave New York. He did that without so much as a goodbye. That hurt- a lot. At first, she thought it was because she worried about him as any friend would. But when it kept hurting for months and the hurt kept getting deeper, she realized that wasn’t friendship.
It was (is) something more. And it kept gnawing at her, slowly. On her good days, it was like a child picking at the wallpaper. On her bad ones, it was a sledgehammer smashing the walls. She refused to associate her feelings with the L word. On her brave days, she called it yearning. She’s not sure if that’s better or not.
She held it together quite nicely for a whole year. She was busy with work. She even took on medic classes to learn how to treat wounds and bruises. She told herself it was all for Matt. But in the back of her mind, she reserved a special place for someone else. Someone far.
She even held it well when she saw Frank at the hospital- battered and bruised from another war he was waging. The L word was at the tip of her tongue. So heavy she could almost taste it. When she was holding his hand as he slept, she was preparing to say it out loud. She was so fucking ready. But he woke up from a nightmare and proceeded to tell her about his family. That broke her resolve.
She had thought- that was love. Him and Maria and Lisa and Frank Jr. That was love.
She felt little.
But if he had asked her to take up arms with him, she would’ve said yes. A thousand times over, she would have said yes.
But he didn’t, so she didn’t.
So it’s been six months- it’s not like she’s been idle or whatever. She went on a few dates. Slept around and enjoyed herself. Even got serious with one guy right before Matt had told her that her new boyfriend was only getting cozy with her for information about Daredevil.
Now that was an ugly breakup. She wasn’t in love or anything, but she was at the stage where she thought she could be- if she gave it a little more time.
The last she heard of that guy was that he ended up in the ER after a run-in with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Matt and Karen never spoke about it. Kinda let it dangle between the air until it dissipated eventually. They’re both good at doing that- experts really.
Karen checks the time. The source is an hour late. She fishes her phone out of her purse and calls the person she’s waiting for. The other end rang five times before she gave up. She huffs, annoyed. She dials Foggy to see if he wanted to have a drink. He doesn’t even let it ring twice. He answers, jovial, and says Hell yeah, I’m up for a few rounds. I’ll call Matt. See you at Josie’s in ten.
Josie’s is just two blocks from the coffee shop she’s in. Wanting nothing more than to get blackout drunk, she heads on over to the bar. Nothing like a dead-end story and a boring weekend ahead to inspire her to get wasted.
She buys herself a beer and settles at their usual table. Over the excited chatter of other patrons, she can hear the television- the perfect combination for drowning out unnecessary and wounding thoughts.
Many times has she imagined what Frank’s new girl looks like. More times did she almost jump into a Greyhound to find out for herself. She probably looks like Maria, she would tell herself, a mental stab to the heart if anything. That thought is usually followed by a staring contest with the mirror, looking over her ultimately un-Maria-like features. Call her a masochist, whatever.
Many times has she pondered violently what she lacked that Frank’s girl had. Why did he choose to have an after with her? Oh man, how those thoughts spiral into ones that nitpick at the interactions she and Frank had. Over and over again she ruminates, juggling the toxic thoughts in her mind like a goddamn circus freak.
Maybe I asked for too much? Maybe I was overbearing and emotional and needy? But the loudest, most insistent thought is this- maybe I was imagining things (imagining that Frank cared for her more than a friend or an ally, imagining that there’s potential that can be found in their tender moments)?
You can never be sure, right? With connections built on tons of trauma and violence, you’re bound to question things. Ah, but him having an actual girlfriend makes things easier, speeds things up. If he didn’t choose her for his after, maybe she wasn’t really in the running. With that, you can be sure. You can be all types of sure.
Oh, well.
Matt arrives first. He’s got a drink in his hand when he sits parallel to her. “Long day?” he asks.
“You can say that,” Karen replies, beginnings of a smirk tugging her lips. Matt has new bruises on his face. “What about you? Long night?”
Matt chuckles. He looks radiant despite being black and blue. “You can say that.” Karen considers his smile and nods. She’s way past nagging him about his street fights. She has learned that his vigilante side is part of him that makes him whole. She has learned to accept it.
“What are you thinking about?” Matt asks after a long pause.
“Sometimes I forgot you’re almost a mindreader,” she says placidly. He grins. She can’t help but give in. “Well, it’s this story I’m working on. Source was a no show.”
“Oh. Something I can help with?”
“I can fare well on my own, thanks very much,” she says. It’s a matter of fact Matt can’t deny. But that doesn’t stop him from offering assistance. It never does.
“Okay, got it. What about the other thing you’re thinking about?” Damn it.
No use lying to Matt. But it’s kind of embarrassing to admit that she’s thinking of the same things since he last asked (which was the other week). And here she thought that since then she has got it under control. Surprise, surprise.
(Unwanted, repressed) feelings can creep up just like that.
On a particularly rough night, Matt (as Daredevil) found her stumbling home with a bottle of whiskey in her hand. This was hours after her phone call with Micro. Matt carried her home, tucked her into bed. When she woke up he was there, making her breakfast. He asked what her walk of shame was about. She considered shutting him out, but she remembered how that worked out for both of them in the past. So she talked and talked. She cried and cried. He held her with no judgment. Even in her hungover daze, she couldn’t forget what he said to her as she sobbed into his shoulder. It’s all for the best.
She considers ranting, trauma dumping even. It’s been a long time since she did that. She can do it again. God knows Matt’s always open. But she feels like Frank doesn’t deserve that anymore. And neither does she.
She settles for a weary “It’s all for the best.”
Matt nods, tapping the side of his beer with a finger. “You know that but it’s like at the same time, you don’t.”
“Tell me about it,” Karen rolls her eyes. “I’m getting by, though. You know that, at least.”
“Yeah,” Matt clinks his glass with hers. “And you’re doing one hell of a job.” She smiles and it spreads through her chest. Matt can probably feel that.
Foggy arrives not long after. They drink and laugh and tell stories till last call. Both he and Matt walk her home. It’s probably 3 AM. She gives them both a sloppy peck on the cheek before she climbs up to her apartment, drunk as hell. Foggy and Matt laugh, and she can still hear them chuckling after she’s closed the building door.
Brain pounding and vision swirling, she congratulates herself for reaching her unit without falling flat on her face. What a sight it would’ve been for her nosy neighbors to find her passed out in the hallway.
She fumbles with her keys. They fall three times before she manages to insert the right one into the keyhole. She turns the doorknob and wonders idly why there’s no resistance. It’s like it wasn’t locked at all. Karen shrugs, maybe she’s imagining things. Besides, threats to her life have all but disappeared in the last months. Matt made sure of that. He’s great like that.
She’s very close to blacking out. Luckily, she’s twenty drunk steps away from her nice, warm bed. It would be ten if she wasn’t stumbling around like a toddler, but hey.
She locks the door behind her, throws her purse on the counter, and makes her way to her room. She doesn’t even bother turning on the lights. She’s done this woozy dance routine tons of times before. She strips her heavy coat off, kicks off her heels, and ruffles her hair. Man, she’s sleeping well tonight. She can already feel the tiredness creep up from behind her eyelids.
Five steps left to her bedroom door and she falls, tripping over her own feet.
Oh, fuck me.
She’s too dizzy to brace for impact and considers sleepily that she’ll just lie there on the floor. It’s not the first time she’ll be doing it. And with all those Frank-related thoughts clinging to her mind, it’s likely it won’t be the last time too. She has got a lot more drunken nights ahead of her.
Besides, she just got her carpet washed and it currently smells divine.
But the floor never comes. She’s held in a pair of warm arms, inches from the ground. She looks up, but her frazzled hair covers her view.
“Who-?” Karen feels panic bubble in her core, but it’s quickly drowned by her current state of inebriation. Here she is, drunk out of her fucking mind with an intruder in her apartment.
“Who’re- who’re you?” Her words sound garbled like they’ve been overlapped with static. She struggles weakly against the intruder, who pulls her up in a standing position.
“Man, get the fuck off me,” she pushes with as much force as she can muster, which isn’t much. The intruder sighs and it’s with a man’s voice. He lifts her up- bridal style- and carries her to the bedroom.
She is laid on her bed slowly. She savors the softness of her covers beneath her. There’s a headache blooming under her temples, though. The movement of her being carried rattled her brain.
“Matt, is that you?” Karen grumbles, her eyes closed. She feels a stab of guilt. Matt saw through her. He always does. He was probably worried she’ll hurt herself in her drunken stupor so he followed her up her unit. “Oh, Matt. I’m so sorry to do this to you again,” she says, her head throbbing. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“Not Matt,” the intruder grunts. His voice is rough, a tiny bit impatient. Sounds like Matt in his Daredevil persona. But then again, maybe not. “Go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.” Something about his voice comforts her and stamps out the pieces of fear that rose to the surface earlier.
Karen hums, turning left to push her face into her pillow. She just got it washed too. It smells like lavender.
The intruder gently pulls her blanket from underneath her and covers her with it. The thick cloth reaches up until her chin. She sighs, blowing strands of her hair. The intruder brushes them out of her face.
Okay, she thinks, starting to really doze off. This guy’s definitely Matt. That’s such a Matt thing to do.
“Thanks, Matt. I owe you one. Again. See you tomorrow,” she says, settling deeper into her bed and pulling the blanket closer to her body.
The last thing she hears is a heavy sigh and a gravelly “Not Matt.”