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Vanilla.
Vanilla and sandalwood.
Her delicate scent was always his first clue. It lured him back into some form of consciousness. Alerting him to what will inevitably happen next.
The sun is high overhead this time. Midday perhaps.
If he’s honest with himself, he can’t remember what time of day they’d gone to the park. Doesn’t want to. Not anymore.
Frank blinks for a solid two seconds before they come into focus.
Maria.
Lisa.
Frankie Junior.
Laughing, smiling, rolling around on the picnic blanket. Not too long ago, he would have rushed towards them. Pleading with Maria to crouch down on the ground. To hug their babies to her chest.
He doesn’t this time.
Tonight, he simply smiles. Happy to watch his family’s last moments of joy. Eyes hungry for every detail, every dimple, every bright eye and flash of white teeth. He smiles at them.
Click. The safety of a gun. Turning off…
“NO!”
Frank flails about helplessly, arms reaching for three souls he can never hold in daylight. His trigger finger quivers in the darkness.
Then a soft hand covers his own.
“Hey.” Her whisper is gentle and firm all at once. Anchoring his mind amid the sea of ghosts. Frank inhales slowly.
Lilac.
Lilac and coconut.
The body oil he’s pretty sure she uses before bed.
The scent is both soothing and terrifying because of what it means.
“Hey,” Frank mumbles – eyes opening to find Karen seated atop her yellow comforter. A kaleidoscope of lights from the Thai place directly in front of her building pour through the bedroom window. The sheer white of the curtains mutes the scene, painting Karen in an almost celestial glow. He looks at her and she looks back at him – her blue eyes trailing over his face. No judgement. Simply waiting.
“Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to wake you.” He can almost feel his ears turning pink.
She answers with a sad smile, but not so sad as that day in the hospital. The edges of her lips are tinged with understanding now.
“It’s ok,” she whispers. “My nightmare woke you up last time. Now we’re even.”
He says nothing, tracing the velvet lines of her palm with his thumb. Afraid to look in her eyes. He needs to tell her. Before it’s too late.
“Look…Karen…I…”
Footsteps. More pronounced this go-around. More purposeful.
Frank’s head snaps up just in time to see the pale figure step up to the bed. A man. Dressed in a navy-blue jacket with the letters FBI in white above the right pocket. He watches helplessly as Karen turns her head towards the intruder.
“Hello Karen.”
The voice is deeper this time. Doesn’t really match the wiry muscle of the grim reaper holding a long knife in his left hand…
But…
Frank can’t be entirely sure how Benjamin Poindexter’s voice is supposed to sound.
He only heard him speak for a brief second. Most of his knowledge of the bastard comes from the descriptions Lieberman was able to find on the FBI’s private server. That and the few - clipped - comments Karen has made about the monster.
He needs to tell her. Now.
“Karen…I…I love…”
The other man raises the knife…
“NO! NO! NO!”
Frank bolts upright, reaching for the M9 he’s locked in the gun safe – thanks to Curt’s consistent nagging – and knocks over his glass of water instead. His hands shake as he grabs the picture of Maria and the babies before it’s soaked.
“FUCK!”
The curse echoes through his empty studio apartment.
He leans back on his pillow - inhaling and exhaling - trying to ground himself. Once his heart rate has gone down a bit, he scans the room. It’s not much. A small cooktop stove and cabinet built into the in middle of the wall across from his bed. A brown Goodwill couch in the far-left corner. There are curtains on the small window above the couch, but they’re thick grey drapes not sheer white. He looks down, finding the steel blue quilt draped over him, not her sunshine-yellow comforter. At least he thinks it’s yellow.
He only allowed himself a brief glance into the cracked door of her bedroom.
It was an accident really. A momentary lapse during the game night Karen hosted at her apartment. Monopoly. Two months ago.
Frank could hardly believe he was able to be that kind of guy again. The kind of guy who’d get invited over to play a board game and offer to bring the hostess her favorite six pack of hipster beer. The kind of guy who could sit across from his former legal counsel (well the more-put-together-half) and argue with the man’s very assertive fiancé about whether or not he could place two buildings on one square of property. The kind of guy who could feel Karen Page’s knee bump his under her too-small coffee table and blush. Things had felt so sweet, so innocent, so normal, between them that Frank couldn’t help but let his mind wander.
He still remembers that night in vivid detail…
A few seconds after his umpteenth turn, Frank gets up to go to the bathroom…all the while feeling Karen’s eyes on him. Walking down the hallway, he stops short – eyes drifting towards her most private space. Peeking into her bedroom, he fanaticizes about what it would be like to carry her through that door when her friends leave. Lay her down on the yellow comforter and peel off those sinful black yoga leggings she loves wearing. Bury his head in the crook of her shoulder afterwards and confess what he’s been holding inside for god-knows how long.
Then his eyes fall on the NYPD sweatshirt thrown haphazardly over her laundry basket and remorse fills his belly like a lead weight.
Once upon a time, another nightmare ago, Karen had expressed her feelings for him. Asked him to choose an after. He’d pushed her away out of fear. Far enough away that she now had someone else to lay her down on that yellow comforter - when the guy wasn’t working nights. The fact that special someone wasn’t Murdock made the feeling even worse. Watching Red and Karen together would have stung, but Frank would have found comfort in the knowledge that Murdock is good. He has no idea if this new protégé of Brett Mahoney’s is truly a good man. No idea if mister-I’m-a-badass-soon-to-be-detective recognizes how lucky he is to have Karen.
Frank ends game night quickly after his misstep. Let’s Nelson beat him and shakes the lawyer’s hand. Kisses Karen on the cheek. Quickly exits the apartment - so emotionally exhausted he’d almost forgets his own key. Nelson’s girl, Marci, runs down the steps to give it to him. The fact she’s the one stepping outside and not Karen is the final a nail in the coffin. Had he really expected Karen to wait for him to get his shit together? Had he really –
Stop.
Frank sighs, rubbing his hand through his hair. He needs to stop replaying that game night in his head and go back to sleep…yet fear is creeping along the back of his mind.
Damn dream. What if it’s a sign?
Giving into the urge, Frank opens the drawer of his nightstand. Karen’s newest articles are at the very top. Some highlight her work as part of the A-team called Nelson, Murdock, & Page. The other clippings are her own articles from the New York Bulletin. She’s been writing for her old employer for about half a year, using a pseudonym. (Frank had never met Mitchell Ellison, but he respected the man. At least one person had enough sense to worry about Karen’s knack for getting into trouble.) The praise and prose of her work is enough to make his face split in two with pride, but Karen’s most recent mention in a newspaper is concerning. Lieberman had mailed it to Frank in a manila envelope – as if email was a foreign concept to the spook – and even attached a handwritten note on a little yellow sticky.
Thought you’d want to know about this. – Micro
P.S. Sarah is making latkes on Friday. Come over. We can talk about it.
Frank tears the sticky off the newspaper clipping, heat churning in his gut. What the fuck is there to talk about? The mayor was commemorating a plaque at the Bulletin next Thursday. Some shiny, silver, epitaph meant to honor the paper’s employees; those killed back in 2018.
Murdered by that psychopath Benjamin Poindexter.
Karen escaped the ex-Army ranger’s aim twice – not because of Red or Frank – but because she was strong and capable on her own. Hell, Frank hadn’t even been there. He’d been out trying – and failing – at having a normal life. Leaving a trail of bloodshed in his wake. He didn’t regret protecting the kid, but – goddamnit – he should have been there for Karen. He –
You can’t change the past by ruminating over it. Breathe and let that shit go brother.
Curtis Hoyle’s words float through Frank’s mind, causing him to stop the spiral. He cannot go down that train of thought. No matter how mad he is at himself.
Trigger finger twitching, he puts the stack of newspapers back in the drawer – eyeing his phone as he does so.
Lilac and coconut.
The dream felt so real. So fuckin’ real. Maybe he should call her and check-in…maybe…
For Christ’s sake asshole, it’s three o’clock in the morning. She’s probably sound asleep next to Dominic-Fortune-the-super-sleuth.
Just as his thoughts begin to run free once more, Frank’s phone lights up. An incoming call.
Karen.
“Hey.” He tries to keep his voice even as he answers the phone. “Yookay?”
“H-hey. Hey, Frank.” She sounds either surprised that he answered so quickly…or upset about something. “I-I’m so sorry I woke you. I couldn’t sleep and…”
“And you’re craving a cup of decaf at Betty’s,” he finishes her sentence – smiling a little.
“Yeeessss….” Karen’s tone is one of sheepish excitement.
“So, you called the only other individual who’s smart enough to realize that woman brews liquid gold.”
The quip earns him a laugh. Full-bodied and carefree. Frank’s stomach flips at the sounds because it means Karen can talk freely. Like she’s not worried about being quiet for her boyfriend’s sake. Like she went to bed alone.
Or her boyfriend is on nights again you jackass.
“Frank?” Karen breaks through his internal chiding. “Frank, are you still there? Are you sure you want to meet up?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Just – uh – still wakin’ up. See you in fifteen minutes.”
***
Betty’s Diner is six blocks up the street from his shabby little studio and four blocks from Karen’s place. Stepping out into the cool night – hell more like early morning – air, Frank reflects on the strange yet comforting ritual he and Karen have created. A symbol of the understanding between them. An understanding of ghosts that visit in the wee hours of the night.
He’d planned on staying as far away from Karen as humanly possible after their second hospital encounter. Not because he didn’t care. Hell. No. It was the exact opposite. She’d been so willing to throw her life away for him and his bullshit. Her honesty terrified Frank. Still does. Yet…what do they say about the best laid plans of mice and men…
Frank did a good job of occupying his time and keeping himself away from Karen, for about ten months. He went after the low-hanging fruit of the Kitchen. Human traffickers, junior mob bosses, anyone targeting reporters or cops. It kept him busy enough. Sure, every few weeks he’d find some reason to pass by her apartment on his early morning run. Had Lieberman emailing him her Bulletin articles if he didn’t get to the bodega in time to buy a copy. Even called Red out when it looked like Karen was getting too aggressive in her investigation of the Yakuza for their firm. Frank was still concerned about Karen Page; he was just concerned from a distance.
Then Madani forced him to man up.
Standing at the stoplight, Frank thinks about the winter’s day Madani flung the news about Benjamin Poindexter in his face…
He’s reading on his bed when she knocks on his door. The authority in her voice is annoying.
“Delivery for Mr. Castiglione!”
Frank peeks through the peep hole and rolls his eyes. No one would believe Dinah Madani - in her high-powered pinstripe suit - was a driver for Uber Eats. He’s mentally preparing himself for a lecture as the woman steps inside…but his defenses drop at the look of concern and sympathy on her face.
“My answer’s still the same. I’m not going CIA,” he spits out.
Madani shakes her dark curls, sighing. “That’s not why I’m here Frank.” She pauses, eyeing him cautiously. “We’ve both been so busy the past few months that I…I figured you’d want to know about Karen.”
Frank’s heart skips a beat. “What about Karen?”
“Well, we meet sometimes. Trade sources. Share information. For a civilian, Karen Page has a pretty good eye for detail.”
He shakes his head impatiently. He’s tailed Karen enough times to that little tapas place in Spanish Harlem to learn that she and Madani were on good terms. “Is. She. Safe.”
“Yes…and…no.”
Madani proceeds to pull Benjamin Poindexter’s picture out of her purse. Explaining how the former Army sharp-shooter and FBI agent had been goaded into attacking the Bulletin around the time Frank left New York. He’d disappeared, but rumor had it the psychopath had broken his back in an altercation between himself, Wilson Fisk, and the Daredevil.
(Later, Frank would get the nitty gritty details from Lieberman.
The ex-NSA analyst would produce a whole profile that Frank would study religiously - but only after his friend had scolded him for being MIA for so long.
“Who’s this? Oh. Frank. The only human incapable of dialing a phone.”
Later, Frank would confront Red about the whole mess.
Later - after both men had stopped sparring with each other long enough to realize that they just wanted Kare safe – he’d learn that Poindexter had stepped in the middle of Red’s grudge with Fisk. He’d take comfort in knowing it was the wrong decision, but not much comfort. Not when the knowledge that Karen was almost maimed with a Billy club haunts his dreams.)
In that moment however, Frank can barely focus on Madani’s voice. Nothing she’s saying makes sense until…
“My colleague at the FBI had nothing on Poindexter until three months ago. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that Nelson, Murdock, & Page are representing a whistleblower from Seikatsu Health. The exclusive clinic on the upper west side. One of the radiology technicians leaked the fact that the heads of the clinic have ties to the Yakuza and that they’re blackmailing wealthy patients.”
Frank huffs impatiently. Of course, he knew. He and Red had it out when they’d discovered one another tailing Karen – who’d gone to the clinic under the guise of “being a patient”.
Madani glares at him. “The head surgeon – Dr. Oyama – was just flagged by my team as one of the main buyers of adamantium.” She pauses, acknowledging Frank’s raised eyebrow. “It’s a metal alloy that’s only been found in West Africa and Japan. It’s supposed to bind to human bone giving a person superhuman strength. Anyway, the whistleblower reported that Dr. Oyama used adamantium to reconstruct Poindexter’s back.”
The book Frank’s been holding all this time falls to the floor. “Are you telling me that bastard is walking?”
He’s answered with a head shake. “CIA isn’t sure. Neither is the FBI. That’s why Karen’s agreed to return to the clinic with a wiretap. If Oyama and the Yakuza are hiding Poindexter, this may draw him ou - ”
“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME MADANI? I WILL NOT LET YOU USE HER AS BAIT! ” Frank’s seething, unconcerned if the whole goddamn apartment complex hears him.
To her credit, Madani keeps calm…though there’s a hint of sister’s-before-misters in her tone. “Karen is an adult; one who agreed to help with our investigation. You have no say in that, especially not after you told her to walk away.” The wounded look on his face must be plain as daylight, because Madani relents a little. “Damnit Frank. I knew this was going to upset you. That’s why I’ve come to make you a deal.”
He squints at her – confused.
“You can’t go after Poindexter alone.” Her hands are on her hips as she emphasizes each word. “But I could use a well-trained sniper on my security detail. You can keep an eye on Karen that way and if Poindexter happens to show up and if -only if – he threatens her then…well…”
Legally she can’t finish the sentence, but Frank knows Madani well enough to know the CIA is onboard with her offer. (Even if the FBI isn’t.) Poindexter is an annoyance to her agency; Dr.Oyama is who they’re gunning for and…well…Frank’s been the CIA’s pawn before.
He agrees to the deal knowing full well there will be trouble. He just isn’t prepared for the kind of trouble he’ll face…
Four weeks later, he’s standing at attention alongside two former Spec Ops types in a non-descript hotel room six blocks from the clinic. Struggling to keep his composure as Madani and her FBI counterpart brief Karen and local law enforcement on the upcoming operation. Frank’s not surprised to see Mahoney there, but he isn’t expecting some preppy-looking guy with dark hair and hazel eyes – name tag reading D. Fortune – to be shadowing the detective. He’s not sure what’s more infuriating: The fact that Mahoney’s sidekick keeps staring down Karen’s blouse when she and Madani are huddled together talking, or the fact that Karen keeps shooting daggers out of her ocean blue eyes at Frank. When the team takes a five-minute water break, Karen marches out into the hallway. Frank follows her.
They end up in the stairwell, screaming at each other.
“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING HERE FRANK? I DO NOT NEED A - ”
“WHY THE FUCK DIDN’T YOU TELL ME ABOUT POINDEXTER?!? DO YOU KNOW HOW WORRIED I’VE BEEN ABOU - ”
“Didn’t really have time to tell you. You were too busy telling me to walk away…”
The pain in her eyes is like a knife twisting in his gut.
“Christ. Karen…I…”
Karen’s eyes well up with tears. Frank chokes back a sob of his own, reaching forward to brush moisture from her left cheek. The air seems to shift between them and then…
The door to the fourth floor opens.
Detective Fortune is standing in the opening, leering at Frank. “Karen, is everything alright?” The familiarity of this stranger’s tone is like a slap to the face.
Karen avoids Frank’s gaze. “Yes Dominic. I’m fine. I’m…I’m coming right up.”
He watches her walk back up the stairs. Watches Dominic Fortune usher her through the door – with a hand on the small of her back.
Three sleepless nights later – the operation looming a few days away – Frank calls Karen.
“Hello?” He must have woken her up. Her voice is unusually low.
“Hey. Hey, Karen. It’s…it’s me.” He swallows, suddenly nervous. “Madani gave me your number and…look…I just wanted to apologize for…”
A muffled voice on the other end makes Frank stop midsentence. He’s heard that voice before…but only once before. Mahoney’s sidekick: Detective Fortune.
Christ. It’s almost midnight. Why would that prick be at Karen’s place this late at…
…
…
Oh.
He can hear Karen saying something to the man (In her bedroom! In her bedroom!), but he can’t make the words out. Finally, his heartbeat quiets enough to make out Karen whispering, “I can’t talk right now. I…I have to go.”
Frank isn’t sure how long he sits there with the phone in his hand, staring at a black screen. His mind is reeling. He can’t judge her…he…he slept with someone else…but…but…that’s when he thought she was in love with Red…when he’d been trying to build a life away from New York…then she came to him and she asked him to make it mean something and he…he…
He doesn’t go back to sleep.
The sting on Seikatsu Health goes down five days later. Everyone takes their assigned places which means – even though he protested vehemently to Madani about it – Frank’s on the rooftop across from the clinic. Lying flat in his forgotten sniper stance, watching Karen and Dr. Oyama through his scope. Red’s crouched right beside him because, of course, he would be there in his stupid red pajamas.
Frank wants to take his jealousy out on Red. Yell at him for the deal he’d made but never spoken out loud. (You’re the good guy Red! I pushed her away so she could be with you! How could someone SOOOO smart let mister-fancy-detective make a move on her!) He keeps these thoughts to himself – a part of him knowing he’s simply projecting his feelings on to the other man. Besides…Red’s presence is oddly comforting.
At one point, Frank’s gaze drifts from Karen to the street below where her boyfriend is standing in plain clothes. He’s not sure how he tips Red off, but the man breaks the silence between them with a rueful smile and a nod of the head. “Yeah, Foggy and I aren’t huge fans of Dominic either.”
Frank’s about to make some smartass retort when he sees Red stiffen.
“He’s…He’s down there. Poindexter. One floor below.”
Frank scans the window. Sees a wiry, muscly figure in a black and blue suit of some sort. Aims his M4 and…
PPIINNGGG!
The sound of shattering glass pierces the night air and all hell breaks loose. The figure is falling the ground. One floor above, Dr. Oyama is yelling at someone. Karen is diving behind a desk for cover. Madani and her team are tearing through the clinic’s back door, weapons raised.
Only after Frank watches Red leap through the sky and onto the other building does he realize that Poindexter got back up.
He runs down the fire escape, across the street, and through the front door of the clinic. Dominic Fortune is behind him, fuming. “What the hell are you doing!?! Get back in your position!”
Frank doesn’t stop until he’s inside Oyama’s office, tugging Karen close to his chest. Every inch of composure and calm has seeped out of her body; she’s trembling – eyes wide with fear.
“Shhhh…shhhh…I’ve got you,” he says over and over again.
Karen’s shaking her head violently. “Frank….Frank…he’s…”
They both look up to see Poindexter’s pale figure stepping into the room. Blood is dripping down his side and back, but he acts as if it’s just a scratch. The man’s cold eyes scan their faces, no trace of emotion or remorse in his expression. Frank can tell their attacker is posturing, hoping to draw their attention away from the fact his hand is slowly inching towards the gun at his belt.
“Hello Karen.” Poindexter sneers at her for what feels like a lifetime, then turns his gaze towards Frank. It’s like staring into a black void. “And…who…are…you?”
“The last face you’ll ever see.”
Frank snarls, swiping Poindexter’s hand with the KA-Bar knife he’d tucked in his sleeve. His adversary’s hiss of pain is momentary; a ruse. Frank’s not prepared for how quickly the man pulls the knife out of his hand, cutting him in the process. Nor is he prepared for how quickly Poindexter turns the knife point towards him.
“A KA-Bar. You must be a Marine.” His pins Frank with a knowing grin, aiming the knife to –
BBAAAM!
A circular glass paperweight bounces off Poindexter’s chest. Frank looks over his shoulder to find Karen seething. She must have thrown it from the desk.
“STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM HIM!” Her words are full of a fire Frank’s never heard before.
“Not if he’s important to you.”
Neither Frank nor Karen get the chance to answer because at that moment Red comes crashing through the ceiling. The devil flies towards Poindexter, kicking the other costumed figure in the jaw. Poindexter falls sideways, crashing into Oyama’s sleek office window. Frank watches in amazement as the man rolls over as if he was simply getting out of bed and not in the middle of a brawl.
“You hit the bullseye,” Poindexter says. “Now it’s my turn.” He flings Frank’s knife at the Daredevil.
“Get down!” Frank grabs Red by the scruff of his neck, pushing the other vigilante to the floor with one hand. Pulling Karen down with the other.
The knife clatters to the ground, echoing in the now eerily silent room. Frank hears Madani’s voice calling from down the hall. Poindexter does too. His eyes flit over Frank’s face once more, a dark curiosity pooling in them, before smashing the window with his fist.
“Next time.” Poindexter smiles demonically before jumping through the window.
Red is close behind him. “Come on Frank! He’s getting away!” The devil is panting, fueled by an adrenaline rush Frank knows all too well. “COME ON!”
Frank looks from the window to Karen. She’s standing by the desk, clutching her left wrist. Her face is still pale, defeated. “Matt, we have to let it go…”
Red shakes his head, ignoring Karen’s plea. “We have to stop him. Help me Frank.”
“Matt. Frank. Please don’t…” Karen’s asking as gently as possible, but a storm is building in her words. Just like one hospital ago.
You cannot keep loving people in your dreams.
Frank blinks. It’s almost as if he’s back in that elevator shaft.
He has no idea how long he looks from Karen to Red and back again, but it’s probably only a few seconds. The answer that’s been bubbling in the back of his mind for weeks – hell years - finally escapes.
“No,” he whispers. “No. I – I can’t help you right now.”
“Poindexter can’t be let loose in the city.” Red’s leaning out the window now; ready to begin his hunt.
“I’m done Red,” Frank says softly. “I…I need to be done.” I need to stay with her…is what he really wants to say.
The other vigilante inhales sharply, nodding his head. “You two stay low for the rest of the night.” He leaps into sky without another word.
Frank watches Red’s figure until it disappears amid the maze of buildings below. He feels oddly relieved to not be following him.
(A relief that won’t waiver even when he learns that the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen isn’t able to catch Poindexter. To this very day, that maniac is still lurking out there; the FBI’s bullseye on his back.)
“Frank…”
He turns to find Karen right beside him. She’s reaching for his bloody hand, a scrap of her blue blouse at the ready to wrap his wound. He needs to tell her. Now.
“Karen…I…”
His words are cut short as Madani, Mahoney, and company barge into the room. Frank spends the next hour explaining and re-explaining why he took the shot, struggling to focus on the conversation, and keeping Karen – who’s getting checked out by the paramedics – in the corner of his eye. Unfortunately, law enforcement’s questioning back and forth about how Pete Castiglione can go from having no record to standing on Madani’s private security detail takes some time. When Frank finally makes it to the paramedic’s station, Karen is nowhere to be found. Neither is Dominic.
“Detective Fortune took Karen home,” Madani says gently - as if reading his mind. She pauses before adding, “My supervisor says I can send you home too, but I have to ask one more time: Would yo - ”
“I’m done Madani.” He says it loud enough that Brett Mahoney, fielding questions from the local news agencies who have started to show up, turns and looks at him. The man says nothing; just gives Frank a grim nod.
Frank declines Mahoney’s offers to give him a ride home. It’s an olive branch of sorts; but he prefers to walk the five miles across the city in hopes the trek will push him to the brink of sleep. It does…but visions of a wiry figure in black and blue - holding a knife - are waiting for him.
Three weeks later, Frank’s pulling off his relatively new work boots and laying back on his bed. He tells himself he should read – Curt did drop off a few new books – but his body and mind are still getting reacquainted with the pace of construction. He eyes the latest edition of the Bulletin; he’d made it to the bodega before Manuel closed shop. He should read. He should…
His phone lights up and his heart skips a beat. It’s a relatively new phone – one Lieberman was able to secure for him – and he’s only called a handful of people using his new number…
“Karen. Hey.” He feels his trigger finger twitch.
“Hey Frank. I hope I’m not calling too late.”
“No. It’s fine. I…It’s really good to hear from you.”
He winces as soon as the words leave his mouth. As if he’d been the kind of person she could call. As if that was something they did.
“It’s really good to hear you too. Look…I…there’s a new diner that opened up a few blocks from my place. Betty’s. Would you…would you be willing to meet me there? I can’t sleep and…and I was hoping we could grab a cup of coffee and talk. I…I never thanked you for…for helping me a few weeks ago.”
He can’t really remember walking to Betty’s or sitting down in the booth. All that sticks out is how pretty Karen looks in an oversized forest green University of Vermont sweatshirt. Frank wonders if it’s her boyfriend’s and tries to ease his internal discomfort by making some comment about the school’s basketball program.
Karen smiles softly, a distant look in her eyes. “My brother really wanted to go there. He would have played basketball for them.”
Would have…
“Didn’t know you had a brother.” Frank swallowed, looking down at his decaf coffee – which was surprisingly decent.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Karen whispered.
“Yeah.” He nods; throat burning. “Yeah, I guess not.”
“I haven’t read any news about…your alter ego…lately. Matt hasn’t mentioned anything either.” She’s sitting up straight now, eyes boring into him. “Did you mean what you said? Are you really done?”
Frank meets her gaze. “Yeah. I am.”
She bobs her head up and down, sipping her coffee slowly. Measuring her next words. “Then…can we be friends?”
“Yeah. Yeah…I’d…I’d like that.”
Friends. Fucking friends. Frank, you’re an idio – STOP.
The walk signal turns, and he crosses the street. It’s been a year since that first cup of coffee. That first cup that would save his life.
***
Karen’s seated in their usual spot – a tattered, mint green booth in the back corner. Alive. No knife wounds. Frank can feel tension he’s been holding in his body slowly begin to seep out.
He takes in the scene quietly not wanting to disturb Karen quite yet. Her eyes are wide and full of light as she brushes a wayward strand of hair back into her messy bun. She’s talking quietly but intently to Betty – the tall, curvy, motherly woman who owns the diner. Betty’s whispering some sort of reassurance to Karen, the black braids along her back swinging as she nods her head.
One of the (many) things that Frank admires about Karen is her ability to put strangers; especially non-native New Yorkers like Betty (originally from Mobile, Alabama), at ease. Maybe it’s because Karen’s a transplant to New York as well. Something Frank didn’t know about her until a few cups of coffee after that fist nightly meeting.
“Keep your chin up child. It’s all going to work out the way it’s supposed to,” Betty’s saying as she taps the coffee pot in her hand with great authority. Her eyes widen when she sees Frank standing a few feet away, but there’s a smile on her lips. “Get on over here Mr. Pete. Your coffee’s getting cold!”
Frank gives the woman a bashful hug. “Thanks Betty,” he rasps – realizing his voice is still raw from earlier.
“You’re welcome. I’ll bring a fresh pot in thirty minutes.” She walks towards the kitchen, humming.
Frank’s about to ask what they’re talking about, but the question dies on his lips as Karen stands to hug him. The scent of lilac and coconut engulfs him, conjuring images of Karen bathed in colored lights. Of Benjamin Poindexter leering over her. The memory causes him to pull her just a little closer to his chest than he’s allows himself to do in quite some time.
“Hey,” he mumbles into her golden hair.
“Hey,” she whispers back.
He’s probably imagining things, but Frank swears Karen is holding on to him a millisecond longer than is socially acceptable to hug a “friend.” Then again…Karen’s cheeks are tinged with pink as she sits down. In fact she looks a little…dressed up isn’t the right word. He’s seen her in full makeup after work and he’s seen her half asleep in a forest green sweatshirt and this is something in between. She’s wearing a grey sweater and those sinful black yoga leggings – a look that isn’t quite “I just rolled out of bed at 3 in the morning.” And she doesn’t have makeup on but…maybe mascara…
Frank only realizes he’s staring when Karen’s eyes drop to her coffee. “Thanks for coming,” She smiles but her eyes stay glued on her cup. As if she’s afraid to look up at him.
“Always.”
He tilts his head down, trying to catch her gaze. When his eyes meet Karen’s, he can see a spark of something in them. Not quite fear. Not quite worry. He wonders what…the memorial. The announcement Lieberman sent him flashes through his mind and his trigger finger begins to twitch. Old behaviors – ghosts in their own right – nip at him. He wants to pound his fist on the table, demand to know what’s wrong, pull out his M9, and hunt down whatever and whoever is causing Karen Page pain. Another part of him – the unpracticed, vulnerable part – knows he can’t rush off to fight her war. He needs to listen first. Then ask how he can help.
“So…we talkin’ about the dream first? Or do you want to wait until our second round?”
Her shoulders drop a little; as if she can finally relax.
“Let’s wait until cup number two. I want to hear about the new construction site. What’s it like being a manager?”
She remembers.
Frank takes a sip of coffee, trying to hide his pleasure. He was recently promoted to foreman of his construction company’s latest undertaking in Brooklyn. Though hesitant to return to that job site – he did kind of go MIA after the whole Little Italy incident – he realized it was his only option after the dust cleared over the Seikatsu takedown. Luckily, the name Pete Castiglione wasn’t in Amber Construction’s employee records. Also didn’t hurt that the manager was a hard-nosed Vietnam vet who…sympathized…with the legend of the Punisher.
He begins describing his latest work drama to Karen, adding that he and Curtis were able to convince some of the younger vets at Thursday night’s group to pick up a hard hat and join in the fun. Part of his brain is tracking Karen’s face as he speaks: The glow of pride in her eyes. It makes his ears burn. Another part of him is marveling at how far they’ve come since that first cup of Betty’s decaf.
They inched towards being present in each other’s lives. Like two children wading into the ocean for the first time. It started with a weekly cup of coffee (the kind that comes with caffeine) at Betty’s. A forty minute period on Wednesday afternoons where they danced around each other’s broken, jagged pieces. They talked about work, pizza, baseball, basketball, the New York ballet (something Karen was surprised Frank had seen); anything and everything that wasn’t the hospital, Red, the kid, or Dominic. They shared some laughs, which felt good…but the dark pieces of their puzzle still loomed large. Shining in the distance, begging to be touched. That all changed the afternoon Frank sat for ten minutes outside Betty’s, tracing lid of his to-go cup. Waiting for Karen. She was late. In the seven months since Benjamin Poindexter – even with a pandemic still forcing them to order coffee from the diner’s front door – she’d never been late.
Even now, as he tells Karen about work, Frank can recall the dark circles under her eyes just as clearly as the spring day she approached him outside the diner…
“You ok?” He stands up from the bench to greet her, his hand reaching out on instinct. He hopes she doesn’t notice, shoving the offender back in his pocket.
Karen sighs slightly, accepting the paper cup of coffee he’s been guarding for her. She shoves her mask in her tweed coat, and Frank is greeted by a familiar look. The look of one who’s been visited by ghosts.
“Not really. I…I had a dream about Kevin last night. It…it was bad.” Her eyes fall downward. Frank’s not sure if it’s because of the nature of the dream, or because of her next words. “I was at Dominic’s and…I…I can’t go over there anymore. Not only do I feel like I’m breaking some unspoken rule about this whole quarantine but…it just feels unfamiliar. Not where I want to wake up after a nightmare.”
Frank nods, listening as she tells him about the dream. (All the while trying to ignore the relief he feels that Karen and her boyfriend haven’t moved in together.)
“I know a little about those kinds of dream,” he murmurs after she’s finished. He works up the nerve to look up from his cup, meeting Karen’s eyes. “If you can’t go back to sleep…you can…you can call me. I’ll listen. Hell, I’ll even meet you here. Betty’s decaf isn’t half bad. Plus she’s one of the few places that opens up at 3am. It’s a blessing those hospital workers and the NYPD keep stopping by for their caffeine and to-go eggs during this mess.”
Karen huffs, but her blue eyes shine with something Frank’s afraid to name.
“I don’t know. I have a lot of nightmares; this could become a ritual.” She pauses, flashing him a wicked grin. “Seems a little convenient for a former vigilante to plan a reoccurring late-night meeting with a well-known legal investigator. Sure you’re not trying to use me as bait?”
He laughs softly, but her hidden question – a sharp piece of glass lurking under the surface of the million puzzle pieces that make up their whatevership – stings a little. “Nah. Nothin’ like that...I just want you to know I - ”
His words fade as she places her hand over his own. “I do know Frank, and…thank you. You can call me too. The coffee flows both ways.”
Two nights later, he’s sitting on picnic blanket …then he’s holding Karen in an elevator shaft…then a figure in black and blue is holding a knife up to her throat and…
“Frank? Is that you?”
Shit. I’m sorry Karen. I just…I had a bad dream and…damnit…I shouldn’t have woken you up.”
“Don’t start that bullshit. I’ll see you at Betty’s in ten minutes.”
“She doesn’t open back up for another hour and…”
“I have nothing going on at 2 o’clock in the morning. We can sit on the curb till she puts the coffee cart by the front door.”
And so began their late night meetings at Betty’s…
Sitting in that booth now (thank Christ the city finally allows people back indoors), he has to smile. It’s so them – so Frank and Karen – to brood about their shadow selves over cups of black coffee. Yet, in an odd way, this nightly ritual allowed the lighter parts of them to breathe. It gave space for friendship to grow.
A friendship that starts with small – but really not so small – actions…
Like the incident of June 2021. An angry client (hell, maybe it was his angry attorney) took aim at the windows of Nelson, Murdock, and Page with a semi-automatic. A Wall Street type, class-A-jerk, on the losing end of one of the many cases Karen and her lawyer pals are swamped with as the city slowly awakens. Frank hears about the incident before it hits newsstands - over one of their 3am cups of coffee – and his first instinct is primal: He should grab the Kevlar stuffed in the back of his closet and hunt down whoever owned a semiautomatic with the same caliber bullet as the one Karen was holding as evidence. His second instinct is to put all the shit Curtis has been talking about in group to practice, and find a calmer - neigh saner - way to help. He even asks her about his idea first.
After walking Karen back to her apartment, - (because she will not walk alone and if her fancy ass boyfriend is upset by that; then he should have asked her to move in already) - he doesn’t go home and go to bed. No, he gets his company tool belt; makes a few calls; and is installing bullet-proof glass in the legal team’s windows by 7 o’clock the same morning. Red, who of course has also not gone to sleep yet and is still in those stupid pajamas, finds him there.
It’s slightly annoying to have the costumed crusader standing over him, clucking his tongue.
“You should change out of that getup before some news crews get here. How’d you find out I was at your office anyway?” He tries to sound angry, knowing full well it won’t scare Red away.
“How do you think I found out Frank?”
He curses himself for asking Karen if he could secure the windows. She must have called Red once she was inside her apartment. Nelson too. But that’s not what really bothers him. Once upon a time, Karen kept her relationship with him a secret from her ex-boyfriend. He’s not sure if the fact she’s told Red about their mutually poor sleeping habits is a sign she cares more…or a little less.
Red scoffs at his silence, cocking his head slightly. Listening to something. “If you ever want to talk about it - ”
“I don’t want to so - ”
“Well if you change your mind, stop by Fogwell’s gym on Tuesday nights. I like to box there.” He smiles devilishly before adding, “You can pretend I’m Dominic.”
The bloodlust that will always flow under Frank’s skin pulses a little. He can’t turn down an offer like that so…
He adds a weekly boxing workout to his social calendar.
Beating up on Red and letting the man land a few punches on him feels pretty good. It gives them a chance to argue about the soul of the Kitchen; vent about Dominic; worry over where Benjamin Poindexter may be hiding. After one match, Frank finally fesses up. Let’s Red know he has a “tech” friend in the suburbs whose been scanning FBI servers and email accounts for mention of their escaped target. Adds that he’s happy doing construction, but if Poindexter ever shows up in New York again…well…the Punisher will come out of retirement.
To his surprise, Red doesn’t argue.
Frank and Karen keep their random-but-not-so-random meetings at Betty’s; holding space for one another’s loss but also sharing a few laughs. Arguing over books and TV shows. Enjoying each other’s company. Frank estimates that he and Karen will sit in their mint green booth at least three times per month. Their only real hiatus is in September, when Dominic takes Karen to Miami Beach for vacation.
Frank’s surprised by this. He always pictured Karen as more of a mountains and camping type girl versus a sun, salt, and Instagram one. The news stings more than he wants to admit; at least it does until Nelson’s girl Marci sets him straight.
It’s one of those no-longer rare nights when he finds himself sitting in Nelson’s living room pointing to a paragraph in A Separate Peace. (Frank still can’t believe he’s the type of guy who can box with one member of his legal counsel and debate books with the other.) According to the well-informed Miss Stahl, Karen and Dominic haven’t made “any headway” in their relationship.
He tries not to acknowledge the pointed comment…even as his heart rate jumps.
A few sleepless nights into October, he finally asks Karen about her trip. She looks down at her coffee, explaining how Dominic was doing some cross-training with Miami PD.
“It was fine,” she shrugs. “Going to the beach by myself was…peaceful.”
He thinks it may be the only time she’s ever lied to him.
Meanwhile, life goes on. Frank finds himself slowly becoming part of Karen and Red’s social circle. Catching a few basketball games. Stopping by the legal office for lunch if he’s in between construction jobs. Even putting up with Dominic Fortune’s side eye when everyone gathers at Josie’s for happy hour. Frank usually brings Curtis to the bar for backup.
As he talks with Karen about Curtis Hoyle - how his friend has helped shepherd some of the lost veterans to Amber Construction – Frank can still picture the look his former Navy medic gave him after one of their outings at Josie’s…
“So that’s Karen’s boyfriend?” The usually peaceful Curtis doesn’t hide his disapproval.
“Yep.” Frank picks up his pace towards the subway. He will not dignify Curt with more of a response.
“And you’re okay with that?” Of course the would-be-therapist won’t drop the subject.
“I’m not going to comment on my friend’s love life.”
The deadpan look Curt gives him would make Maria Castle proud. “And he’s okay with the fact you two meet up for coffee at 3 o’clock in the morning?”
“Like I said: I’m not butting in.”
His friend snorts. “Well if you’re not going to butt in, then you better move on.”
He tries once. October of 2021…
Curtis drags him to a shitty little bar in Brooklyn to hang out with co-workers. Points out a redhead who sits two cubicles away at Curt’s insurance office. Then holds Frank hostage until he agrees to a date…
“Come on man. Nadia is super friendly and cute. Just go out with her and see if you’re still mooning over Karen by the end of the night.”
Frank can’t bear to tell him that it isn’t just mooning over someone. That you can’t just shrug off the one person who gave you a piece of your family back. He attempted it once before, in that small bar in Michigan. Ended up quoting Karen – we’re all just fighting not to be alone – before the night was over. She’d linger on the edge of his mind and heart regardless of who he took to bed; just like Maria. Still – to get Mister Persistent off his back - he asks the redhead out.
Curt is right: Nadia is cheerful and easy on the eyes. They make small talk outside the movie theater as they wait to see King Richard, and it’s pleasant… but…the conversation never really gets going. Frank isn’t fully present. He keeps thinking about the flash of disappointment in Karen’s eyes when he mentioned the date. Doesn’t help that she put a brave face on and suggested the current movie. Nor does it help that the minute Frank mentions Maria and his babies, Nadia’s face goes white. He gives the cliff-notes-non-Punisher-version; a tragic accident…still…It’s a lot for anyone to process.
They watch the movie in silence and end the date soon after. Frank offers to walk Nadia home, but she thanks him and takes a cab instead.
Two nights later, when Karen asks about the date, Frank just shrugs.
“I could tell from the get-go the topic of Maria made her uncomfortable.”
“That must have been hard for you Frank. Having someone react to your story with fear.” She pauses, tracing her cup. “You going to give her another chance?”
Frank looks at her and says quietly. “Kind of hard to. Someone set the bar pretty high.”
Karen just smiles softly.
He debriefs Curt after their next group, explaining everything. Including Karen.
He expects a lecture; instead, his friend just smiles. “Well, now you know.”
“Know what?”
“Damnit. Frank. Talk to Karen.”
“I talk to her all the time.”
“That’s not what I mean you jackass.”
He doesn’t respond.
To be fair: Curtis Hoyle isn’t the only friend with an opinion about Frank and Karen. Lieberman is no better…
David and Sarah invite close friends over for a Hanukah dinner in December of 2021, and Karen receives an invitation. Nelson too. With Red heading to midnight Mass and Marci off to San Francisco to celebrate one last Christmas with her grandmother; it makes sense for the N and P of Nelson, Murdock, & Page to celebrate with their favorite suburban family. (A family that happens to supply the firm with much needed intel from time to time.)
Frank doesn’t sweat the unique guest list. It’s not the first event where Frank and Karen have combined friend groups. Besides, the Lieberman clan adores Karen which means they put up with her boyfriend. Sure, they tell Frank he’s crazy when they learn about Betty’s and the coffee, but (thanks to Sarah) they’re on their best behavior most of the time.
Then Karen shows up to the Hanukah festivities in a pretty blue velvet dress. Ten minutes behind Nelson and without Dominic. Her co-worker is surprised she didn’t bring her plus one, and says so. It’s the opportunity Lieberman has been waiting for.
He casually asks Karen where her boyfriend is at. She simply replies, “He’s at his parents’ place upstate.”
At the time, Lieberman gives a nonchalant bob of the head, but Frank knows it’s for show. David’s going to interrogate Frank about this as soon as they’re alone.
Thankfully, the kitchen is jam-packed with people. Lieberman can only give Frank the stink eye as they carve the roasted chicken.
“You know what kind of guy fails to take his gorgeous girlfriend home to meet the parents Frank? The no-good kind.”
Frank motions for the spook to keep his voice down as Sarah and Karen make latkes a few feet away, but the idea that Dominic wouldn’t want to introduce Karen to his family irks him. He plans on asking her about it, but it doesn’t seem like a conversation for the dinner table. Later, as they all sit wrapped up in blankets on the Lieberman’s porch - drinking cocoa and watching the kids cream Nelson in a snowball fight – he tries to broach the subject, but Lieberman interjects with troubling news.
“The FBI thinks they caught video of Benjamin Poindexter exiting a bank in Boston.”
Frank’s trigger finger begins to twitch. Karen inhales sharply, her eyes trailing over where Nelson and Lieberman’s kids play in the snow.
“Well, we’ve lived in fear for over a year. What’s a few more months? Either he’ll show back up in New York or he won’t.”
Frank remembers the grim determination in her eyes. Like she’s prepping to go into battle. It’s the same look her face has taken now, sitting at Betty’s…
They’re each on coffee cup number two. It’s nearing 5 am and the city that never sleeps is relatively quiet. Two nurses fresh off their swing shift came in about 20 minutes ago for two of Betty’s famous breakfast bagels to-go. Now the only other soul in the diner is a dark-haired, muscular man cloaked in a leather jacket with the words Vietnam Veteran and the familiar Marine Corps emblem embroidered on his back. He’s seated at the counter sipping his own coffee and well out of earshot. Frank decides it’s time to broach the subject of why they’re really here.
“Hey,” he whispers, breaking the pleasant silence that’s fallen between them. “You ready to talk about what ghosts woke you up this morning?” He smiles, trying to quell the anxiety washing across Karen’s face. “I know you didn’t call me here just because you missed looking at my broken nose.”
His quip doesn’t have the desired effect.
Karen blinks at him, pressing her palm into the table as if to steady herself.
“Kare? What is it?”
She looks down, then up, and takes a shaky breath. “This memorial service next Thursday. I thought I was emotionally ready for it…but I keep having nightmares about Poindexter...”
Her voice catches as if she’s struggling not to cry. Frank instinctively grabs her right hand, rubbing circles into her palm with his thumb.
“Hey…hey…it’s ok. You can tell me. Havin’ flashbacks of the newsroom?”
Karen shakes her head, pink spreading across her cheeks. “No…not of the Bulletin. I keep…I keep dreaming about…you. When he almost killed you…and…Frank…I…”
She’s jumping up suddenly, pulling her hand away as if his touch burns her.
“Karen?”
“I can’t do this Frank. I can’t…I can’t keep pretending to be ‘just friends’ with you…I need to go…”
Realization and hope are flooding Frank’s body as he stands up. He grabs Karen by the waist, pinning her against the booth beside theirs.
“Wait. Just wait…I…what about Dominic?”
Karen let’s out a laugh. A watery, self-deprecating one. “I broke up with Dominic in November. I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. I was with him so I wouldn’t feel lonely, but…he…he’s not the one I’m in love with.”
Frank’s breath catches as her words pierce his heart. He cups her chin with his left hand. “November. Why…why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were building a new life…You asked that girl out…I…I was scared. I tried to make a move a few weeks ago when you came over for Monopoly, but you left so quickly. Foggy called me out on it too. He told me if I’m not going to butt in, then I better move on.”
Frank gapes at her, replaying the run in he’d had with her ex-boyfriend a few weeks ago when he’d seen Dominic across a busy street near his construction site. No wonder the detective scowled as if he couldn’t stand the sight of Frank.
Karen – mistaking his silence for dismissal – shifts towards the edge of the booth. “I should go. I - ”
“Stay. Please.” Frank grips her waist with his two hands. He’s done running from this feeling. Done running from her.
Karen swallows, a light akin to hope creeping into her eyes. “Why? Why ask me to stay?”
He needs to tell her. Now.
“Because I love you. I’ve loved you ever since you shoved that picture in my face. I’ve wanted to tell you for so long.”
He’s not sure who leans in first, but suddenly Frank finds himself cocooned in lilac, coconut, and salt. Kissing a wayward tear off of Karen’s cheek as he breaths her in. Always the braver one, she captures his mouth, her lips hungry and demanding and sweeter than any of his dreams could have imagined. Then Karen bites his bottom lip, and all reason travels south. Frank straddles her on the edge of the booth, having every intention of picking her up and carrying her back to his apartment.
“You two love birds better cool it off. I have other customers.”
They both look up to see Betty standing there with her hands on her hips, and a sly smirk on her face. She’s not their only audience. The man at the counter has turned, studying them with a look that’s both amused and wistful while the teenage boy who washes dishes is poking his head out of the kitchen door. The kid gives Frank a big thumbs up.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Frank begins sheepishly.
Betty cuts him off with a wave of her hand.
“Don’t worry hon. It’s high time you two got it together. I’ve been keeping a running bet with Martin in the back about how long it was gonna take for us to see a kiss.” She raised an eyebrow mischievously. “See Miss Page: I told you it would all work out.”
Karen ducks her head in the crook of Frank’s shoulder, face flushed. The gesture fills his body with warmth. “We…uh…we’d better go…talk.”
Betty smirks, moving back towards the kitchen. “Sure. Go talk. See you two later.”
Frank’s ears are definitely burning now, but he could care less. “See you later Betty.”
He grabs Karen’s hand, inching his way towards the door. The lone customer at the counter turns his bar stool slightly, a knowing look in his eye. Studying him, Frank feels a flicker of familiarity. The man’s haircut is similar to many of the veterans who are trying to part with a high and tight, and his stance screams military. The only odd thing is the Vietnam War on his jacket. The man barley looks forty.
“Haaaa…guess you can tell we usually have this place to ourselves.” Karen – apparently recovered from her embarrassment – attempts small talk as they pass.
The man smiles. “Not a problem Miss Page.”
The stranger’s words stop them both in their tracks. Frank tenses up slightly about to ask who the man is, but Karen squeezes his hand.
“I don’t mean to bother you,” - the man jumps in – “but I read a piece you wrote for the New York Bulletin on adamantium. Interesting alloy; you did your research.”
Karen swallows, still squeezing Frank’s hand. “I’ve - uh - seen first-hand how it can be used. It’s amazing…and deadly.”
The man grunts, pulling a business card out of his jacket. “First-hand experience, huh. Me too.”
Frank catches the stranger’s eyes dip down to the knuckles of his right hand, the hand giving Karen his card.
“My…school…is interested in monitoring the use of adamantium. I work with a couple egg heads who want to understand how the alloy mutates when attached to human cells. If you – either of you – ever hear anything about Benjamin Poindexter, call me. My team is happy to help.”
“I… thank you. We…we will.” Karen smiles cautiously.
The stranger nods at her once more then stands up, eyes now locked on Frank. “Semper Fi brother. You take care.”
The man stalks out of Betty’s, leaving Frank and Karen to gape blankly at each other and then down at the card.
Logan James Howlett
Senior Faculty
The Xavier Institute
Westchester, New York
Frank frowns, glaring at the black ink. It seems he’s found an ally in the inevitable fight against Poindexter that’s lurking in their future. He’s just not sure if it’s a good thing. “I’ll call David in an hour. Have him run a background check on the guy.”
“Call him later.”
Hearing the edge in Karen’s voice, warmth begins to pool in Frank’s stomach. He looks up to see her blue eyes tracing over him hungrily.
“We got somewhere to be ma’am?” He smiles softly, letting Karen guide him back to her apartment.
***
Vanilla.
Vanilla and sandalwood.
He watches Maria hugging their babies to her chest. She looks up at him and smiles.
“I like her. Don’t’ screw this up,” his wife whispers.
Frank smiles back. He doesn’t have to ask who her is.
Click. The safety of a gun. Turning off…
He bolts up, heart racing as he begins to make sense of the room. The vase of white roses on the bed by his picture. A small bookshelf over the dresser. Sheer white –
…
…
Sheer white curtains.
But the light coming through the window is all wrong. The Thai place is dark; instead, soft periwinkle streams through the window. It must be 6 or 7 o’clock in the morning.
Frank reaches out to brush the pillow beside his. The other half of the bed is empty, a yellow comforter pushed aside. Emotion akin to happiness is bubbling in his heart, followed closely by a sense of unease. This isn’t a dream, but where’s –
“Hey.” He smells the lilac and coconut a second before he hears her voice.
Blinking, he sees Karen – his living, breathing, Karen – walking back into the bedroom with a cup of coffee.
“You okay?” Her whisper is gentle and firm all at once. Anchoring his mind amid the sea of ghosts. Frank inhales slowly.
“Yeah,” his voice is rough with sleep, not hoarse from screaming. It surprises him. “Maria said she likes you.”
Karen blushes a little, hiding her face in her coffee. “Sorry if I woke you from a good dream. I think I’m still keyed up from yesterday.”
Frank nods understandingly; yesterday was rough.
The memorial service went as well as can be expected. Maybe he’s just critical because he had to spend all 90 minutes of it watching from a small screen in David’s beat up van. Pacing with baited breath as the names of those who’d been killed were read. His face is still too familiar to be in the crowd of such a public event, but he tried to calm himself by focusing on the fact he was only two blocks away. Grateful for Red and Nelson standing at the front of the crowd with his number on speed dial. Clutching his Glock just in case he had to run towards any action. Luckily, there was none.
He’d sat in front of the laptop cheering on Karen as she spoke, pausing momentarily as David’s drone panned out to reveal a figure in a leather jacket at the edge of the crowd. Standing at hyper vigilant attention the way Frank or any other combat vet might in the midst of so many people. The fact that Poindexter’s caught the attention of people outside the city is unsettling, but Frank won’t dwell on that right now. He just wants to be present. He’s dreamed about her too much to let this moment go to waste.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, patting the bed beside him.
Karen raises an eyebrow but obliges him, pressing a kiss to his forehead as she snuggles into bed. “It’s almost 7am. Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work?”
A half-smile tickles his lips, but he feigns seriousness. “Told the boss moving all my stuff over here has worn me out. Gotta get some rest. That okay?”
The joy on Karen’s face is better than anything he could’ve dreamed. “Okay.”
Frank proceeds to lay her down on that yellow comforter.
And not sleep.