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In the back corner of Josie’s bar amidst the chatter and the glasses clinking and the snap of pool balls clacking together, Frank Castle takes a swig of his beer and gives Curtis an amused look. “You want me to what ?”
“I want you to try yoga. Seriously.”
Frank leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “You gotta be shittin’ me.”
Curtis shakes his head. “I’m telling you, Frank. Best I’ve felt in years. It’s harder than it looks, too.”
“If I want to get some exercise I’ll just fuckin’ exercise. I’m not gonna balance on my leg for an hour.”
In fact, Frank has considered trying yoga in the past. His gym has a class every morning at 6am and he glances inside the door curiously every time, baffled by the poses the people inside are taking. Each time he’s considered considering it, he happens to walk past the moment the people inside have begun what looks to be unnecessarily painful, twisted up movements. He doesn’t even think his body stretches like that–and the thought of trying alone makes him wince. Nah, he’ll stick with his weights and treadmill.
“You know it’s more than that,” Curtis sighs, long suffering.
“Uh huh, sure.”
Curtis' eyes go somewhere over Frank’s shoulder for the third time in as many minutes and his brow furrows slightly. He looks back at his beer and clears his throat. “Alright, don’t panic. I don’t think it’s a threat. Someone’s been watching you.”
Frank’s been out of the “Punisher” game for a while now. In fact, he’s been a regular nine-to-fiver for almost six months. After sending Amy down south and distancing himself from the other two women who seem determined to put themselves in harm’s way for him, he’s been keeping his head low and waiting for it all to blow over. And then–after a while–he’d just fallen into a routine. Get up, exercise, go to work, go home and read. Go to group with Curtis once a week, go for drinks after. About once a month Sarah will call him up and ask him to come for dinner and he’ll spend the evening in the bittersweet chaos of the Lieberman household. He’s got a routine. A regular, non-vigilante routine. And it’s not like he hasn’t been keeping his eyes open for threats–that’s not really an option for someone who’s been on the news more than he hasn’t–but he isn’t checking every dark corner anymore. He’s carrying on his belt, but just out of a sense of preparedness. He’s–goddamn it, he’s trying to be normal.
And someone’s watching him.
His fist is clenched. He loosens it, forces himself to take another swig of beer and sets it back on the table before responding.
“Where?”
“Eight o'clock. Table by the door. She’s still looking.”
She. He watches Curtis’ face carefully. “She?”
“Yeah, she. White, blonde.” Curtis looks back at him, lips quirked. “Pretty.”
Something loosens and then tightens in his chest cavity. Frank doesn’t respond, trying to breathe through the sudden shock of adrenaline and anxiety pumping through his veins. He can only think of one woman who knows him and fits that description. “Shit.”
“Hang on.” Curtis frowns, then his expression slackens in surprised realization. “Jesus Christ, Frank. Tell me that’s not Karen. The Karen.”
“Think so.” As ridiculous as it is, he feels fucking nervous. He hasn’t been nervous in a long time. Cautious, sure. Angry or frustrated or apprehensive, alright. But nervous–that only comes out when a certain smart mouthed, blue eyed, beauty marked blonde in a pencil skirt steps back into his life. That’s when his palms start to get clammy and his pulse starts to jump and his mouth starts to dry like he’s been wandering the fucking Afghan desert all over again. And just the thought of her being in the same room after all this time, not only noticing him but watching him, brings all of that roaring to the surface.
Or maybe it’s not her.
He’s not sure what would be worse.
Like a bandaid, he thinks, and turns to look before he can talk himself out of it.
It takes approximately two seconds to find her in the dim lights. Across the sticky floor, over the sea of people crowding the bar, seated at a table near the door and already looking back at him is Karen Page.
Their eyes meet and the room closes in, just a little. The wave of emotions he feels at seeing her so unexpectedly has him feeling raw to the bone. He doesn't move, doesn’t breathe, for a long moment. Then, like someone’s turned all the lights up, her face breaks into a smile that seems to say, this is weird, huh? and she turns back to the woman at her side. Just like that. Like she hasn’t just shifted the floor beneath his feet just by being twenty feet away in a dirty, shitty bar surrounded by dirty, shitty people.
Frank keeps his eyes on her for another lingering second. She’s cut her hair; it falls just below her shoulders in soft waves. It looks good. She looks good, but he doesn’t have to be close to know that. He’d know that with his goddamn eyes closed.
He turns back around in his chair. Curtis is watching him with undisguised amusement.
“What?” he grumbles, tipping back his beer bottle.
“So that’s Karen,” he confirms. Fucking smug.
“That's her.”
Curtis narrows his eyes slightly, head tilting. He glances over Frank’s shoulder and back a few times. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“You’re not going over there?”
“Are you–” Frank stares at him, aghast. “Are you out of your damn mind? Why the hell would I do that?”
“Hang on, don’t act like I’m the one being weird right now.” Curtis lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “You’re really not going to go over there?”
Frank screws his lips into a frown. Every inch of his skin feels stretched too thin, too exposed sitting here with his back to her. But getting up and going over there—what would he even say? What could he say?
Hi, Karen. Sorry I’ve been avoiding you for half a year.
Or, Hey, come here often?
Maybe, You’re too good for this shithole.
Probably, I’m sorry.
“Let’s just drink our—Curtis. Curt, fuckin’—knock it off.” The panic in Frank’s voice is palpable, he knows, but Curtis is waving across the room and smiling towards Karen’s table and he’s inviting her over.
Curtis drops his arm, but Frank has an awful feeling it’s not to take pity on him. Somewhere behind him, Karen is making some excuse to her girlfriends, standing up, making her way across the floor, headed straight towards them, maybe she’s holding her drink or maybe she left it, and he’s still sitting here like an asshole with panic crawling its way up his throat, she could be right behind him, she could—
“Hi,” he hears at his shoulder, a voice he would recognize anywhere, and then he’s turning and looking up into her flushed face.
He was right before. With his eyes closed he knows she’s beautiful, but he’s not going to deny himself from looking now. Her lipstick is a dusty pink, her beauty mark lifting into a smile. She’s wearing more makeup than he’s seen on her—something to darken around her eyes. Something that highlights how bright—how fucking blue—her eyes are. A calm ocean; a cloudless sky. Two things that seem to go on forever that somebody could get lost in.
He would, gladly.
“Hey,” he croaks. And if she notices the strain in his voice, she doesn’t comment.
Her eyes map out his face (he’s been growing his beard back out and a small part of him wonders what she thinks about it) and then she turns to Curtis. “You’re Curtis Hoyle, right?”
“Shit,” he says in a voice that tells Frank he’s impressed. “Am I still wearing my nametag?”
She laughs. Frank thinks it might be the best sound he’s heard in a long time. “No, I just do my research. I’m Karen Page.”
“Oh, I know who you are,” Curtis chuckles, shooting Frank a sly grin. Bastard.
Her gaze darts back to Frank in surprise. He realizes that two of the people he cares most for in the world are staring at him, waiting for a reaction, and he clears his throat. “Uh, you wanna sit?”
“Oh.” She glances back to her table where the two women there are watching with open curiosity. “Well, I really can’t. I’m here with friends. Birthday party.”
Panic seizes him sharply. He realizes that he has no idea when her birthday is—and that fact knocks him a little sideways because how can he not? How can her presence alone reduce him to blushing like a schoolboy, but he doesn’t know the day she was born? Can he be sitting here while she interrupts her own birthday celebration to say hello–to reach out to someone who has been completely, shamefully avoiding her?
“Yours?” Curtis asks, breaking the silence.
“No, no. My friend Trish back there. I met her during my journalism days when I was writing a story about one of the guests on her radio show.”
“Trish Walker,” Curt says in realization, snapping his fingers. “Thought she looked familiar. There’s a billboard by my apartment.”
The name isn’t familiar at all to Frank, but he’s too concerned about what else he doesn’t know about Karen to care. He knows she can shoot a gun, knows she drinks her coffee with a splash of creamer, knows what she looks like with blood smeared on her forehead, knows she’s smart and kind and fierce—but does she like to read? Is she a sports fan? What’s her favorite flavor of ice cream? Where did she grow up? Which side of the bed does she sleep on? Does she have a sweet tooth? What does she look like in the morning, freshly awake? What is she thinking right now?
She’s looking at him again, expectant. He clears his throat. “Sorry to interrupt the party.”
He really wants to say tell me everything about you, everything I don’t know yet, but he keeps that safely pressed against his teeth.
She smiles with a hint of teasing; like she can hear the furious pound of his heart and the dry click of his throat as he swallows. “I came over here, remember?”
“Right. Ah, I meant for wavin’ you over. It was—that was Curtis’ idea.”
Her smile slips, just a little, and then comes back brighter than before. It sits uncomfortably on her face for the first time since she appeared, a little too strained. She turns this on Curtis, away from him. “Well, Curtis. It was very nice to meet you.” She hesitates, looking at Frank again—and for a flash he sees the hurt there, blooming beneath her expression. “It’s good to see you, Frank.”
And then she’s gone, pushing her way back through the crowd. Frank turns to watch her go, feeling the loss of her presence like a physical wound. As with most interactions with her, he’s left feeling unbalanced, unsure of where they stand–and knowing it’s not where he wants. After she’s taken a seat and bent heads with the two women at her own table, he turns back to Curtis.
Who is staring at him in exasperation.
“What?”
“Are you fucking kidding me, Frank? What was that?”
He takes up his beer bottle, picking at the damp label. Considers acting like he doesn’t know what he means. Sighs. “I can’t—I mean, c’mon, Curt. Look at her.”
“Yeah I was.” He leans forward, frustration bleeding into his tone. “Frank, man, she came over here for you. She wanted to see you. She wanted to talk to you. And you sat there like a goddamn fish out of water.”
Apt, considering that’s exactly how he felt for the entire interaction. He rubs at the growing ache in his temple. He suddenly wishes for something a little stronger than beer. “Yeah, I know. Fuck.”
His friend makes a sympathetic noise. “You’ve got it bad.”
He does–and it’s terrifying. There’s not a day that goes by without some unbidden thought of her rises to the surface. Sometimes it's innocuous as the image of her nose scrunching up in laughter; sometimes it’s a memory of the fierce blazing of her eyes from her visit to the hospital as she’d gripped his hand; sometimes it’s his mind imagining what would have happened if he’d stepped closer after make it mean something. If Amy hadn’t interrupted. Other times it’s even more than that: dreams of her breath on his lips, her hands on his skin, her body sliding against his.
“I’m doing the right thing,” he grinds out, meeting Curtis’ eyes. Because if he can’t convince himself, maybe he can convince everyone else.
“Bullshit,” Curtis says instantly.
Figures. He groans. “C’mon, Curt–”
“No, Frank. Hell no. You can take this self-deprecating crap and feed it to somebody else.” Curtis stares him down, but there’s an understanding in his tone that softens his words just a little. That, or they’ve just known each other too long, saved each other’s hides too many times to know that he isn’t just being a dickhead, that he’s trying to help. “You like her. You might even love her. I wouldn’t be surprised with the way you’re acting. We all know she feels the same way or else she wouldn’t have come over. She wouldn’t have risked her life to help you.”
Which time, Frank wonders a little hysterically, scratching a thumbnail through the goop left behind by his bottle’s label. And that’s the whole problem, isn’t it? That she’s put her life and her career and her happiness on the line for him time after time and he’s just let her do it. He’s allowed it because he’s selfish and because looking her in the face and telling her to walk away feels like he’s coughing up razor blades. He listens to the noise of the bar around them, straining his ears to pick out her voice or her laugh, but it’s too loud.
“I can’t do it again.” The words come from somewhere deep and aching. He untangles them from the mess of fear in his ribcage and tosses them onto the table, lays them bare. “It’ll kill me, Curt.”
Curtis’ stare is heavy on him in the loaded silence that follows his confession. Around them, the noise of the bar swells to fill the space between them. Finally, Curtis raps his knuckles on the tabletop to get his attention. “Hey. Do you see yourself ever being over her?”
The answer comes immediately: no. Absolutely not. She’s lodged into his heart like shrapnel–if he tries to remove it (her) he’ll bleed out all over the goddamn floor. It’s why he’s been keeping his distance: because so far he’s been able to convince himself that the pain of losing her would be worse than the pain of not having her to begin with. He can’t see another person he loves cut down because they’re close to him. Especially her–the first good thing to come into his life after he lost his family. The first person to smile at him like he wasn’t this violent, monstrous machine of a man. The first person who cried with him, who ached when he ached, who mourned when he mourned.
He tells all of this to Curtis, voice scraped raw.
“Frank,” Curtis sighs, half exasperation and half cajoling. “Is Karen smart?”
He looks up sharply, brow furrowed at the sudden turn in conversation. “‘Course, yeah.”
“Do you trust her?”
Unbidden, a grim smile crawls across his face. “With my life.”
“You want her to be happy?”
He keeps his mouth closed, but the trap has already been set. He grimaces.
Curtis finishes off his beer and fixes Frank with a stare that could pierce glass–the stare that gets even the most tight-lipped guy in group to open up. “Right. C’mon, Frank. Let yourself have this. You can make each other happy–and damn if I’ve never seen two people better made for each other. I mean, we both heard her singin’ your praises on that radio show–yeah, don’t look so surprised. All of New York heard that.”
Despite the icicle of fear between his ribs, Frank can feel warmth drawing up through him as he realizes Curtis is right. He’s always loved just as hard as he fights; he just thought that the absence of one would follow the absence of the other. If he’s not fighting, how can he see the danger coming, how can he protect her? But Karen has proved time and time again that she’s more than capable of protecting herself. She pulled a gun on him, for Christ's sake, before she even knew him–before she knew he’d never, not in a million lifetimes, be able to hurt her. And even more than that–she seeks out her own danger. Actively goes looking for it, honestly. And who better to have at her side while she’s stirring up trouble than someone who would kill for her? Has killed for her?
He looks up, heartbeat roaring in his ears and halfway to an apology, but Curtis is already waving it off.
“Go on,” he says and the you big lovesick idiot is heavily implied in his smile.
“You can say I told you so later,” Frank promises, already standing. He leans forward and squeezes his friend’s shoulder. “Thanks, Curt.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says wryly. “I’m gonna take you up on that, don’t worry.”
Frank grins, turning and heading into the crowd. He’s not sure what he’s going to say to her, and the brief thought that he should prepare something flashes across his mind. Maybe he could start with an apology—he’s got a lot to be sorry for, chiefly among them being his consistent radio silence since they met. Chronologically: shooting at her when she was helping Grotto. Or he could ask her to get a drink first, take up two empty seats at the bar, and sit close enough to touch while he asks her any question that pops into his head. Maybe he’ll start with what he’s wanted to say for so long, since they met: that she makes him better, makes him want to be better, that he should have been better. That he can be, if she’ll let him.
He’s barely halfway across the packed floor when the bodies part and she’s suddenly there, already coming towards him.
Karen has a peculiar look on her face. It’s a mixture of determination and nervousness, but her shoulders are pulled back either in confidence or a good imitation. The surprise of seeing her so quickly throws him off balance a little. He stops walking and waits for her approach, feeling a hurricane of excitement and terror and relief churning in his stomach. When she realizes he’s not at his table, that he’s standing only a few feet away, her footsteps falter as well and then renew with a fierceness that sends a shock wave of affection through his veins. She comes to a stop just in front of him, chin up.
“Karen–”
“No, Frank. Let me talk,” she interrupts, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. In the ambient bar lighting she’s practically glowing. The sight of her like this–full of conviction and stubbornness–only convinces him of what he realized sitting at that table. He loves her. He loves her so goddamn much it hurts and there’s nothing that is going to keep him from her, not even himself. If she still wants him, that is. At the moment it almost looks like she’s planning on swinging on him. “Okay. I have something to say.”
That checks out. “Okay,” he says, smiling.
She narrows her eyes at his easy acquiescance suspiciously. The crowd of people crams in around them, giving them just enough space to breathe. If he lifted his arms he could take her face in his hands or card his fingers through her hair and discover if it’s as silky-smooth as he suspects. “Okay. I think you’re being kind of ridiculous. I understand why you’d want to stay away–after everything you’ve been through–but I just…I told you before, Frank. I want more for you. An after. And I mean,” she averts her eyes and drags them back just as fast, flushing darker, “I’m not saying that’s me. But I can’t just not have you in my…hang on, why are you looking at me like that?”
He feels the grin widen on his face. The fact that she’s just as nervous as he is loosens his tongue a little, and before he can stop himself he asks, “Can I kiss you?”
She blinks, lips parting in surprise. “You…want to kiss me?”
“‘S why I asked, yeah.”
He might have said the completely wrong thing, but the expression on her face is so carefully blank that he’s really not sure. She’s usually so easy to read, wearing her emotions on her sleeve and speaking them fearlessly into the universe–but he’s also never said something like this before. Not out loud. Their silence swells between them, almost a physical thing, until she purses her lips and tilts her head.
“Are you drunk?”
He laughs, startled, then realizes she’s serious. “Wha—no. Why would you think that?”
“Because when I said hello ten minutes ago you almost had a heart attack,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “And now you’re asking to kiss me. It kind of feels like something someone who is drunk would do.”
He feels heat come into his cheeks and climb up to his ears. “You noticed that, huh?”
Then, finally, a smile breaks across her face. It makes every atom in his body light up. The fact that he pulled a smile like that out of her has every second thought, all of his uncertainty evaporating; his fingers itch to trace over it.
“It was hard not to,” she teases. “So, are you going to kiss me, or was that just–”
He steps forward before she gets a chance to finish and cradles her face in his hands, slotting his mouth over hers. It’s not like the movies–there’s no fireworks, the earth doesn’t shake, the sky doesn’t break open. But as she falls into his embrace, arms wrapping around his shoulders–it feels like coming home. Like this is where he should have been all along, holding Karen Page as her lips open up to his and the sugar-sweet taste of whatever she’s been drinking explodes on his tongue.
Someone wolf-whistles across the room, suspiciously close to where Frank was sitting only moments before, and they separate with sheepish grins.
“You wanna go somewhere quiet?” he asks. “Or do you have to get back to your party?”
She reaches down to lace their fingers together. “I’m sure they can go on without me. What about Curtis?”
“Curtis’ll kick my ass if I go back to that table,” he chuckles, only half-joking.
“Then it’s a date,” she declares, all smiles, and the last thing he sees before she pulls him out the door is the two women at her table toasting them with a shot and, twisting his head the other way–Curtis, flashing him a grin and an enthusiastic thumbs up.