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She finds him. Inexplicably and without trying, Karen finds him in a tiny one bedroom in Queens. She’s in the building interviewing a mother whose only son died in a drive-by, the fourth one to happen in the past two months on these two blocks. The police supposedly have no leads. The grieving parents, and children in the case of one of the victims, feel they are forgotten, brushed under the rug because of their neighborhood.
It’s after, when she’s slumped on the stairwell, stripped raw by the older woman’s emotions, that a door slams open and it’s Frank. It’s like a physical shock and she makes a sound, she’d never be able to say what it was later, but she makes a sound and he looks over at her and freezes. He scowls as he stalks over, stopping at the first step, staring up at her as she’s several stairs away.
“How did you find me?” His voice is rougher than she remembers. Maybe from disuse, she thinks.
Shaking her head, “I didn’t – I wasn’t looking for you.”
He’s skeptical. “Right.” He glares at her another moment before turning and going right back to his door. Without a thought, she quickly makes her way down the stairs and rushes after him, slapping a hand against his door before he shuts it behind him.
He swings the door back open, spinning around to block her from coming inside. She stops short of walking in to him, and looks up at him. His face is clear of bruises, she admits to herself she’s happy to see that, but there’s a cut running down his right cheek and she stops herself from asking about it.
Karen clears her throat, “I wasn’t looking for you, but I am glad to see you.” She doesn’t mean to, but her inflection makes it sound like a question.
He raises his brow at her, not believing it, she’s not sure if she believes it. But he turns from the door, moving further into his apartment, leaving the door open. She doesn’t hesitate much before following, closing the door softly behind her. She can’t stop herself from scanning the scantly furnished place. Still in the entryway, she scans the living room, noting only two chairs with the rest of the room covered with wooden boxes that she knows she won’t be asking about. She looks past the lack of dining table (and lack of space for one) into the kitchen. A kitchen that looks to be better suited for a studio than a one bedroom, which she assumes this is as she sees Frank step out of a room that has what looks like a mattress on the floor and nothing else.
He looks over at her, sighing deeply, before asking (looking at anything but her), “Are you alright?”
She stares at him, confused, about to remind him that she hadn’t been looking for him when she remembers the state she’d been in when they’d caught sight of one another. She exhales, running her hand through her hair, wincing when her fingers catch a knot.
She’s nodding well before she answers, “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. I was just – there was a woman I was talking to, she…” Karen trails off, realizing she doesn’t want to talk about another person’s grief over the loss of a child with him. But he’s looking at her now, expecting something.
“It was intense,” she finishes lamely.
He grunts, but nods his head. When he moves to his fridge, she starts running over scenarios in her head, trying to figure out what she’s expecting here. It’s not like she’s never thought about what it would be like to see him again. Nonetheless, she’s got nothing, because she didn’t come here for him. And it’s not lost on her that she’s reminding herself that more than him at this point.
But she’s here with him now, and she doesn’t want to leave. She remembers her last words to him, he probably does too, but after seeing him that last time, taking shots to help Daredevil (Matt, Matt, it was always Matt), she can’t just leave.
She edges over to one of the chairs, the one closest to her, noting that this one is a recliner, and sets her bag on it. He’s leaning on the counter, with the beer he retrieved in his hand. With his back to her, she sees how tense and rigidly he’s holding himself. Probably never expected to be caught off guard again.
Before she asks how he’s doing though, his shoulders suddenly relax a touch. He turns his head towards her, “Why are you still here?”
She’s had her answer for months now, since that night, “Because I told you that you’d be dead to me and I lied. Because your mission was over, but you came back. You came back and you saved him.”
His brow crinkles until he figures it out. “So, you know.”
She tilts her head at him, questioning the statement.
He clarifies, “You know who Red is – Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”
Her eyes widen, “You know?”
He shrugs instead of answers. Instead, says, “Now what, you wanna thank me or some shit?”
“What? No. No, you proved to me that you were the man I thought you were. That even though you got your revenge, even though you killed him, there was still something good in you.”
He laughs at her, short and scornful, and she flinches. He blinks at her reaction, then takes a long drink. When he slams the bottle back down, she squares her shoulders, staring him in the eye. There’s nothing more to say, really. But she won’t deny anymore how she’s felt drawn towards him, she has since before she met him, she has since she saw him in the hospital, vulnerable to the picture of his family. So she doesn’t say her peace and leave. She stays.
Frank though, he rolls his eyes after a moment and turns to reach in to his fridge again. Grabbing another beer, he holds this one out to her. She removes her coat, setting that over her bag, and takes the few steps towards him to take the offered drink. She looks at him while she takes a sip, checking out the cut she noticed before. It’s fresh, probably from the last day or two, she thinks. It looks to her like it should be treated and she makes the decision without much thought.
“You got a first aid kit?”
“I don’t need it.”
“Humor me.” He shakes his head at her but gestures towards the bathroom, the only other room this apartment holds aside from the bedroom. It doesn’t take long to find it, and she finds him leaning against the counter when she comes out, his arms crossed over his chest, looking for all the world like he will not be budged.
She eyes him for a second before turning away and tossing the kit on the recliner, taking a second to pull the other chair, a high back dining chair, towards Frank. Slowly, she reaches her arm out, hand resting gently on his wrist and pauses. She waits for a reaction, anything, and when he does nothing more than stare at her, she wraps her fingers around his wrist and pulls. For whatever reason, he complies and sits in the chair without any more coercion.
There’s not much in the kit, but she pulls out some gauze, tape and the neosporin. Spotting some paper towels near the sink, she quickly wets a few and turns towards Frank. She takes a moment to think about how carefully she’s going to have to do this. He doesn’t strike her as a man that easily accepts a gentle touch. Not anymore. She keeps her movements slow and in his eye line. Stepping between his legs, she tries not to blush, she refuses to feel silly about this, but she notices that his shoulders are once again tense.
With just a finger on his opposite cheek, she starts to softly wipe his right one. He’s not looking at her face, staring ahead instead and again, she won’t let it get to her that he’s basically staring at her chest. Her thumb is at his jawline and she applies a little pressure to get him to lift his chin, but his hand comes up to stop her.
“No, that’s enough. This isn’t necessary.” She quickly shakes his hand off her and this time lays her whole hand on his cheek, her thumb swiping under his eye. He breathes out, but lets her gather the gauze she got out and figure out how much she needs – it isn’t much. She quickly applies the neosporin and then uses her teeth to tear off the pieces of tape she needs and she’s done. Her hand doesn’t move though, instead, she brings her other hand back up to cup his face.
He’s given up on staring away and is looking her in the eye, and she’s seeing that man she spoke to in the hospital.
“Why? Why act like I’m anything worth helping?” His voice is quiet, softer than anything she heard before.
“You had to relive everything that happened to you every day. You had to free yourself, save yourself from that. And maybe your way wasn’t right, wasn’t moral. But you’re not the only one who had to save themselves and maybe, maybe I understand that.” Her eyes burn, she feels like she’s being bled dry but breathing easier all the same. Because for once she doesn’t have to hide and for once she doesn’t feel like she has to hold back on her feelings, watch her words carefully lest she say the wrong thing and hurt someone.
He’s looking at her now like she’s something new and never seen before. It’s when she feels the first tear fall that he leans his head forward, resting it against her breast. Her hands are moving, sliding down and around, her arms embracing his shoulders that aren’t so taut anymore. His hands come to her hips and when she doesn’t let go (no, she holds on tighter), his arms then come around her waist, pressing her against him.
And they stay like that, having nothing more to say. It’s not absolution, but it feels pretty damn close to acceptance and that’s good enough.