Chapter Text
Frank Castle leaves the military with a purple heart, a bullet wound in his skull and no idea what to do next.
He goes back home because it’s what you’re supposed to do, and because his great uncle died a few days before his release from hospital and remarkably Frank is one of the only ones together enough to prepare a eulogy.
After the funeral is over he finds he doesn’t really like being around people so he wanders the city, thankfully New Yorkers aren’t friendly. On one of his aimless strolls far from his neighbourhood he stumbles across a “For Sale” on a run down-looking coffee shop.
He stops.
For the first time in his life he has some real money (Thanks, Uncle Stan).
Frank mulls over the bad idea forming in his head. Well, it’s not like he’s got any better ones.
* * *
The shop’s close enough to the University that Frank can open it at odd hours and still make a decent profit from frazzled-looking students who leave their projects till the last minute or obsessive workaholics who need to get their fix before the Library opens its doors. So he serves coffee late nights when can’t face going up to his apartment to stare numbly at his ceiling fan, and in the early mornings when he’s given up on sleep entirely, and sometimes he flips the closed sign at midday to catch a couple of hours shut eye on the old couch in the storage room.
A lot of customers express their annoyance at the unpredictable schedule and abandon him in search of a Starbucks but he somehow manages to acquire a small crowd of regulars, which irritates him for some reason. He vows never to learn their names.
He accidentally learns their coffee orders.
The blind law student that comes in on his first morning drinks double expressos and always tips rather generously for someone with holes in his sweater.
His classmate with the questionable hair usually orders some hazelnut/caramel/gingerbread thing with far too little shame.
The tall Greek girl whose shoes look like they cost more than his last car has triple expressos, probably because she likes competing with lawyer boy.
An ever-exhausted looking nursing student orders tea and comes up to the counter for more so often Frank just gives her the whole pot to pour her own refills.
The perky, athletic blonde whose face looks vaguely familiar has a soy latte or green tea depending on the day.
She drags her friend (sister?) along one day who just grunts, “Coffee.”
(“Yeah,” Frank replies, “Which coffee?” “Fuckin’ coffee. Black. Coffee. I am too hung over for this.” (She might be Frank’s favourite. Not that he likes any of them of course.))
A wide eyed, willowy girl wanders in one evening, too many files precariously balanced in her arms and spreads them out on a table in the corner. She orders cappuccinos, always smiling and sounding almost apologetic, and when Frank first replies, “Yes ma’am” she gives him a curious, appraising look that makes him want to duck his head. Or maybe stand to attention.
She seems to be the first one to figure out the café’s erratic timetable (which is strange because Frank usually can’t tell when the bad days are coming himself) because she’s there almost every day, working quietly at her corner table.
The rest of them start coming in a more frequent pattern soon after.
Frank grumbles and idly wonders how he can get rid of them.
* * *
Frank is on his third day without sleep.
He hadn’t opened the shop at all yesterday but when lying awake on his lumpy mattress had done him no good he’d come back down to keep himself busy. He’s just starting to drift off when a loud, persistent banging starts.
Frank resolves to kill whoever is responsible. Later. When he’s had some sleep.
But the banging doesn’t stop and he hears a voice shout, “I know you’re in there!”
Frank lets out an animalistic snarl and stomps to unlock the shop door.
Expensive Shoes is standing in front of him tapping her heel and looking impatient.
“Oh good,” she says. “I need coffee.”
He gapes at her slightly.
“We’re CLOSED. There’s a Starbucks two blocks down from here. They have coffee.” He growls. “Ma’am.” He adds as an afterthought.
The woman looks slightly amused at his protestations.
“Yes, but they don’t have my coffee.”
Frank gets his supplies from an old Russian guy who’s a friend of an army buddy because it’s cheap and good, but mostly because the guy doesn’t chat and Frank hates chatty salespeople. (Frank hates all chatty people.) The coffee’s some European brand, he wonders if it’s from Greece, the packaging looks ambiguously posh and foreign like this girl’s accent.
While he’s pondering this, Expensive Shoes takes advantage of his half-asleep state and ducks under his arm and into the café.
“Hey!” he calls out, but most of his anger has dissipated, he’s just too tired.
She surveys him thoughtfully and seems to take pity on him.
“I’ll make it myself, you can go back and rest.”
This is a woman clearly used to getting her own way and that would normally bring out Frank’s petty, obstinate side but right now he just wants to sleep so he grumbles something under his breath and heads back to the couch.
He’s asleep almost before he’s horizontal.
Frank wakes up some time later to a dull flurry off noise. Is he being robbed? Fine, he thinks, I’ll deal with it later, and turns over covering his head with a cushion.
The next time he wakes it’s quiet and dark.
He gets to his feet and hazily wanders to the front.
Expensive Shoes is standing behind the counter, counting out change.
“Quite a lucrative afternoon,” she remarks without looking up, as if this is a conversation they have every day.
“Wha?” Franks brain hasn’t quite caught up to his current state of consciousness yet.
“I’m saying I made us a lot of money,” She repeats looking at him as if he was slow. “The law boys had some assignment due so they were wolfing down coffee. Then there was a busload of German tourists and I charmed them into staying for quite a few drinks. The quiet girl in the corner was here till I closed up, she was asking about you by the way, but I had to kick her out because I didn’t know when you would wake up and I have a party to get to.”
“I-” Frank tried to digest this, Lawyers… German tourists… the girl was asking about him?
“The rude one was adding whiskey from her hip flask, but I didn’t stop her since I don’t know your policy on that sort of thing. And I can’t really blame her for drinking when she has to sit and listen to blondie plan an interview with some boring councilman on her student radio show.”
“I really don’t care-”
“That’s what I thought.”
“You can’t just-” Frank starts, exasperated. “You can’t just barge in and start running people’s coffee shops! Without asking!”
The girl smiles loftily.
“I find it’s always better to ask for forgiveness than permission, but for the record I’m asking for neither. You need the help; we can work out my shifts tomorrow.”
And with that she shrugs on a sleek red coat and sails out of the shop.
Frank decides vaguely that he’s probably dreaming all this, but she’s back behind the counter tomorrow with a matching apron that he’s no idea how she acquired. (He resolutely doesn’t wonder why someone who can afford Gucci heels would want to work in a grubby little coffee shop, because, he tells himself, he doesn’t care about these people’s lives.)
He writes Elektra on her pay check and is annoyed at himself for knowing.
* * *
The corner table is covered in various newspaper scraps and photocopies and intimidatingly large legal-looking documents most late-afternoons or evenings, the girl pouring over them, mouth set in determination.
The two law students join her fairly often now for animated discussions and the occasional bought of raucous laughter that makes Frank grit his teeth and clean mugs a little too aggressively.
Tonight it is just her. She’s tackling some thick file that’s been making her sigh and run her hand through her long fair hair in frustration every few minutes. Not that Frank is paying any attention.
The next time she sighs, she leans back, looking defeated.
When she approaches the counter he starts making another cappuccino before she asks.
“Thanks,” she murmurs appreciatively after taking her first sip but she doesn’t go back to her seat. Instead she perches on a bar stool and fixes him with big inquisitive eyes. (Frank does not notice how startlingly blue those eyes are.)
“You were in the military?”
“Yes Ma’am.”
“Iraq or Afghanistan?”
“Can’t say, ma’am.” It’s not strictly true, he’s allowed to talk about most of it but he’s found this response is usually the quickest way to get someone to stop asking questions. (Although for some reason Frank’s not entirely sure he wants her to.)
She gazes absentmindedly at the scar on his forehead and Frank starts to feel hot and self-conscious. He’s grown out the buzz cut a little but his hair is still way too short to cover it. Usually a hard stare from Frank is enough to stop the person gaping but his less than sunny demeanour has never seemed to have the desired effect on this girl. (What effect does he want to have on her? He doesn’t ask himself.)
“You a dog person or a cat person?”
Frank is caught slightly off guard by the sudden change in topic and he almost smiles before he remembers that’s not something he does.
“Uh, Dogs.”
“Mm,” the girl agrees sipping her coffee again thoughtfully. “I love dogs, they are kind and loyal and clever, it’s like they can reflect the best parts of a person.”
“I had a dog growing up, taught him to open the fridge, pissed my old man off no end, worth it though.” Frank doesn’t know why he’s volunteering this information.
The girl smiles softly at him. She opens her mouth but at that moment the door to the shop opens and the other blonde walks in shaking an umbrella and raises her hand to the girl at the counter.
Frank turns round and busies himself with the steam wands.
He feels sharp eyes on his back for a while before he hears her return to her seat.
* * *
Frank’s wiping down tables after close one night when he hears soft panting and straightens up. A few feet to his left, staring up at him happily, is a dog.
Frank does a double take and then turns a full 360. The shop is dark and empty.
The dog is still there.
He takes a step towards the dog and it flinches back slightly, still panting happily, but somewhat wary. Frank crouches down and slowly extends a hand.
“C’mon boy, I don’t bite.”
After a moment, the dog cautiously moves towards him and licks his outstretched fingers. It looks like a Pitbull? Staffie maybe? In the dim light of the shop it’s hard to see, but there seem to be scars running along the animals back. Frank scratches behind its ears and feels a line of hard skin under is collar.
Frank sighs.
“How did you get in here?”
He finds the (maybe) sisters in a heated, whispered argument in the alley by the side door.
“What,” he growls, startling them. “Is this?”
The blonde (Trish, his brain irritatingly supplies) looks nervous and guilty but whiskey girl (Jessica) just raises an eyebrow and says, “A dog.”
Frank gives her an unimpressed look.
“It’s your dog!” Trish chimes in and lifts her arms up in a surprise! motion.
Frank looks even less impressed.
“Where’s his real owner?”
“The ER,” Trish Responds, looking defiant. Jessica looks mildly smug. Jesus, what kind of customers had Frank had the misfortune of getting involved with?
“The E-“
“He was using Max for fighting. Like for bets. For sport,” Trish spits out the word and then continuous in a rush, “We had to take him with us and our landlord won’t let us have pets, we’ve apparently done enough property damage-” Frank notices Jessica’s sudden interest in the alley wall “-and the shelters around here put so-called dangerous dogs down without even giving them a chance, I just did an item on it on my show, and Max isn’t dangerous he’s scared, and Karen says you like dogs. So… We brought food for him?” she finishes weekly.
Frank looks between the two, pushing down hard on the warm feeling of pride welling up at their heroic (albeit violent sounding) endeavours.
“Fine,” He grunts as grumpily as he can manage and stomps back inside.
Max sleeps at the foot of his bed and growls at loud noises. (Frank won’t admit to anyone sleep comes slightly easier after that.)
* * *
Bothering Frank seems to be Corner Table Girl’s strategy for destressing whenever she isn’t getting anywhere with her work. He tries to be annoyed by this but he’s barely fooling himself.
She comes to sit by the counter and idly scratches Max under his chin while she asks Frank questions, he doesn’t know why he keeps answering. (When she’d appeared the day after the dog had arrived and seen him snoozing on a battered old armchair her face had lit up into a bright, sunny smile and Frank had missed the mug he was pouring into by a good few inches. Not that those two things were related of course.)
“Where did you grow up?”
“Queens.”
“Siblings?”
“No Ma’am”
“What was your dog’s name?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“I’m a journalist,” she shoots back. “Or, I want to be anyway.”
“Yeah, why’s that?” Frank is rather surprised to hear the words escape from his mouth. He isn’t one for asking questions (unless the question is “Cream and sugar?”) because he isn’t interested in his customers lives. (If a small voice inside his head suggests that he wanted to stretch out the time before she goes back to her seat then Frank resolutely ignores it because he is far too sane to listen to head voices.)
The girl sits back and seems to consider his question seriously regarding Frank carefully as if his words had surprised her too. She bites at her lower lip and her brow furrows in little delicate lines. Frank tries not to stare (And absolutely doesn’t think about reaching out and smoothing them out with the rough pad of his thumb.)
“Because,” she starts slowly, startling Frank out of his daze. “Because the truth is important. Not just some easy to spin narrative that will rile people up to sell papers. The real truth. Too often the public is deceived or… or distracted from seeing who the real villains are and there are people getting demonized in the press and no one is prepared to actually learn anything about them. Because I think people are good-” Frank gives a derisive snort. “-or at least everybody has good in them. Everybody’s got a past, they’ve all got a story that tells how they ended up here now, it’s just waiting for somebody to find it. I can do that. I can help.”
Her passion is evident; Frank imagines he can see it burning behind those blue eyes, daring him to contradict her. He doesn’t envy anyone who tries to cross her, he wouldn’t dare.
Max barks suddenly, annoyed that the girl has stopped petting him and she seems to snap out of her fervour, looking down embarrassed.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to rant at you, I’m sure you’re not interested in an ethics lecture, I just- It’s been a long week and I’m just so tired and stressed and stiff and sitting on that couch isn’t exactly helping.”
“Something wrong with the couch?” Frank grunts, instead of voicing the twenty other questions about how she's sleeping and her week and her life.
“Nonono, there’s nothing wrong with the couch! I love that couch, and that corner is quiet and warm, it’s a great place to work” Her concern at not insulting his shitty little coffee shop would be endearing, Frank supposes, were he the type of person to find things endearing. “I just have a bad back and I shouldn’t sit without better support, it’s my fault, really. It’s from hunching over all the time and speaking of, I should really get back to these parish records.”
She backs away from the counter with a weak smile, leaving Frank to his thoughts. Which he steadfastly continues to ignore.
“Do the couches need more cushions?” Frank remarks, in a not at all forced casual tone, to Elektra the next morning.
She raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow at him and he gets the distinct impression that she knows far too much about the origin of his question. Not that there is anything to know.
She buys new cushions her next day off and places most of them on the couch in the corner.
Frank definitely needs to fire her.