Chapter Text
As Karen Page stares into the full length mirror in her bedroom, she considers the idea of control, the idea of being able to impose a direction over her life and know that it would actually obey said direction. It is absurd, really, the concept of control. It completely violates whatever laws of nature that dictate the circumstances of her existence.
She watches her reflection as her lips lift in a wry grin. Lifting a lock of hair up to inspect, her head tilts to the side in curiosity. After recent events Karen Page is convinced that there are many things she cannot control. Though, in all honesty, she learned that rather elementary lesson quite some time ago. Thoughts of her brother and parents come swiftly to the surface and she easily pushes them away, flicking her hair back behind her shoulder.
She gazes at the length of her hair in the mirror with a slight downturn of her lips, already vexed by the idea forming. She feels like she’s stuck in some inane romantic comedy, on the cusp of employing a familiar trope. When had she become the woman looking for the ultimate metaphorical fuck you to give the world?
She eyes her blonde locks again and sighs. Damn. She’s about to become a cliché.
___
It starts with the haircut: shoulder length bob, golden locks traded in for red. In her less self-deprecating moments, she can appreciate how the cut accents her high cheekbones.
It all starts with that fucking haircut.
She smiles a bit bashfully when Foggy whistles at her during one of their nights at Josie’s.
“Damn, Miss Page,” he’d said with an appreciative nod.
Then somehow it evolves into a new wardrobe: jeans, t-shirts, blazers, and flats. Because now she spends much more time walking around the city, evading the people she pisses off while she’s chasing down leads. She even starts wearing her glasses more. Figures it makes her look less intrusive, less like she has her nose in people’s shit. Fact is, she does have her nose in other people's shit.
“You look like a damn journalist. ”
Karen doesn’t even look up at Ellison as he places a cup of coffee on her desk.
“Is this a petition to bring back the pencil skirts?” she asks, typing away frantically at her laptop.
This week: a story about human traffickers who make a hobby out of dog fighting.
“No. Now you can actually effectively run away from all the shit you get into.”
She smirks. “I’ll wear skirts and blouses for Throwback Thursdays.”
“Deadline’s at 10pm, Page.”
“Yes, boss.”
A week later her face is impressively blank when she learns that the men she had written about were found dead, shot execution style during a meeting. The fifty men and women brought into the country for forced labor were found after an anonymous tip was given to the police.
Curious.
The ten or so dogs were mysteriously dropped off at a shelter designed to nurture and rehabilitate abused animals.
Her thoughts linger on a conversation she once had with Frank about pit bulls during one of her visits to discuss his case. She pushes that memory away after a moment. Thinking about Frank makes her ask too many questions. She may never get the answers to those questions.
____________
The training starts.
Far be it from her to stop carrying her .380. Of course this is after having retrieved it from the police after her tiny apartment had been shot to hell. Of course, that was after Frank had thrown his body, warm and solid, on top of hers to shield her.
Yes. After that.
She is delighted that she can finally afford a new apartment. It's no penthouse because how could it be on her salary? She settles on a one bedroom, filling it with all the bright furniture and art she can afford. She recognizes what she's doing. She sees her attempt at offsetting the darkness of her work and the shit she uncovers on a regular basis. Perhaps she's further running from the darkness of her past, desperately grasping at anything that resembles light.
Be that as it may, it doesn’t stop her from enjoying her bright teal couch and grey throw blanket. A lavender scented candle burns on her coffee table as her eyes flicker between the manicure tutorial on her laptop and Jennifer Lopez’s battered character in Enough.
It occurs to her as applies a second coat of burgundy polish that aside from wielding a handgun, she has no idea how to defend herself. Not well at any rate. She would undoubtedly get her ass handed to her in a real fight.
She's dialing Matt Murdock on speaker before she can even comprehend what she's doing.
He answers before she can convince herself to hang up. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Karen. Is everything okay?”
His voice is calm, relieved almost. There is no hint of anger or frustration over the fact that she has avoided him for months.
She finds that she is very grateful for that.
“Matt. Hi.”
“Hi.”
“You don't sound angry. I'm relieved. And surprised that I'm relieved."
He sounds surprised. “Why would I be angry with you?”
She shrugs even though she knows he can’t see her. She imagines that he can hear the shuffling of her shirt on her shoulders. He can probably hear the way her hair meets her shirt as her shoulders bunch up.
“Because we haven’t talked in a while.”
A pause. “What I told you is a lot to process,” he says.
She bites her lip. She won't respond to that because it's true and they both know it.
“Would you be up for meeting tomorrow? There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
He doesn't hesitate. “Sure.”
“’Good.”
He is silent for a moment and it feels too long.
“…Karen?”
“Yes?”
“Am I going to walk out of this meeting without your friendship?"
She lets out a breath. “No. No, Matt. That's not what this is. ”
“Good. I just don't...good."
She promises to bring coffee and croissants to his place. She wants to talk in the privacy of his home because she thinks he probably feels safe there.
“Does noon work? I imagine you’ll be slightly recovered from kicking ass by then?”
She hopes he can hear the lightness in her tone. She prays the lightness doesn't give away any of the sadness she feels about their freindship and how everything is different now.
He laughs lightly. “Yeah, I’ll make sure I’m up for you.”
She nods. “See you tomorrow, Matt.”
“Goodnight, Karen.”
She spends the rest of her night waiting for her nails to dry and watching Jennifer Lopez fuck up her estranged husband. She wonders how much it would hurt to get punched in the face. Thoughts of Frank Castle’s perpetually bruised face come to mind.
She pushes the image away.
___
She shows up to Matt’s door the next day with two coffees, one black and one with cream. The bag of warm croissants is squished under her arm. Before she can maneuver all the things in her hand to knock the door swings open.
Matt wears grey sweats and a black t-shirt. Her eyes immediately scan him for any indication that he has been out fucking up the criminals of Hell’s Kitchen. No bruises or cuts. At least not where she can see them.
He smiles as if he knows what she is doing and motions for her to come in.
“The croissants smell great,” he says.
She brushes past him quickly, surprised at the lack of elevated heartbeat that felt so familiar when in close proximity with Matt. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Daredevil. Who the hell saw that coming anyway? She almost laughs aloud at the thought. What she really wants to laugh at is her inability to see the truth. Who else besides a vigilante would come into work black and blue with flimsy excuses?
Instead of laughing she holds up the bag.
“Got you a black coffee and at least one croissant. Maybe two if I decide not to eat them all. I skipped breakfast."
He smirks. “I need to watch my figure anyway.”
She rolls her eyes. “Can you hear my eyes rolling in my head?”
His smirk remains and he shrugs. “Yes, actually.”
She shakes her head. “Wow."
“Tell me about it.”
He takes the coffee from her and their hands brush. He leans against the back of his couch while she settles in a chair at his table. Again, no elevated heartbeat. Interesting.
“You cut your hair.”
He is looking at her, his gaze as unfocused as always, but inconveniently perceptive. As a reflex she pushes her noticeably shorter hair behind her ear.
“I’m a ginger now too.”
“Foggy told me. Stunning. Pretty sure that’s the word he used. Says the color really suits you. I’m sure you look beautiful.”
She smiles and realizes abruptly that she is grateful to be near her friend. He would never be anything more than that again. It has become more and more apparent to her today. She is surprised that she does not feel sadness over this fact.
“Thank you, Matt.”
He nods. Karen takes that moment to really look at him, to see him. She sees grief. Lament. The air of despondency settles around him like a fog that won’t lift. She can see it in the subtle way he slumps against his couch. He is grieving the beautiful woman she had seen in his bed. Elektra. That was her name. He loved her, loves her. Karen aches for him even though he lied to her more times than she could count.
“You’re staring at me."
He smiles at her lightly.
“I am,” she confirms taking a sip of her coffee.
He looks towards the wall. He is silent for a while.
“What do you see?”
She'll be honest. “Sorrow.”
He doesn’t respond immediately. She isn’t even sure he will.
“I’m sorry about Elektra. I know it seems like I wouldn’t be, but I am," she says.
He shakes his head in disbelief.
“Here you are apologizing to me about a woman you saw in my bed. The same woman I neglected you over. You are a rare breed, Karen Page.”
She takes another sip of her coffee. “You have no idea."
“Karen, I’m sorry. About all of it. All of the shit I did to hurt you. About not telling you about what I do at night. About neglecting you and Foggy during Frank Castle’s trial…”
She ignores the way her heart constricts at the mention of Frank. There she is. Always ignoring it. Always ignoring him.
“…I’m sorry about not caring for you, not loving you the way you deserve to be loved. I'm sorry for lying to you.”
She takes a deep breath. She can ignore what she thinks about Frank Castle. It hurts less that way. She can hardly bring herself to even admit why she doesn't want to think about him. Thankfully, this isn't about Frank. This was about her and Matt and it feels so damn prudent to lean into her feelings about their history. So she does. She dives headfirst into all the hurt, anger and disappointment. All the ways she felt abandoned by him, used by him. She gives herself permission to feel it all. Obviously, she has spent many days thinking about this and mulling over what went wrong with them. Her previous attention to it is probably why it comes and quickly evolves into something like understanding and forgiveness.
“You hurt me,” she says.
He nods. “I know.”
“You lied to me. Repeatedly."
Her voice is calm. She’s looking at him directly.
“I did.”
“You convinced me that I was important to you and then you chose another woman over me.”
He looks sad at her words but makes no attempt to belie her point.
She has imagined this moment. She has imagined what she would do or say. She had anticipated being immensely angry and unable to do anything but lay her anger before him hoping to wound him as much as he wounded her. Except she is not angry. Everything is out there between them and she has no desire to pick it up again, to take it back and let it settle into the recesses of her heart. For whatever reason, she is perfectly willing and ready to relinquish it. It startles her but it also makes her feel much lighter than she's been in months.
“Matt, I forgive you. I do. I forgive you for lying to me and pushing me away. For leading me on, even if you didn’t know you were. God, I forgive you. For all the things you need forgiveness for..." She pauses, "About being Daredevil though, I’m not sure it’s one of those things.”
Matt shifts. “It’s not one of the things you’ll forgive me for?”
“I don’t think you being Daredevil is something you need me to forgive.”
At this, he looks up with surprise.
“Really?"
“Do you think you need my forgiveness for that?”
“No.” His reply is immediate and sure.
She shrugs. “Right now, neither do I.”
And there is something about her declaration that has him standing up slightly taller. It is then she realizes that part of his grief isn’t just over losing Elektra. Part of his grief was about losing her too.
“You have my friendship. And so does Daredevil. I don’t know all of what it means to be friends with Daredevil. Maybe I’ll regret it later. I don’t know. I barely know what it means to be friends with Matt Murdock. There is so much about you I don't know.”
He stands very still for a moment, directing his gaze to the floor. Then he nods as if he can’t bring himself to speak. After a few moments, he looks back in her direction.
“Is this what you came to talk to me about?” he asks.
She sets her coffee down, suddenly nervous. She knows Matt can hear the spike in her heartbeat.
“No, that’s not why I came. We needed to talk about that and I assumed we would but I was prepared to ask you what I’m about to ask either way.”
“You’re nervous,” he observes. “What’s wrong?”
“It is extremely inconvenient that you can hear my heartbeat.”
A grin. “I can imagine.”
She sighs. “Nothing is wrong, per se. I just need a favor. An on-going favor.”
“Okay.” He starts to raise the cup to his lips.
Before he can get the coffee to his lips she blurts out, “I need training!”
He pauses almost comically. “...You what?”
Her cheeks are warm and she’s cursing herself for having asked so desperately. She takes a deep breath to regain some footing.
“Self-defense. Combat. Whatever you want to call it. I want to learn it.”
If Karen has to guess she would say he downs the rest of his coffee simply so he can think of a way to respond to her seemingly ridiculous request. He lowers the cup and then raises it to his lips again, already forgetting that he had finished his drink. She sighs and fights the temptation to assume what he is thinking. She waits, filling her mouth with the buttery croissant to keep from speaking.
“You want me to train you?”
She hastily swallows.
“Or find someone who will. It'll happen whether or not you help me. I need to know how to defend myself. The need arises often for me.”
“Karen…”
“You can’t see the glare I’m giving you, but imagine it and use this as an opportunity to stop talking."
He does; leaning back further against the couch and clutching the back with hands she was sure could break it if he really wanted to.
“Save me the speech about being careful and not doing anything dangerous. Not throwing this in your face, but you do run around at night and get beat to hell. Not to mention you beat the shit out of people. You don't ask anyone's permission to do that."
“Karen, that’s not…”
“Are you asking for my permission to do that?”
He waits a beat, blinking. Once. Twice.
“No. I’m not.”
“Exactly. But you are asking me to help you by keeping your secret. And I will, Matt, you know I will. I will protect your identity because you are my friend. So support me as a friend by training me."
His hands are still clutching at the back of the couch. He remains silent and brooding, one of his fingers tapping out a rhythm.
For a moment, she thinks of the way Frank tapped his trigger finger against the top of his coffee mug back in the diner as he gazed at her from under his baseball cap, noting all of her embarrassingly frenetic energy.
This was, of course, before he had killed two men less than ten feet from where she was hiding. This was before he had rescued her from the Blacksmith. This was also before they had both decided to take a turn in their relationship, effectively closing the door between them.
She briefly wonders what Frank would do if she asked him to train her before deciding that it doesn’t matter. Frank is noticeably absent. Again, she pushes thoughts of him away because by now she is masterful at ignoring the existence of Frank Castle.
Her gaze sharpens on Matt as he runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. She is prepared to further argue her case before he says:
“Okay, Karen. Jesus. Okay.”
__________
The first time she shows up to the abandoned gym, the one Matt now owns, he asks about her running history. Her laugh is incredulous.
“Who says I have one?”
He shrugs.
“Sucks for you. It will make the next few weeks hard as hell.”
She frowns. “Why?”
“Good combat requires you to be in shape, to be able to actually make it through a fight if you have to. Which means you need good lung capacity. Which means you need to do cardio.”
“Ah," she says.
Why am I doing this again?
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t seem overly hesitant about it,” Matt says.
He sounds surprised, perhaps.
“I gave myself two rules for this. Rule number one: don’t complain.”
Aloud.
He smiles. “Rule number two?”
“Keep going even when hurts.”
She tries not to think about the other parts of her life where that feels true.
___
For the next few weeks she runs until it hurts. Then she runs some more, taking time during her lunch break to get in some miles before diving back into her research, writing, and tailing.
All the while she’s hearing stories of criminals being executed, victims being rescued, whispers of the Punisher being alive. She never asks Matt if he runs into the Punisher. She finds it highly unlikely that he hasn’t, but they never talk about it. It seems to be an unspoken rule, for the time being, that she and Matt don’t talk about the details of his night job. She refuses to ask. It doesn't matter anyway. Frank Castle is dead to her.
So she keeps her mouth shut and she’s still running. Two weeks in, Matt adds strength training to her routine. It hurts and leaves her limping home, but she doesn’t stop. A few times she runs so hard that she throws up afterwards. Matt tells her that he likes her commitment, but to take it easy. She needs her body to work with her, not against her. She listens. She’s never liked throwing up anyway.
She cooks more and eats less takeout at Matt’s command. She even buys a crockpot because, let’s face it, she’s an investigative journalist. She barely has time to sleep, let alone cook.
Once she makes a joke about the dark circles under her eyes.
“Make time to sleep. Poor sleep leads to sloppy fighting, slow response time. There is a point where even adrenaline doesn’t overshadow that. You get sloppy and you lose. You are doing this because you don’t want to lose. Sleep more.”
She starts to protest about the demands of her job. Then she remembers her rules. She doesn’t say anything. He notices.
“Your body is your weapon, Karen. Stop treating it like shit. Either that or expect it to fail you when you need it to work for you.”
She sleeps more. Sometimes that sleep leads to nightmares and sweat and muffled screams into her pillow as she’s waking up. Sometimes it’s just blank and dark. She has a bottle of melatonin sitting on her dresser and she invests in a stainless steel teakettle for nights when she needs to be relaxed by a cup of chamomile tea.
She rarely allows the water boil to the point where the kettle whistles. Sometimes she’s frightened by the loud noise even when she knows it’s coming. She wonders if she has some mild form of PTSD. She remembers Frank’s aversion to using PTSD as a defense strategy, remembers his respect for those who experience it.
Some nights she dreams about Frank. She dreams about his crooked grin. She dreams about shattered coffee pots and guttural cries before shots are fired. She dreams about white skulls and big guns and roof tops. When she wakes up in the morning, she runs.
She runs hard and fast until her lungs burn.