Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“So,” Matt starts. 

He’s standing behind the bar of Josie’s, pouring two glasses of whisky. Since the dive has become the unofficial headquarters of the resistance against Mayor Fisk, it’s usually got at least a few other people hanging around, but this is one of the rare times when he and Karen are alone, all of their various allies out on other business.  Josie hasn’t come down from her apartment upstairs, and the space is quiet, the day’s remaining sunlight filtering in through the newspaper covered windows.  

Karen looks up from where she’s perched at the bar, bent over her laptop, eyebrows raising when she sees the look on Matt’s face.

“Uh oh,” she says, half serious. “That’s your ‘we need to talk’ face.” 

She holds out her hand for one of the glasses. Matt gives her a small grin.

“Oh, no. These are both for me,” he jokes gently. “Get your own.”

Karen rolls her eyes and doesn’t move her hand. Matt slides one of the glasses over to her.  It’s a relief to him to not have to pretend he’s using the tricks of a blind man to operate in the world, and he clings to that feeling, that openness he has with Karen. He doesn’t want to lose it, so he tries to manage his emotions and his judgement.

“Come on, Matt, spill it,” Karen says, laughing nervously. “You’re freaking me out.”

Matt takes a sip from his glass, wincing a bit at the taste.

“Ugh. Good to know Josie hasn’t changed her booze supplier.” He’s stalling, and Karen can tell. She raises an eyebrow at him and takes her own sip, remaining silent, waiting for him to speak.

“So,” Matt starts again. “You, uh, you talk to Frank recently?”

Karen’s face stays carefully neutral, but there’s an uptick in her heart rate that she can’t hide.  It’s clear she wasn’t expecting this line of questioning. It’s been weeks since the night she’d summoned Frank to rescue him, and neither of them had mentioned the other man in the interim.

“Nope,” she says nonchalantly, toying with the whisky glass in her hands and not looking up at Matt.

“You, uh, haven’t seen him since… the night you got back into town?”

Karen laughs, unable to hide her bitterness.

“Frank was pretty blunt that he wasn’t interested. In helping us,” she adds quickly, “So no, I haven’t seen him. Or talked to him. Radio silence.” Karen takes a deep sip of her whisky and finally looks up at Matt. “Why?”

Matt clears his throat and looks awkward.

“I’ve seen him around. Not long enough to talk to,” he quickly adds, sensing Karen’s sharp look. “He’s just… he’s hanging around the AVTF base and some of the outposts. Seems like he’s doing surveillance.” Matt shrugs. “Guess I thought maybe you’d asked him to, since he didn’t seem so keen on it when I brought it up.”

Karen frowns.

“I haven’t asked him to do that, no,” she says slowly. “He was pretty unambiguous on what we could expect from him.”

“I thought maybe if you’d spoken to him privately… he might have, uh… changed his mind.”

Karen runs her hand through her hair, sighing. She takes a bracing sip of whisky.

“What are you really asking me, Matt?” Karen asks, looking up at him. Matt doesn’t answer immediately, taking a sip from his own glass and considering it, running his fingers over the smooth surfaces as he delicately chooses his next words. 

“What’s going on with you and Frank?” he finally asks bluntly.

Screw delicacy. 

Even though Karen must have known the question was coming, a burst of anxious adrenaline shoots through her body, leaving her heart beating faster and her stomach fluttering. 

“Nothing,” she says, trying to keep her voice calm, but it has a bitter tang. “Nothing’s going on.”

It’s not quite a lie, but it’s also not quite the truth.

“It didn’t seem like nothing,” Matt notes, leaving the observation open for her to reply.  Karen fidgets, before remembering that her every move is like a signal flare to Matt, and she stills.

“Last time I saw him, before, we…” she pauses, pressing her lips together in agitation. “... had a disagreement.” She shrugs and runs a hand through her hair, heart beating fast. “Hadn’t spoken to him since.”

“Must have been some disagreement,” Matt comments neutrally. Karen huffs and nods.

“Yeah. You could say that.” He can read her emotional state clearly, can hear the muscles in her throat tighten and the way she struggles to swallow around her expanded airway. Knows that this means she’s feeling a lump in her throat and is trying not to cry.

Matt stays silent, waiting for Karen to compose herself. She manages to swallow a gulp of whisky, coughing slightly as it burns her, but it seems to help because he can detect that her breathing comes more easily after that.

“Karen,” Matt finally sighs.  “Look, can we stop dancing around this?”

“Dancing around what?” Karen asks, “I’m telling you the truth.”

“Around the fact that I know there’s something between you two! I heard your heartbeats, okay? I know. I know .” 

“Okay, well if you already know, why are we even having this conversation?” Karen retorts, defensive, her voice rising. “I don’t know what you want me to say here, Matt!”

“Okay, well, how about you start by explaining how you fell in love with a mass murderer!” Matt explodes, losing the grip he has on his temper. “Christ, Karen, what is wrong with you?!”

Her reaction is instantaneous.

“Nothing is wrong with me, Matt,” she snaps back immediately. “And don’t call him that!” 

“Well, he’s murdered a massive number of people! It seems like an appropriate label,” Matt snarls.  “What, you want something more sensitive?  ‘Freelance executioner,’ maybe? ‘Human offboarding consultant?’ ‘Life termination associate?’” He’s almost shouting at her, now.  “Whatever you call him, it doesn’t change the fact that he kills people!”

“Yeah, he does,” Karen barks back, standing up to stare Matt right in the face. “Murderers, and rapists, and human traffickers! I don’t agree with what he does, but I’m not going to waste my sympathy on people who are actively working to make the world a more horrible place!”

“It doesn’t matter who they are, Karen, it matters that he’s the type of man who’d choose to do that!  He has no right to decide who lives and who dies, but he– he goes out, every night, playing judge, jury and executioner– playing God– and it’s completely and utterly wrong. He has no right!” Matt is shouting now, his pulse and Karen’s hammering in his ears.

“Yeah? So why aren’t you going after him?” Karen challenges. “If he’s so morally repugnant.  He’s been in the city for years and you’ve done nothing to try and stop him. Why hasn’t the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen put him in prison? I’ll tell you why, Matt. Because he’s saved your life. He’s saved mine, and hundreds of other people’s lives. Without Frank, we’d both be dead.  You may not agree with what he does, but you know it’s necessary.”

She’s breathing hard, the heat of blood radiating from her cheeks. 

“And you know what else? I don’t think you’re angry at me at all. You’re angry at yourself, because now you’ve got a taste of what it’s like to be Frank. When you tried to kill Poindexter, you chose vengeance instead of justice. And you hate yourself for it.”

The room goes silent. 

They both stand, on opposite sides of the bar, glaring at one another, cheeks flushed, breath coming hard.  

Matt backs down first. He puts his hands on the bar and leans down, bowing his head, trying to take deep breaths to calm himself down. Karen lets out one last sharp exhale and turns away, running one hand through her hair and putting the other one over her mouth, like she’s trying to take back some of the words she’s spit at him in anger.

“Goddamnit, Karen," Matt whispers finally, his voice wrecked. "You’re right."

“Matt–”

“No, Karen, you’re… you’re right. Not about everything–” he cracks a tiny, crooked smirk, and Karen huffs a miniscule laugh, “but… I was on that roof, and… when I heard his heart stop–” Matt breaks off into a sob.  “I didn’t care.  We were on the edge of the building, and Poindexter laughed … I knew it was wrong and I tried to kill him anyway. God help me, I wanted him dead. I wanted revenge.” 

Karen has crossed her arms over her chest, holding herself, watching her best friend wrestle with his actions, and her heart breaks for him. She approaches the bar and puts her hands on his.

“Matt, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No. No, it’s the truth. I just…” he closes his eyes and takes a shaky breath around the tears in his throat. “Frank said it to me, once. He said that I was just one bad day away from being him.” Matt laughs bitterly. “He was right.”

Karen shakes her head. 

“No, Matt, he wasn’t.” When Matt tries to pull his hands away, she grips them tighter. “He wasn’t . Because when you found out Poindexter didn’t die, you let the courts give him the punishment he deserved. You made a mistake, but you fixed it. You didn’t kill him. You’re not a murderer, Matt. You’re not .”

“But I tried, Karen,” Matt whispers, the tears coming hot and fast before he can stop them. “I knew it was wrong. Vengeance belongs only to God. But in that moment, I just didn’t care. I made the decision to do evil. It doesn’t matter that Poindexter survived. I meant for him to die. And in my soul, in the eyes of God– that makes me a murderer.” He sobs it out, brokenly— the confession that he’s been holding back for over a year. Finally giving words to his grief and his guilt.

“Matt,” Karen says quietly, “I’m not Catholic. I’m not a priest. But what I know is that when he lived, when he sucked in that breath on the concrete, you stopped . You let the ambulance take Poindexter away. You let him get medical attention. And you let him go to trial, and be sentenced by a judge, and sit in prison. You could have killed him easily at any point. But you didn’t. One moment of weakness… it’s not the same as what Frank does.”

Matt takes in a shuddering breath. 

“And what’s more,” Karen continues, “I know you wish you could take it back. And if I know, I’m sure God does too.”

Matt lets out a strangled noise.

“I just… I miss him so much,” he sobs haltingly.

“I know, Matt,” Karen grips Matt’s hands tightly. “I miss him too.” Her eyes are full of tears, but she doesn’t let go of Matt’s hands, and they fall unchecked down her face. “Foggy was the best of us. And it’s not fair, but it’s also not your fault.”

Matt’s hands are clenched into fists on the bar top, Karen’s smooth ones wrapped around them. He slowly relaxes, and turns them upwards, fingers clasping around Karen’s slender palms. She squeezes reassuringly. 

“I don’t know what it’ll take for you to forgive yourself, Matt,” she says softly. “But you are deserving of forgiveness. You are . And I know Foggy wouldn’t want you to hate yourself for what happened to him.”

Matt nods, trying to believe her, his face sticky from the dried salt of his tears. Karen extricates her hands from his, and rounds the bar, grabbing a clean rag and running it under cold water in the sink.  She approaches Matt and raises a hand to his glasses before pausing, waiting for him to give her permission. He nods, and she softly removes the dark lenses, gently beginning to wipe the salt from his face, with a tenderness that threatens to make him cry all over again.

“I’m sorry I shut you out, Karen,” Matt says quietly. Karen nods.

“I know you are.”

She continues to wipe his face clean, and then gently indicates that he should close his eyes with her fingertips. He complies, and she presses the cool rag against his puffy lids, soothing the red and inflamed skin.

“I’m sorry I left.” Knowing Matt’s eyes are covered, even though he can’t see her, seems to give Karen the strength to say it.

Matt reaches up to place his hand on her shoulder, putting just enough pressure to comfort.

“I know.”

Karen takes Matt’s hand and places it on the rag over his eyes, gently indicating that he should hold it there. She lets go and pours them both another tumbler of whisky and leans back against the bar, sliding down until she’s sitting on the floor, legs bent at the knees. Matt hesitates for a moment, and then slides down to sit beside her.

They sit in the silence for a moment, both of them coming down from the unexpected emotional rollercoaster. Matt can hear Karen’s pulse beginning to slow, her muscles relaxing, as they both process their fight.  

He feels better, now that it’s out in the open.

“So,” he clears his throat, “I can’t help but notice we’ve gotten a bit sidetracked.”

Karen laughs incredulously.

“You still want to talk about… that?” she asks, looking at him like he’s crazy. 

“I just want to understand,” Matt replies, earnest now. “Karen, I’ve known you for a long time now, and it was… I’ve never felt your body react more strongly to anything than it did when you saw Frank that night.”

“That’s not fair, Matt,” Karen frowns. 

“I know it’s not fair. But I can’t… I can’t just turn it off. I couldn’t help but notice. And now I know, I can’t just un-know. You’ve always kept secrets from me — and I’ve kept them from you,” he hastily adds, as he senses Karen’s face twitch into an expression that can only be described as ‘that’s a bit rich coming from you’. 

“But I want there to be no more secrets between us,” Matt continues.  “You don’t owe me an explanation. But this feels… important.” He stops, and waits.

Karen is quiet.

“I get that, Matt, I do,” she finally says softly. “I don’t want there to be any secrets between us either. But I don’t know how to explain it. There’s… I don’t know of a word that fits.”

“You’re in love with him.” Matt states this gently, keeping any judgement from his tone. Letting her sit with it for a moment.  He feels her heart speed up again, smells the cortisol–stress– coming from her pores, along with the bitter tang of adrenaline.

Karen takes a deep breath and sips her whisky.

“Yeah,” she whispers. It’s the first time she’s ever admitted it out loud. 

“How long?” 

Karen sighs.

“I don’t know. A long time.”

“The trial?”

She shakes her head. 

“No. I was sort of seeing someone else at the time.” She gives Matt a little side eye. 

Matt winces. They’d hashed that out before, but remembering how he’d handled his double life would always be a bit of a sore spot between them.

“I just wanted justice for his family. And I wanted to expose the conspiracy. If anything, it was selfish. I saw myself in him— someone who’d been set up by the system and had to murder because of it.” She sighs. “And I knew what it was like to lose everything like that, in the blink of an eye. How your world goes from being one thing and then overnight it’s just… completely different. Like gravity has turned upside down. And to have that moment haunt you.”  

“Frank would only talk to you,” Matt remembers.

“Yeah, well. He liked that I called him on his bullshit. Respected me. I think it helped that I wasn’t actually a lawyer,” she teases. Matt chuckles.

“Well, he wasn’t exactly chomping at the bit to talk to anyone else.” Matt takes a sip, grimacing again at the taste. He can feel the whisky beginning to do its work, his muscles slowly relaxing, and knows Karen is feeling it too.

“So, not the trial, then. After he escaped?”

Karen bites her lip.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“The night on the docks, when that ship blew up… I was there. I heard you arrive with Brett.” Karen frowns, remembering. “I heard your heart when the ship exploded. And later, when I was fighting the Hand, and he came to help… I know you saw him. I heard you say his name.” Matt’s voice is soft, as gentle as she’s ever heard it. “I misunderstood, then. But it makes sense now.”

Karen closes her eyes. 

“I didn’t know,” she says quietly.  He can’t tell what she’s referring to— That Matt was there, or that she had already fallen.

“Can you tell me what happened while I was gone?” Matt asks softly, putting his hand on hers. Karen takes a deep breath.

She tells him about the homeless man who wasn’t a homeless man, about a beer in her apartment and a request for help. She tells him about a CIA analyst who’d been killed, shot while resisting arrest for a charge of treason, whose body was never recovered from the water. She tells him about flowers in the window, about a rough voice pleading for her help.

She tells him about tears by the river, a kiss on the cheek, so hesitant and soft that it might not have happened at all.  How it shook her to her core with a realization she wasn’t ready for but felt like pieces falling into place. 

Matt listens as she tells him about explosions, gunfire, tear gas, smoke bombs, about looking down the barrel of a gun and thinking she was about to die. About a body appearing in front of her, taking the bullets with her name on them.  About another man’s arm violently gripping her, locking her against certain death. How he’d made her a promise, and he’d kept it, and how he’d silently told her how to save herself. How after the explosion, she’d found herself lying on the floor of an industrial kitchen, covered in debris, dazed and not knowing which way was up, but how the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was his face.  How his gaze bored into her as though willing her to be unhurt, fingers gently combing through her hair to cradle her head in his hand.

Matt frowns when she tells him about a gun pressed to her chin, shielding her savior in turn, using her body to protect him the way he’d protected her. About a moment of peace, of shared breath, of something unspoken not because of fear but because it didn’t need to be said at all.

He frowns harder when she tells him about a hospital, about three dead women, and a girl, and a frame job. About how she’d offered another way, a way they could be together, and how he’d pushed her away so hard they’d never spoken again. 

It’s quite the eye-opener. 

Figuratively speaking.

“Jesus, Karen,” Matt breathes when she finishes. Karen laughs, her voice a bit looser now with the whisky she’s been sipping to wet her throat as she speaks. 

“I know,” she says. “What a shitshow, right.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s not what I was talking about.” Matt shakes his head. “You never told me it was so bad.”

Karen shrugs.

“It just seemed easier. Not to talk about it. Probably not the advice a therapist would go with, but I kept having nightmares about Lewis and I wanted to just forget it.” She pauses to put her hand over her mouth, but then drops it down as though she’s made a decision.

“And I didn’t want you to know about Frank,” she admits. “You’d just come back… and we were rebuilding, you know, and I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that.”

Matt frowns but nods. It’s fair. If he’d found out about her feelings for Frank Castle back then, well, he probably wouldn’t have taken it well. Not that he’s taken it particularly well now, he thinks dryly, but at least they’re having a conversation. 

“And… what he does… it doesn’t bother you?” he hedges, not wanting to get into an argument. But he has to know.

Karen’s forehead wrinkles.

“Of course it bothers me, Matt,” she snaps. Then, in a softer tone:  “But… It’s complicated. It’s never changed the way I feel about him. I knew what he was right from the beginning, and I… it happened anyway.” She shrugs, looking away. 

Something occurs to Matt about the timeline of her story, and he asks the question, trying to give Karen a bit of a reprieve.

“Where was he when Poindexter attacked you as  Daredevil?” Matt wants to know. “Seems like that would have been something he’d want to get involved with. Kicking my ass and saving you.” He tries out a gently teasing tone and is rewarded with a wry smile.

“He was out of town,” Karen replies, almost wistfully. “He got a clean slate from Homeland after he accidentally did them a favor. Tried to hang up the vest, retire. It, uh, it didn’t stick.” 

Matt snorts. Understatement of the century.

“So, what now?” He asks her, taking her hand. Karen looks at him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what happens now? With Frank?”

Karen frowns. “Nothing happens. He’s made his decision. And I’m not going to go chasing after him.” She shrugs. “It is what it is. I’ll move on.” Matt can’t help but notice she doesn’t seem entirely convinced on this last point.

“Karen,” Matt starts, and he feels her begin to pull away, so he grips her hand harder. “Karen, wait. C’mon. You have to know that he… that your feelings aren’t one-sided.” 

“It doesn’t matter, Matt.” Karen succeeds in disentangling their hands and wraps her arms around herself. “He won’t… he can’t give up his war.  And I can’t–” she stops, her voice wavering. Takes a few deep breaths and tries again. “I can’t watch him disappear into the Punisher. I don’t even know how much of Frank is left.” She closes her eyes and leans her head back, resting it on the bar behind her. 

“But–”

“Just drop it, Matt.” Karen begins to get up. “I’m done talking about this.”

Matt gets to his feet, following her lead. He really wants to talk about this some more, but he can feel Karen’s distress, the pain that the subject is causing her, so he makes a conscious effort to pull himself back.

“Okay. Okay, I’ll stop. I just… I want you to be happy, Karen.” Matt can’t resist getting a last word in, and Karen rolls her eyes.

“How about we focus on taking down Fisk and then worry about my love live,” she quips sarcastically, going back to her laptop and settling onto the barstool. “I’ve got some more digging to do here. If you want me to be happy, how about getting me a grilled cheese and a Diet Coke from the bodgea?”

Matt laughs. “Anything for you, Miss Page.”

“Damn right,” Karen grins back. 

Matt puts his glasses back on and grabs his cane, leaving Josie’s through the service entrance at the back. Making his way to the nearby bodega, he ruminates on the conundrum of Karen and Frank. Two people who were each trying to save the world in their own way, attempting to atone for one moment they could never get back.  He understands a little more, now, even if he still balks at the idea of Karen’s love for a man who has chosen to viciously hunt New York’s criminal population rather than deal with his grief like a normal person.

But he guesses he can’t really talk about dealing with grief in a healthy way.

Matt remembers Elektra, remembers the fierce and burning way he loved her. Thinks about how even though they disagreed, even though she’d slit a man’s throat in front of him, it hadn’t changed the way he felt about her– not at the core, anyway. He’d been disgusted with her actions, but he’d never stopped loving the woman underneath.

Well, love the sinner, hate the sin, right?

Father Lantom always said that love was the key to redemption. If Frank allowed himself to love Karen, really love her, would it help to heal his grief? Help him to grow around it, so it didn’t consume him?  Would loving Karen allow Frank to let go of the Punisher?

Matt consider this. Considers how miserable Karen had felt when she spoke of how Frank had pushed her away, the distress coming from every cell in her body. How it had been almost a decade since she’d last seen the man, and yet her heart still sped up for him. How the chemicals in her body reacted to even speaking his name.  

Matt thinks of all the people he’s lost and a hand squeezes around his heart.  Would it be better if he had pushed them all away, not letting any of them close, in order to save them? Would he sacrifice knowing them, to spare himself the pain that had blossomed by their loss?

He’d tried that, and it hadn’t worked. He needed them. They were part of him. They kept him grounded, kept him sane (well, as sane as anyone who dresses up in a suit and jumps around rooftops as a freelance crime fighter can be). And Foggy, and Karen, and Father Lantom– they’d known what he was, and they’d chosen to stay anyway. They knew the risks, knew the dangers, and it hadn’t mattered, they’d stayed by his side.

They thought he was worth it. They thought his fight was worth it.  And even if he didn’t feel like he deserved them, deserved their friendship or their faith, well, wasn’t it ultimately their choice?

Matt chews on all of these thoughts as he enters the bodega and orders a grilled cheese (American cheese, white bread) for Karen and a BLT for himself. 

By the time Joey behind the counter has bagged up the sandwiches and sodas, Matt has decided on something.

He has to talk to Frank.

Chapter Text

“Evening, Frank.”

“Red.”

Frank leans against a rooftop parapet, looking through a set of binoculars he’s balanced on the brick. They’re aimed at a bustling AVTF warehouse a few streets away, workers and task force officers scuttling around in the harsh glare of police issue fog lights.

“You here to help me out?” Matt asks, indicating the warehouse opposite with a nod. Frank snorts.

“Nah. We talked about this. Your Boy Scout shit ain’t for me.”

“Then why are you here?”

Frank shifts. 

“Coincidence.  Sometimes your bad guys are gonna be my bad guys too. Don’t think so hard, Red, you might hurt yourself.”

He’s lying. Or at least obfuscating the truth.

“Did Karen ask you to come?” Matt queries, knowing she hasn’t. But he wants to test something out.

The beat of Frank’s heart gets louder, faster. Matt licks his lips, tastes the adrenaline and testosterone. He cracks a tiny smile and counts this as a win.

“Why would she?” Frank asks aggressively, clearly trying to put Matt on the back foot. “Shit, your girlfriend that worried about you? Think you can’t handle yourself?”

Matt cocks his head to the side, listening, staying calm, even in the face of Frank being a loud jackass at him.

“Karen worries about both of us,” Matt says, noncommittal. Frank snorts.

“Bet that burns you, huh, Red?” Frank goads.  “Worries about you so much, she’ll call someone like me for help?” 

It’s… almost the truth. But Matt didn’t come here to let Frank rile him up.

“Well, don’t you fret,” Frank continues, “I’m here all on my own initiative. Nobody wants me here but me.”

There’s a pause as Matt considers the other man. 

“Karen and I aren’t dating,” Matt offers, and listens to the corresponding increase in Frank’s heart rate. His respiration rate picks up too, breath coming a little faster, a little more shallow.

Frank licks his lips, anxiety drying them out.

“Ah, whatever, Red. None of my business what you two get up to in your spare time,” he growls. But his hands tremble slightly, the noise of the binoculars against the brick giving him away.

Matt leaps up to crouch on the wall, about five feet away from Frank, facing out towards the warehouse they both “coincidentally” have under surveillance.  He hears the muscles in Frank’s skull move as the he rolls his eyes at Matt’s acrobatics. Good– Matt wants Frank annoyed. 

The two men sit in silence, focused on the warehouse, Frank watching, Matt listening. 

“You know,” Matt says conversationally, “I can tell when you’re lying, Frank.”

“That right?” Frank doesn’t look up from his binoculars.

“Yup,” Matt confirms. “I can hear heartbeats. Human lie detector, over here.”

“Good for you,” Frank deadpans. He’s not taking the bait. 

“I can also smell chemical changes in a person’s body. You know, adrenaline, cortisol, things like that.”

“So can most dogs,” Frank observes, unimpressed. Matt chuckles.

“Heartbeats can tell a lot about a person’s emotional state,” Matt continues. “Like, for instance, if they’re annoyed. Angry. Happy. Sad.” He pauses. “How they feel about someone else.” 

“Are you going somewhere with all this, Red?” Frank snaps, agitated. 

Matt pauses before replying.

“How long have you been in love with Karen, Frank?” Matt asks conversationally.

The reaction is instantaneous. Frank looks momentarily stunned, eyes flickering like a cornered animal searching for a way out. He tries to snort derisively, but his heart isn’t in it and the noise comes out more like a shocked huff. His pulse starts rocketing, the vein in his neck giving him away. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, and then closes it again. 

“You’re outta your skull, Red,” Frank finally mutters.

“I couldn’t figure it out, at first,” Matt says, ignoring Frank’s comment.  “When you saw her the other night… Your heart was beating so fast— I thought it must be leftover adrenaline from the fight.” Matt chuckles wryly. “Or that you were having a heart attack.”

Frank still doesn’t answer, but his trigger finger is starting to twitch against the hard plastic of his binoculars. 

“Do you know what the chemical compounds for love are, Frank?” Matt continues. “Oxytocin. Dopamine. Serotonin. When they’re released in the body, they cause the euphoria that we associate with love. Wanna know what I could smell on you that night?” 

Frank swallows. Matt can hear how dry his mouth has become.

“Fuck you, Red,” he croaks. “That all sounds like a bunch of bullshit.”

Matt smiles. “Yeah, it sounds pretty crazy, huh.”

“Who ‘smells love?’” Frank demands, almost laughing, incredulous. “You’re so full of it.”

“Am I?” Matt asks. “You wanna know what I sensed from her, when she was looking at you?”

Frank stops, clearly conflicted, his heart still agitated. Decides to be an asshole.

“How can you even tell where she was lookin’? You’re blind,” he asks dismissively. “Maybe she was lookin’ at you.”

Matt cracks a rueful smile.

“Nah.  Karen’s heart doesn’t beat like that for me,” he admits. “It hasn’t for a long time.”

“That why you’re here, giving me shit?” Frank snaps. “You mad your girl got over you? Tough titties, Murdock. Ain’t my problem.” 

“Actually, Frank, it is your problem,” Matt says snippily, despite his best efforts to stay cool. Frank always did have a way of winding him up.

“Yeah? And why is that?” Frank demands through clenched teeth, his mood darkening. “You think you know something about me? You’re wrong. I ain’t capable of that shit. Not anymore. That part of me, that all died with Maria and Lisa and Frankie Jr.” Frank indicates the warehouse across from them with a nod of his head, a hand reaching out to pat the rifle leaning against the wall. “This is all I am, now. None of my business if you don’t believe me.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you, Frank,” Matt shoots back. “It’s that you don’t believe you.” Frank opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but Matt doesn’t give him a chance.

“I don’t know if you’re lying to me or to yourself, but you’re definitely lying to Karen.” Frank’s mouth snaps shut. “You are capable of it. I can tell. Bodies don’t lie.” Frank’s face twitches like he’s smelled something bad. 

“This doesn’t have to be all you are, Frank.”

“That what this is about?” Frank sneers. “Still trying to get me right with the Lord, huh, Murdock? New tactic this time, think that if you play matchmaker you’ll save my soul?” There’s a harsh bitterness in Frank’s voice, coming from somewhere deep inside. He mercilessly continues:

“You think, what, the love of a good woman will redeem me? Think I’ll go shack up with Saint Karen, and she’ll straighten me out?” 

Frank’s standing now, facing Matt, his voice getting louder and more sarcastic, more aggressive. His heart is pounding, adrenaline and testosterone coursing through him in waves, as he begins to lose his temper.

“In this little fantasy of yours, you imagine that… that we’ll go live in the ‘burbs, get a house, white picket fence, get a fucking dog, go to church on Sundays? This ain’t that kinda story, Red. Christ, you think that, you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”

“Sounds like that’s your fantasy, Frank, not mine,” Matt goads.  Frank snarls, agitated, the testosterone coming off of him in waves.  Matt can smell it, can taste it, thick in the air, coating the back of his throat.

“I don’t sit around imagining playing house with your ex,” Frank spits out, but he immediately freezes after he says it. It’s in that moment that Frank realizes he’s made a mistake– remembers what Matt has said about being a human lie detector.

Matt smiles, triumphant.

“You’re lying,” he almost crows, trying to keep the glee out of his voice.

“Shut it,” Frank snaps.  Matt’s smile gets wider. Got him.

“How often do you think about it? You and Karen?” Matt asks, tone just a tad too smug. He can hear Frank’s heart rate increase, and his breathing begins to speed up.  Come on…

“I said shut up, Murdock,” Frank growls. Matt hears the bones and joints in Frank’s fingers creak as the other man clenches his hands into fists. 

“What do you think about?” Matt goads, his voice taunting, purposely antagonistic. “You think about the little house you wanna share? Painting that little white picket fence together?” Frank’s muscles are tensing, and Matt can feel the way his weight shifts, settling solidly on the floor, and Matt knows he’s almost got what he wants.

“You think about waking up next to her in the morning? Bringing her coffee? Protecting Saint Karen from the big bad world?” 

“Get fucked ,” Frank spits out, and Matt just smiles wider.

“You think about marrying her?”

That’s what does it.

Frank roars and swings at him, but Matt’s ready— he backflips off the ledge and out of Frank’s reach. The Punisher launches himself forward and sweeps his leg out in a low kick, aiming for the side of Matt’s knee, but Matt dodges and retaliates with an open-handed smack to the side of Frank’s head. 

Frank moves fast— Matt’s forgotten how quickly the other man can move— and clocks Matt right in the jaw. 

Matt staggers backwards, tasting blood where one of his teeth has cut the inside of his mouth, and retaliates with a taunt. 

“The only idiot here is you, Frank,” Matt grins, feral, blood painting his teeth red, “if you think Karen’s gonna save you.”

Frank growls again, rage fueling him, and the two men begin to exchange blows in earnest  — Matt dodging and blocking, Frank taking the hits and coming back unfazed, angrier and more determined.

“And if you think Karen’s a saint,” Matt pants, “then you really don’t know her at all.” 

“Stop talking about her!” Frank roars, and surges forward, using his forearm to slam Matt backwards into the brick wall of an adjoining building. Matt wastes no time and headbutts Frank in the face, controlling the blow to make sure he doesn’t break the other man’s nose, but even so blood starts to pour. Matt pops two blows in quick succession to Frank’s ribs, driving the other man back, allowing Matt to break free of the arm pinning him.

“Why does it bother you so much?” Matt taunts, aiming a kick at Frank’s unprotected side. His leg is suddenly caught in one of Frank’s hands and he’s thrown roughly away, but Matt regains his balance quickly and they’re soon trading blows again. 

“If you’re not capable of love, then why does your heart beat faster when I talk about her?” Matt pants, and Frank snarls and comes at him harder.  “Karen deserves the truth, Frank.” 

“Stop saying her name,” Frank shouts, wiping blood from his face with his sleeve.  His emotions are going haywire, the chemicals in his bloodstream each screaming for dominance. Matt can smell the saltiness of unshed tears–Frank’s eyes are wet with them.

“You don’t like it when I talk about her?” Matt dodges a punch and sweeps his own leg out, trying to knock Frank down, but the other man just kicks Matt’s leg away.

“I’ll stop saying Karen’s name,” Matt uses the other leg and lands a foot in the center of Frank’s chest, “if you can say you’re not in love with her.” Frank goes reeling backwards from the force of the kick, but manages to catch Matt’s arm as he tries to follow it up with a punch. 

“Say it, Frank!” Matt taunts, as Frank tries to pull him in to grapple. He twists his arm and escapes Frank’s hold, then steps back, arms up in a fighting stance, circling. 

“Come on, say it! Say ‘I'm not in love with Karen.’ Convince me!” Frank wipes more of the blood off his face and puts his hands up, stepping closer to Matt and swinging a haymaker. Matt dodges it, light on his feet.

“You can’t, can you?” Matt tries for a jab, but it’s blocked. “You can’t say it because I’ll know it's a lie.” He tries for another jab, blocked again, but follows it with an uppercut which almost connects. Frank pulls backwards at the last second. 

“You’re a coward, Frank,” Matt needles. “What, you’ll go up against the Kingpin, but can’t face yourself?” Frank snarls and launches himself at Matt, managing to grab him around the waist, but Matt gets his arms up and rains blows down on Frank’s head. 

“There’s nothing to face!” Frank roars. “I told you! I told you. I’m a dead man. That part of me, that’s dead and buried, you hear me?” Stubborn asshole. Matt’s going to have to try another tactic.

“Yeah, you’re dead, huh?” Matt knees Frank in the chest, and Frank’s arms reflexively let go of Matt’s waist. “So it wouldn’t bother you if something happened to Karen? If Bullseye shot her? Or if Fisk strangled her to death?”

If Matt thought he’d understood the depth of Frank’s feelings for Karen, he’s suddenly disabused of that notion. 

Frank’s heartbeat is a staccato rhythm, the beats so loud that Matt can barely focus on anything else.  The muscles in his chest have gone tense— Matt can hear them pulling taut against the bones of his ribcage, can hear his lungs struggling to expand and pull air through his tightened airway. The standard chemicals associated with mental distress— cortisol, adrenaline— were already present, but the smells become more insistent.

What really knocks Matt for six, though, is that he can smell the sudden sharp scent of Frank’s endocrine system releasing hormones associated with physical pain.

The thought of Karen dying causes Frank so much pain that his body thinks he’s been injured.

Matt licks his lips and presses his advantage, driving his points home, punctuating each sentence with a blow aimed at Frank. The other man, dazed with rage and pain, barely manages to block them.

“Tell me you’re so dead, you wouldn’t feel it if she died!” Matt hisses at Frank.  “That you wouldn’t care if she bled out on the sidewalk! Come on, Frank! Tell me you don’t love her.”

Both men are tiring, their heightened emotions draining their physical strength. They’re both taking longer to recover from hits, and their blows land with less force.

“Say it, Frank!”

Frank snarls and brutally shoves Matt away from him, but Matt straightens himself out and lands on his feet, coming straight back at Frank with his fists flying.

“Say it!”

“I don’t love her!” Frank roars, his voice wild, and his fist connects with Matt’s face, hard. “You hear me? I don’t love her! I can’t love her! Everyone I love is dead!”  Matt’s thrown off balance and staggers back, and Frank is immediately on him. Blow after blow, faster than he can dodge, slam into Matt’s face. He stumbles backwards, momentarily dazed, as Frank’s fists relentlessly pummel him, rage giving him a last burst of strength.

Matt finally throws himself backwards, managing to turn it into a backwards roll, coming up on his feet. He steps backwards hurriedly, putting distance between them.

“You’re lying, Frank,” Matt grins, through bloodied teeth. 

“Chrissake, Murdock, of course I’m fuckin’ lying!” Frank bellows, and rushes him. Matt jumps and snaps his feet up, dropkicking Frank right in the center of his chest, knockin the bigger man to the ground. Matt, now horizontal in the air, falls onto his back. The fight has taken its toll on him, and usually Matt would be able to fall with more grace, but he doesn’t quite manage it and he gets some of the wind knocked out of him. 

With both of them on the ground, and the weight of Frank’s admission hanging in the air, the fight seems to go out of both men. They both stay down, panting and groaning as previously ignored hurts begin to make themselves known.

It’s a few minutes of dazed silence before Matt gingerly gets to his feet. He limps over to Frank, who is lying flat on his back, chest still heaving. Matt offers the other man his hand. After a moment, Frank takes it, and Matt hauls him to a standing position.

There’s a wordless pause between the two men as they both regroup. Frank staggers over to his sniper’s nest and pours himself a thermos cap of black coffee, using it to rinse the blood out of his mouth. He wordlessly offers Matt a rag, which Matt accepts graciously and uses it to wipe some of the blood off his face.

The silence is getting long. Matt’s plan had pretty much consisted of one step— annoy Frank into admitting he was in love with Karen. Now he’s done that (it was easier than he thought it would be) and he has to think of what comes next.

“Never thought she was a saint,” Frank finally grunts.  He gives Matt a sideways glance. “Always kinda thought you did, though.”

Matt chuckles, then winces in pain as the movement causes his jaw to ache.

“Yeah. But that was a long time ago.” He shrugs. “She’s just… Karen. And whatever she is, she’s in the shit right with us.” 

“Well, that’s on you, Red,” Frank grouses. “I tried to keep her outta all this.”

Matt laughs– a full, loud belly laugh– and Frank turns his head to look at him.

“Jesus Christ,” Matt wheezes, “you have no idea, do you? You know how… how Foggy and I first met Karen?” Matt stumbles over Foggy’s name, but manages to get it out.

Frank grunts out something that could, conceivably, be a “nah”.

“Well. You’ll have to ask her to tell you the whole story, but Karen was actually our first client. We found her in lockup after she’d been arrested and framed for murder.”  Frank looks up at Matt sharply— Matt can feel the other man’s eyes burning into him, trying to determine if Matt is serious. 

“My point is, if there’s one thing that’s true about Karen Page, it’s that she’s gonna find her way into the shit.” Matt chuckles fondly to himself.

“She’s been doing it since way before you came along and she did it after you left. Karen’s not a ‘house in the suburbs’ type girl. She’s gonna keep fighting. It’s just who she is.”

“Stubborn ass woman,” Frank mutters, and Matt smiles.

“Well, you got that right.” 

Frank grunts and cracks a small, fond little grin. But it disappears almost as soon as it arrived.

“What are you even doin’ here, Red?” Frank demands.  “You can’t be tryin’ to… encourage anythin’. Hell, I’d have put any amount of money on you threatening me to stay away from her.”

“I’m still considering it,” Matt says wryly. “But I’m trying to do this thing where I let my friends make their own decisions, instead of trying to dictate what’s best for them.” It’s only a little bit hyprocritial, he thinks to himself.

Frank snorts.

“So let me get this straight– lettin’ her make her own decisions has you coming here, talkin’ to me about her personal shit?” Frank retorts. Matt winces. 

“Yeah, well. Maybe I’m trying to convince the other people in her life to do the same.”

“Christ, Murdock,” Frank says, exasperated. “You’re fuckin’ something else. Tryin’ to make this about Karen’s decisions?” 

Frank’s voice starts to rise, and soon he’s standing, shouting right in Matt’s face. Matt lets him.

“Anyone I get close to, they die . My family died– they were murdered – because I was by their side. My friends all get beaten to shit, or killed, or worse. And you’re tellin’ me that you, what, you want me to let Karen—” Frank stops, chest heaving, like he can’t even go on, can’t even entertain the rest of the sentence. Like the idea hurts him too much. 

“All I’m saying, Frank, is that when… people like us… find someone – someone who knows who we are, what we are, and they still care– then you hold on to them with both hands. Even if it scares you. Especially if it scares you.”

Frank looks like he’s been slapped.

“I’ve lost people too, Frank,” Matt continues, his voice controlled but tense with anger. “And I’d give anything to have them back. Anything– except the time I had with them. Because they made the decision to stay. Not me. They thought I was worth the risk. That us being together was worth it.” Matt takes a deep breath. “Maybe I have to trust them.”

Frank’s chest is heaving, his hands flexing uselessly against his sides.

“My family–” he says, brokenly, but breaks off, his voice closing into a wracked sob.

“What happened to your family was a tragedy, Frank,” Matt says firmly. “It was awful. There are no words for it.

“But this–” Matt gestures to the rifle balanced against the rooftop parapet– “This isn’t about them anymore.  This is pain relief.” Frank frowns and opens his mouth, and Matt interrupts him. “You said it yourself, down in your basement. It’s the only thing that makes your little boy stop shouting at you.” Frank looks down, face flickering between rage and grief. Matt presses on.  “I didn’t know your family, Frank. I wish I had.  But I can’t imagine that endless grief is what they’d want for you.”

“It doesn’t matter what they’d want,” Frank snarls, advancing on Matt again, using his bulk to crowd the other man, jabbing a finger into Matt’s chest.  “They’re dead. They don’t want anything, anymore.” 

“Of course it matters, Frank,” Matt insists, standing his ground. “Even if you don’t believe in an afterlife, even if you don’t believe in souls, or redemption. Of course it matters.  Just because they’re not here now, doesn’t mean they never were.  You knew them. You know how much they loved you. And you know what they’d want, even if they can’t say it anymore. Don’t pretend like that doesn’t matter.” 

Frank clenches his jaw, hands balled into fists, knuckles white with tension, raw emotions playing across his face in flashes.  Finally he lets out a wrecked sigh and scrubs a hand over his face, stubble scratching against his palm.  He sounds tired, bone weary, faded bruises on his cheekbones, new ones blooming. 

“I dunno what you want from me here, Murdock,” Frank finally says. He leans back against the rooftop parapet and slides down until his ass is on the floor, knees bent, hands clasped together like he’s praying.  Matt kneels down next to him.  “You’re here, hasslin’ me about my life— again— because you, what, want to hook me up with your ex?” Matt would have rolled his eyes if Frank could see them.  

“That’s the dumbest shit I’ve heard comin’ from you yet.” Frank shakes his head. “I don’t got nothin’ to offer her, Red. Just a fallout shelter and a world of pain. A life on the run, a life in the shadows. It’s no good.” Frank's voice softens. “She deserves better than that.” So quietly, he's almost whispering: “She deserves better than me.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Matt says ironically, “but Karen is now also on the run. And I certainly agree she deserves better than you, but I’d also say she deserves to be the one to make that call.” 

Frank finally looks over at Matt, frowning.

“So, what— you sayin’ her life is already so in the shit, I can’t fuck it up any worse?”

Matt laughs at Frank’s offended tone.

“I’m saying Karen deserves a bit of happiness. Especially if she’s in the shit. And maybe you deserve some, too.” Matt lowers his head. “We all have to take our happiness where we can find it, now. And hold onto it as long as we can.”

Frank snorts and shakes his head.

“You’re not getting any younger, Frank. The way you’re going— this will kill you.  You’ve currently got two bruised ribs, there’s hardly any cartilage in your right knee, and I’d estimate you’re operating on less than three hours of sleep. Your liver is working overtime to process the painkillers you’re using to keep going, and that laceration on your thigh is getting infected.” Matt uses his abilities to their fullest extent, pinning Frank down with the truth.  

“I think you’ve stopped punishing. This is all about you just… trying to stay numb until somebody gets a lucky shot in. You think you’ll die in a blaze of glory, taking out the trash, and that’s why you’re pushing everyone away, so nobody will mourn for you when it inevitably happens. But I’m telling you right now— if you die, Karen will be the one to feel it. She’ll feel it hard .”

Frank’s face twitches, his heart racing at Matt’s words, anger and fear fighting within him. Matt smells the chemicals coming from his blood, hears his muscles tensing, his breath coming faster.

“The fuck happened to you, Red?” Frank snarls.  

Matt goes utterly, utterly still. When he finally speaks, his voice is so eerily calm that the hairs on Frank’s arms rise in alarm.

“What happened to me is that I heard my best friend bleed out on the sidewalk. I couldn’t be there for him. I couldn’t get to him in time.  And in the moment I heard his heart stop…” Matt takes a choked breath. Regroups. “I might not have thought so before. But now, I’d say anything that means happiness for the people I care about is worth pursuing. Despite the risk. Because tomorrow could be her last day, whether you’re with her or not.”

“Happiness is just a kick in the balls waiting to happen,” Frank grouses, face twitching. 

“So, what, you’re so scared of getting your balls kicked you’d rather cut them off?” Matt smirks. “I’m sure Fisk’s thugs will be happy to help with that if they catch you.”

Frank lets out a low, mirthless chuckle. He shakes his head.

“Look, Red… I already tried it. The happiness thing. The moving on thing.” Matt turns sharply at Frank’s words, senses focused on the other man’s body. “Met a woman out west somewhere. Spent some time with her and her little boy. And the second day I was around, she got shot.” Matt can feel Frank’s self-loathing and his shame, and he stays silent, waiting for Frank to continue.

“I almost left her little boy an orphan. All because I wanted to be happy .” He shakes his head. “There’s no happiness for me, alright? I don’t know how to do that shit anymore. Anyone close to me has got a big fuckin’ target on their back.” Frank’s heart begins to beat faster.  “I won’t do that to Karen.”

Matt considers Frank for a moment. It seems like Frank really believes it— that he’s jinxed, that anyone standing next to him might get hit with a stray bullet.

“I’m sorry about the woman,” Matt says, “but let me ask you something. Did she know who you were?”

Frank snorts. “‘Course not. We didn’t get that far.”

“Was she… a cop? Or a soldier?”

“Hardly,” Frank replies, impatient. “Bartender.”

“So… a woman you’d only known for two days, a civilian, who had no idea of the danger, and who wasn’t trained to deal with it, got hurt while with you. And you think that’s the same thing that will happen to Karen?”

“I know that’s what’ll happen to Karen,” Frank snaps angrily. Matt does a mental eye-roll.

“Sorry, I must have missed it when you got superpowers that could predict the future.” Matt’s getting a little fed up with Frank’s lone wolf routine, and his sarcasm is slipping through.  “Frank, Karen survived a cop trying to strangle her in her sleep when she was in lockup. She’s tough. And she knows the risks.” Matt’s voice softens. “Karen’s part of our world, Frank. She’s not a civilian.” 

Frank’s heart is beating quickly, agitated, but Matt can feel him thinking this through. Time to pull out his last argument.

Matt clears his throat. “If I’m being entirely honest, though, I do have some selfish motivations. For wanting her next to you.”

Frank makes an annoyed get to the point gesture.

“I’m… encouraging this, as you put it, because I need help protecting the people I care about. If something happens to Karen… I might not be able to get back up again.”

Frank’s looking at Matt like he’s looking into a mirror.

“Yeah,” he says finally. 

“Kingpin will be gunning for her, Frank.” Matt reaches out and grabs the other man’s forearm, gripping it hard to insist upon his point. “It’s personal, for him. I need you. She needs you.”

Frank frowns.

“What’s Wilson fuckin’ Fisk want with Karen?” He growls, facial muscles tensing into a frown. “Thought it was you who pissed in his Cheerios.”

Matt releases Frank’s arm.

“That’s… something for Karen to explain.” Matt stands up. “Suffice it to say that he’s got a personal vendetta against both of us. And the more people watching her back, the better I’ll feel.”

Frank is quiet, fingers twitching. Matt can almost hear him thinking, the way the muscles in his face contract and release. He finally sighs. 

“Fuck.” He scrubs a hand across his face. “What if… what if she doesn’t want me watchin’ her back, huh? You asked her what she wants?”

Matt shrugs. 

“Guess you’ll have to talk to her to find that out.”

“Jesus,” Frank groans. “Think I liked it better when you were preachin’ at me. Now I get, what, vigilante therapy and dating advice?”

Matt laughs. 

“Well, if there’s anything the New York vigilantes all have in common, it is the desperate need for a therapist.”

“Nah. Just need a good fight and to stop whining.”

“Kinda proving my point, Mr. Castle,” Matt grins, and Frank lets out a wry chuckle, despite himself.

“Whatever, Red.”

The two men sit in silence for a moment. Frank tilts his head up to rest against the brick behind him, staring into the night sky.

Matt stands, brushing off his knees.

“You know,” he says casually, “I’ll be doing some surveillance tomorrow night.  It should take a while. I probably won’t be back until morning.”

“You askin’ me on a date, Red? Didn’t think I was your type.” Matt ignores the needling sarcasm.

“Karen’s gonna be at Josie’s, holding down the fort. Everyone else leaves before curfew.” Matt gives the other man a bit of a shit-eating grin. “Just, you know. In case you were interested in that information at all.”

Frank groans and rubs a hand through his hair. Matt laughs.

“See you around, Frank,” Matt says, and jumps off the roof.

He hears Frank mutter “Show-off,” and laughs loudly, so the other man knows he heard.

Matt waits below, listening. Frank stays sitting still for a long time, then gets up and begins to pace, fingers twitching, unable to settle.  Finally, he snorts out a determined growl, and starts packing up his equipment.

Matt smiles to himself and jumps onto the next building’s fire escape, heading back to Josie’s.

He’ll have to come up with something to tell Karen about the bruises on his face– something other than I goaded your crush into fighting me so he’d admit he’s into you .

Somehow he doesn’t think that will land too well.

Chapter Text

Frank doesn’t come by Josie’s the next night.

Or the next.

Or the next.

Matt is glad he didn’t tell Karen he’d basically invited the man over to talk things through, since it looks like Frank is still being a chickenshit about her. Matt’s resolved to take another crack to try to convince him, when circumstances change drastically and it’s out of his hands.

Fisk’s Task Force find their hideout. 

Karen is alone in the bar when every one of the newspaper-covered windows shatter as AVTF officers fire smoke bombs into the dive, the acrid fumes choking her. The door is kicked open, and dozens of uniformed men and women pour through, sporting gas masks and armed to the teeth. Karen’s gone for her gun, and even though she’s struggling to breathe, she gets off a few shots, aiming through the smoke towards the laser sights on an officer’s assault rifle. 

There’s a muffled sound of impact and the thud of a body hitting the floor. 

Before she can turn to aim at another smoky figure, someone jabs her from behind with a stun baton. Karen’s entire body convulses, muscles no longer under her control. There’s a sudden blow to her head, and the gun drops to the floor, closely followed by Karen herself.

Her arms are dragged behind her back, and she feels cuffs snap into place around her wrists. Her muscles are sluggish and unresponsive as she’s hauled to her feet by two female officers and dragged out the front of Josie’s. She sees the back of a riot van open in front of her, before a black sack is yanked violently over her head and she’s plunged into darkness. 

The officers hoist her into the back of the van, unceremoniously letting her drop to the floor. She hears them scramble in after her, the doors slamming, and a series of thumps on the side of the van let the driver know they’re good to go.

“Sitrep,” says a no-nonsense female voice, coming from above her.

“She got Duvall in the vest. He’ll live. Maybe die from shame, though,” says a second voice, snickering. “Why’s this skinny bitch so important to Fisk, anyway?” 

“It’s Mayor Fisk,” comes the reply. “All I know is that he insisted she be brought in alive and unharmed.” Karen feels a heavy boot slam into her ribs, and she gasps in shock as the air leaves her lungs in a whoosh. “ Mostly , anyway.” Tears of pain spring to her eyes, and Karen is fiercely glad that the black bag hides her face from them. That these fuckers won’t see her cry.  She receives another kick to the ribs and groans, trying to curl up into a ball to protect herself.  There’s a quick whistling noise and something makes contact with the back of her ribs, hard— a baton , Karen thinks— and she cries out in pain. 

“Don’t hit her face,” she hears one of the women warn the other. There’s a grunt of assent before Karen feels another blow on her back, and she screams. 

Luckily, the van lurches too fast around a corner and Karen’s head hits a corner of something, hard.  She immediately slumps, letting her weakened muscles go completely relaxed. Trying to make them think she’s been knocked unconscious.

“Well, that takes care of that,” says the smug voice. Karen manages not to react when one of them gives her a half-hearted kick to make sure she’s out.

Karen loses track of how many turns they take.  She tries to move her head subtly to get the bag to shift, and realises with a cold shiver that there’s a zip tie inside the open end, keeping it secured around her neck. Her ribs ache where the officer’s steel-toed boot has connected, her back stings with the reminders of the baton blows, and she can feel blood trickling from a wound on her head. She’s having to make a Herculean effort to stay limp, letting the momentum of the van slide her around the floor.

Karen bides her time. She doesn’t have a plan here, but listens intently, hoping the officers will let slip some nugget of information she can use, concentrating hard to try and stave off panic. They’re taking her to Fisk, probably, and that is a meeting she’s very keen to avoid. But the officers are either well-trained not to discuss tactics in front of a hostage, even one presumed unconscious, or they’re way too casual about transporting kidnap victims, because they proceed to have a very involved conversation about the Mets. 

She listens as they have a heated argument about whether or not the new pitcher was worth his transfer fee, which devolves into a play by play of what sounds like every game from last season. The utterly banal conversation only serves to amp up Karen’s panic. The two women are acting like abducting a civilian and beating her unconscious is just as normal as going grocery shopping. Karen shivers at their callous cruelty and concentrates on keeping her breathing even, and her body as relaxed as she can (a difficult feat, as the driver of the van seems hell bent on hitting every pothole in the road and taking every corner at an unnecessarily aggressive speed). After about ten minutes of this, the van makes an extremely sharp turn, causing both of the officers to swear loudly. Seconds later, Karen hears a distant shout followed by a crashing noise. 

“What the hell was that?” One of her captors asks, annoyed rather than scared. There’s the sound of footsteps and then a snicker from the other officer. Based on the direction of her voice, she’s gotten up and is looking out the van’s back window.

“Our escort van didn’t make the turn,” says the smug voice. “Told 'em they shouldn’t have let Smitty drive.”

“That man’s a fuckin’ menace behind the wheel,” the other complains.

“We’ll have to just keep going without ‘em.”

Another few minutes pass. The officers are silent now, and Karen can feel that they’re more alert. Tense.

A loud thump sounds from the roof.

“Jesus, now what?” snaps one, and Karen hears the click of a gun’s safety being switched off. “The decoy vehicles reported all vigilantes accounted for.”

“Just our luck. We get some wannabe hero trying to stage a rescue.” There’s a bang—a gunshot, Karen thinks numbly— and the sound of glass shattering, and the vehicle suddenly lurches to the side. 

“Shit,” says one of her captors. There’s the sounds of a struggle coming from behind the partition dividing the back of the van from the driving compartment, and she can feel the vehicle jerking from left to right, as though there’s a fight over the steering wheel. Karen can hear muffled grunts and thumps — punches landing? — and more glass shatters. Another few gunshots. Karen can’t tell if they’re being fired by the officers in the front of the van, or if…

“Yo Jackson! Alfonso! What’s going on in there?” One of the women shouts, banging on the partition. There’s no answer, but they suddenly turn sharply and with a nauseating lurch, the vehicle skids crazily to a halt. 

“Jackson! Alfonso!” Karen can hear her fiddling with her radio. “Control, come in— control, do you read me? This is car Bravo-2 with the package. We’ve got a hostile and two officers possibly down. Control, do you read?” There’s a beat of silence. “Shit,” the woman mutters. “No reply.”

“Signal must be jammed,” says the other officer, voice tight. 

“Fuck. Ok, cover the door.” Karen hears the clacking of ammo being chambered. Her heart is pounding— she thinks she knows who has come for her (she hopes), but if they open that door, these officers are going to shoot first and ask questions later. 

“The minute that handle moves, open fire,” instructs one of the officers, confirming Karen’s thoughts. The voice sounds like she’s standing inches away from Karen’s legs. Licking her lips, Karen begins to slowly pull her feet towards her chest, trying to move slowly enough that neither of her captors notice.

“Attention! You are interfering with an official AVTF operation!” The officer in charge shouts through the door. “Identify yourself!”

There’s no response. Karen can hear the other woman fiddling with her radio, hissing into it, clicking through channels searching for a signal.

“I repeat, this is official AVTF business! If you do not identify yourself, we will assume hostile intent and shoot to kill!” 

There’s an excruciating wait. Whoever is outside is taking their time, Karen thinks, half annoyed and half terrified. 

“Fuck this,” says the first officer. She shouts through the door again. “If you do not identify yourself and confirm compliance in the next five seconds, our guest here will be the one to feel the consequences! Am I understood?”

There’s a moment of quiet. Karen holds her breath.

And then there’s a terrific bang and a rush of heat, accompanied by the loud crashing of metal hitting concrete. Karen smells smoke and something acrid, like burning plastic, but she also feels a cool breeze— like the van’s doors are open. 

Both the officers shout in surprise and begin firing in long bursts. 

Karen draws her legs up to her chest and rolls onto her back, then snaps her legs forwards towards where she heard one of the voices. She’s rewarded for her gambit when her legs make contact with something soft, and she hears and feels her target lurch forwards and out of the van with a scream, landing on the ground outside with a thump. The other officer shouts, but there’s the sound of gunshots, and her voice is suddenly cut off with a wheezing gurgle. With a final-sounding thud, something lands next to Karen on the van’s floor.  There’s another single shot, and Karen knows for sure who has come for her.

The van rocks as her savior climbs in.  She feels hands touch the black bag over her head and gives an involuntary jerk of surprise.

“Easy Karen, easy,” rasps a voice like a knife on whetstone. “It’s me. Hey. It’s Frank.” He sounds rough and unsteady, and Karen swallows hard, momentarily glad he can’t see her face.

“I know. Can you get this fucking thing off of me?” Karen says, trying to keep her voice calm. She hears a low chuckle.

“Stay still,” he warns, and she feels a tug as the zip tie securing the bag is pulled taut against the back of her neck. There’s a momentarily tension before she hears something snap, and he’s pulling the bag off her head and she’s sucking in fresh air gratefully. 

Once her eyes adjust to the sudden light, they immediately land on his terrified face.

Frank… has looked better.

His face is a tie-dyed picture of bruises, some old with sickly green and yellows, and some fresh with angry purples and reds. His lip is cut, there’s blood trickling down the side of his face, and his eyes are bloodshot, wide and almost frantic. He’s the best thing she’s ever seen.

“You ok?” He asks, running his hands over her head, down her arms, checking for injuries, pausing at the blood seeping into her hair. She nods, almost unable to speak with relief, breathing in short, panicked gasps. 

“Cuffs,” she chokes out, “get them off , please—“

He curses, and Karen sees his face twitching with poisonous fury. “Gimme a minute.”

It’s the work of moments for him to locate the keys on the dead officer lying on the floor next to Karen, and once the cuffs are off he pulls her to her feet. She stumbles, dizzy at the sudden movement, and his arms are around her waist to hold her up before she can blink. 

“You’re okay,” he says gruffly, “hey. You’re okay. You’re okay.” It’s like he’s saying it more to himself than to her, his breaths coming hard, like he’s coming down from a panic attack.  Karen lets out a sound that’s half sigh and half sob, and throws her arms around his neck, clutching him close. He hesitates for a moment, before he tightens his grip on her, pressing her into the solid, soft warmth of his body. Her ribs and her back hurt and her head aches where she was smacked, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all as he briefly allows himself to bury his face in the fall of her hair and she feels safe for the first time in what feels like forever.

After a long moment, they both pull away, but Frank doesn’t seem to want to let go of her because he gently takes her wrists in his hands and examines the indentations left by the cuffs. 

They’re standing too close, Karen thinks. They’re standing too close and there’s a dead body at their feet, and he’s holding her hands in his, rubbing his rough thumbs gently over the red marks on her wrists. She looks up at his face and he’s scowling at them, as though by sheer rage he can force her injuries away. 

“Frank.” She says quietly. 

He looks up at her, and his thumbs stop moving as their eyes meet.

The world stops moving as their eyes meet.

There’s that zing, that electric shock, and the feel of something weighty and important shoots through Karen, starting at the back of her neck and ending at the tips of her toes. 

The smell of smoke, the adrenaline, her ears ringing, the blood on her face, the proximity– it all feels so familiar. When his eyes drop to her lips, it nearly knocks the breath out of her. She feels the weight of his gaze the same way she had back in that elevator, as she tried to tell him what it had meant to her.  That he had come for her.

Frank drops her hands like they’ve burned him.

“We gotta move,” he says, breaking eye contact with her and hopping down out of the van. He scans the area expertly, pulling the AR-15 strapped to his back around to the front, clicking the safety off. He holds a hand up to her. “C’mon.”

Karen takes his hand, trying to ignore the security she feels at the warmth of his rough palm, and clambers down.  She lets go quickly, too aware of how much she likes holding it. 

The van’s back doors both lie on the ground, smoke coming from the hinges.

“Did you blow the doors off?” She asks incredulously.

“Yeah. Just some plastic explosive to the exterior hinges.” He looks at her wide eyes and shrugs, trying for nonchalance. “Hadda improvise.” He glances dispassionately down at the AVTF officer on the ground, blood dripping from an exit wound in her skull. “Good thinkin’ kickin’ her outta there. Made my job a helluva lot easier.”

Karen starts shivering with the adrenaline crash and leftover panic and some other feelings she’s not going to look at too closely right now. Frank notices the way she’s shaking and scowls as though he’d like to go back and shoot the dead officers all over again.

“Let’s go. This way, c’mon.” Frank holds his rifle with one hand and puts his other arm on her back, chivvying her along. They pass by the front of the nondescript van, and Karen sees the windshield is smashed, and two slumped bodies are sitting in the front seats, unmoving.

“What did you do to the other car?” Karen asks, partially to distract herself and partially to see if there will be anyone immediately following them. 

“Modified chloroform grenade. Shot it through the passenger window.”

Frank’s head is on a swivel, as he constantly checks their surroundings, utterly alert and ready to react to any potential threats.

There’s nothing.

Frank leads her through alleys, into buildings, down through basements and back up again, opening doors that look like they haven’t been used in years.  They always surface on a different street, winding their way away from the site of the stopped van and the dead officers.  At one point they follow an unmarked basement door into a narrow hallway that opens onto a subway tunnel and they have to cross the tracks, and he carefully shines a flashlight onto where she should step, making sure she knows not to touch the third rail. He holds her hand like he’s escorting her to a ball, and it does something weird to Karen’s stomach that she doesn’t think has anything to do with the rat that runs by clutching a packet of potato chips.

After what seems like hours, he gestures her into an alley, closing and locking a metal gate behind him, and leads her down a set of steps into a basement she recognises.

Frank’s lair is much the same as the last time she saw it, as far as she can tell. She didn’t have a chance to get a good look before, but the initial impressions are the same - boxes and crates of equipment, guns mounted on pegs, some military flags on the wall, a small kitchen area with a hotplate and cans of food, a workout bench. 

The second they’re through the door, Frank’s hands are on her, and it takes her a second to realize he’s checking her injuries. He’s parting her hair and examining the cut on her forehead, lip twitching in anger, and then he gently squeezes her wrists, runs his hands along her shoulders, holds her at arm’s length so he can scan down her front. She hears him suck in a breath and follows his gaze to see some blood soaking through the thin fabric of her white t-shirt, over her ribs.

“You’re hurt,” he rasps. Karen shakes her head. 

“It’s fine,” she says, just as her ribs twinge and she gasps in pain. Frank’s gaze darkens. 

“Lemme take a look,” he demands, no nonsense, but then seems to think better of it and in a softer voice he adds, “please.”

Karen bites her lip and, after a pause, nods.

“Okay.”

Frank gestures her at a folding chair and she sits as he unstraps the rifle from across his back and places it on a table. He goes to his ‘kitchen’ area to grab a mug, splashes a healthy glug of Jack Daniels into it and brings it to Karen, holding it out to her almost shyly, eyes flickering between her and the drink.

“Helps with the pain,” he says, and Karen feels her hands reaching out to take the mug from him.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” 

As she takes a gulp, Frank grabs a first aid kit from a milk crate and crouches next to Karen, groaning a little as his knees pop.

“Who’d have thought it: the Big Bad Punisher is human after all,” Karen shakily teases, and for a moment his eyes are bright as they meet hers and he lets out a disarmed chuckle.

“Wish I weren’t. Could use some o’that fancy Stark tech in these bad boys,” he jokes back drily. 

“No way. You need that reminder,” Karen responds. She meant for it to come out light, but the hitch in her voice betrays her. 

Frank doesn’t respond, just nods like fair enough , and sets to work. 

After rubbing some alcohol gel onto his hands, he reaches out almost hesitantly for the hem of her shirt, looking up at her, a question in his eyes. She gives him a small nod, and he gently pulls the bloodied fabric away from her skin and raises it up to look at the injury beneath. He hisses out a fuck , and Karen looks down to see the start of a truly impressive bruise, broken skin in the middle with jagged edges from the sharp steel toe of the boot, right at the bottom of the curve of her lowest rib. It’s bleeding sluggishly, and Frank presses some clean gauze onto the wound. When she hisses in pain, his face twists into something she doesn’t recognize– like it causes him pain too.

“Gotta keep pressure on it for a minute,” he says gruffly, his voice broken and soft. “Hurts, I know. But the bleeding’s gotta stop.” Karen nods, and places her hand over his, taking careful breaths, grounding herself. Frank licks his lips and looks up at her, and Karen feels his eyes boring into her. He raises his other hand and begins to press on the area around the cut, checking in with her as he does.

“No broken ribs,” he says, his voice thick. 

“That’s good,” she replies, slightly breathless, her heart pounding at his proximity.

“You feel sick at all? Dizzy, anythin’ like that?”

Karen shakes her head no again, and he nods, satisfied. 

Frank grabs a bottle of saline and checks under the gauze.

“Bleeding’s stopped. This is gonna sting,” he warns, raising the bottle to her ribs, and Karen pulls her hand away, gripping the metal sides of the chair.

“Do your worst, Castle,” she grits out, and his eyes flash with amusement for a moment before he leans in and slowly squirts the liquid into her wound.  Her hands clench on the chair, hard, but she manages not to make a sound as he flushes the cut.

“Don’t think you need stitches or anythin’, but we should try to keep it closed,” he rumbles, grabbing a tube of antibiotic ointment and dabbing it onto her. “You allergic to adhesive?”

“Not that I know about,” she replies, teeth gritted at his ministrations.  He nods, and begins applying some butterfly stitches to her skin, pausing when she grimaces. His fingers are light and deft, and if they sometimes seem to linger on her longer than needed, she tries not to read too much into it. He’s just patching her up… but she can’t help the goosebumps that skitter across her body at his touch. 

Jaw tight, Frank grabs a roll of gauze and wraps it around her ribs several times, taping it down. He’s so focused as he works that Karen doesn’t feel awkward about how she examines his face, slowly categorizing the bruises that she can see, the blood on the side of his face from what looks like a cut to his eyebrow. 

She doesn’t realize how hard she’s been staring until he looks up at her, his work finished, and Karen feels their eye contact right in her sternum.

“All set,” Frank grunts, his palm still on her waist, thumb almost absentmindedly stroking her skin. Karen nods haltingly, and takes a breath. The movement of her ribs under his palm seems to remind Frank of the prolonged contact, and he quickly moves his hand away, trying to cover the sudden motion by busying himself packing the first aid kit up.  He gets to his feet, avoiding her eyes, knees popping again.

“The one on your head doesn’t look too deep,” Frank says awkwardly. “Wanna clean it out, though.” Karen nods her assent.

“Whatever you say, doc.” He smirks slightly and brings up the bottle of saline, flushing out the cut, then dabbing some ointment on it and gently placing a band aid over the broken skin.

“Done.” He hands her some pills from a drugstore bottle and a bottle of water. “Ibuprofen. For the swelling. Try and take some deep breaths, every hour or so. Don’t want you gettin’ pneumonia ‘cause of those ribs.”

Karen dutifully opens the bottle of water and takes the painkillers he’s given her. He stands there for a moment, like he’s not sure what to do, and then begins to move around, fiddling with various boxes, pulling out pieces of equipment, his energy almost nervous.

“Frank,” Karen says firmly, and he turns to look at her. “Now you.” He looks confused, and at her arch look, he puts a hand to his head and frowns when it comes away bloody.

“You don’t hafta–”

“Yes I do.” She stares him down, then stands, gesturing at the chair. He scowls at her, unconvinced.  “Please.” She adds, letting some of her guard down, letting a brief flash of her emotions play across her face.

Something in him seems to sag. Like he’s tired, like he's letting go of something. He nods. Okay .

Frank sits on the chair, and lets Karen card her fingers through his hair, pushing it away from the cut on his eyebrow. She gets the antibacterial gel out and rubs it on her hands, takes the saline and rinses out the wound. It’s stopped bleeding, and she gently wipes the blood from his face with some wet gauze, trying to keep her motions clinical. She’s never touched him like this, never been able to gaze at his face for this long, and she finds herself prolonging the treatment. Like a woman starved, finally able to sink her teeth into a meal.

Karen gently applies antibacterial ointment and puts some butterfly stitches on his brow to keep the skin together. She might not be an ex-Marine or any kind of medical professional, but she’s watched some first aid YouTube videos and thinks she does a pretty good job. Her fingers only linger on his face a second longer than they have to.

“You’re all set,” she says, and is surprised by how low her voice comes out. Frank quickly stands, but then they’re too close, and after a moment of hesitation he nods his thanks and almost runs away from her, crossing the room towards his workbench.

Karen looks around, taking his space in. It’s heartbreakingly impersonal, and she wonders when he last ate something that didn’t come out of a can or a packet.  Karen can’t see a TV, or a normal radio - just a police scanner– or even any books. There’s a wall covered in large, blown-up images of people’s faces, with hand scrawled notes next to them, but no photographs or mementos. She wonders if he still has the picture of his family she gave him so long ago, or if he’s gotten rid of it in an effort to stamp out any trace of remaining humanity.

The thought makes her chest ache in a way that has nothing to due with bruised ribs.

“How did you find me?” Karen asks him, trying to distract herself. She picks up the discarded whisky he’d poured her and takes a gulp to cover the trembling in her hands. Winces slightly at the stale smell of coffee that comes from the inside of the mug, and wonders when he last did the dishes.

“Call came out over the radio.” He gestures to a hulking piece of equipment with a screwdriver he’s holding. “They wised up and encrypted their comms; took me a bit longer.” He scowls as though this is a personal insult. “Heard ‘em gearing up for somethin’ big. Realized they were gonna grab you, they’d been waiting till everyone else was out.” Frank’s voice is calm, but his lip twitches like he’s a dog fighting back the urge to growl.

“One of the officers said something about a diversion?” Karen asks, taking another gulp. 

Frank snorts. “Yeah. They peeled off outta there with you, but took your coat and shit and put it on a blonde officer. Waited ‘til one of your buddies showed up then stuck her in the back of a truck like she was you and took off with a whole convoy. Why the van you were in didn’t have more escorts– wanted to fly you under the radar.” He shakes his head. “Think it was Rand that they suckered. Your big heroes all started chasin’ that fake hostage.” Off Karen’s horrified look, he taps a radio earpiece he’s wearing. “I'm still on their comms. Friends are all good, nobody’s hurt. Maybe Murdock’s pride, though,” he smirks. “In all the commotion, sounds like it took him a while to figure out it wasn’t you in the truck.”

“Shit.” Karen sucks in a breath and runs her hand through her hair distractedly. “I need to get in touch with them, let them know I’m okay.” 

Frank shakes his head.

“Too risky. Murdock will figure it out. Left him a present back at the van. He’ll know you’re with me.” He grins, and Karen looks at him suspiciously.

“What did you do, Frank?” She asks, and she’s surprised at the fondness that’s crept into her voice. Frank chuckles.

“Eh, don’t worry about it.”

Karen fights down a smile and rolls her eyes. A thought occurs to her.

“How did you know? That it wasn’t me?” Karen glances over at Frank. He looks twitchy now, uncomfortable. 

“Cameras,” he admits finally. Karen’s taken aback.

“You have cameras watching Josie’s? Why?” He shrugs, not meeting her eye.

“Just in case. Keepin’ an eye out. Figured they might come in handy. Looks like I was right.”

“Where are these cameras?” Karen asks suspiciously, and Frank snorts out a laugh.

“On the street. I ain’t no peepin’ Tom, Karen.”

Karen decides she’s not going to push that line of questioning any further, partially because she really doesn’t know what to do with the fact that she’s glad Frank has been spying on them. 

“Here. You should use this.” Frank’s holding something out to her, and she blinks in surprise when she sees it’s an old Game Boy.

“Frank,” she says, bemused. “That’s a Game Boy.” He huffs.

“I know what it is, Karen. There’s, uh, studies. Research. Say if you play Tetris after somethin’ bad, you don’t get PTSD as much.” His arm is still patiently holding out the chunky grey machine. Karen is looking at him like he’s grown a second head. “Figure getting kidnapped might warrant a few rounds,” he says awkwardly. 

Karen wants to cry. 

He’s so brutal, so relentless, a maelstrom of grief and rage, punishing the guilty, hands soaked with unfathomable quantities of blood. And yet he cares so much that he’ll try and take her nightmares away before they even have a chance to seed and take root.

You can’t have one without the other, she thinks. It’s only because he cares so much that he does what he does. It was because he loved so hard that his pain was so great. If he hadn’t cared so much, would the Punisher have existed?

Karen realizes that she’s staring at the Game Boy with tears in her eyes, so she reaches out and takes it with a whispered ‘thanks.’ He nods his acknowledgement, then turns to his work bench, picking up the rifle he’d placed there when they came in and beginning to field strip it.

Karen sits in the battered folding chair, then boots up the Game Boy and plays a few rounds of Tertris while Frank cleans his gun.

It’s almost domestic.

“So what’s the plan?” Karen asks, after she loses on level 8 for the fourth time. Frank looks up, frowns.

“The plan?”

“Yeah. What happens now, I mean,” she clarifies. “I should probably try to find the others…” He shakes his head.

“No. It’s not safe out there. Fisk’s gotta be pissed his plan didn’t work because the Task Force’s out for blood tonight.” He grestures at the radio, indicating that he’s been listening to them on his earpiece.  “If your friends know what’s good for ‘em, they’ll be holed up waitin’ for it to die down.” He looks over at her. “Murdock’ll let ‘em know you’re safe. C’mon, you could probably just yell and he’d find you with that freaky way he can hear shit.” Frank shoots her a little smile. And Karen finds herself smiling back.

“Okay, fine. So, what, I just stay here until… when?”

Frank looks uncomfortable again. 

“Long as you need to,” he says finally, eyes meeting hers. There’s something vulnerable in them, something wounded. He’s worried, she realizes, worried that she doesn’t want to stay here with him. Karen swallows around the lump in her throat. 

“Okay,” she says, her voice unnaturally thin. He quirks up an eyebrow.

“Okay?” 

“Okay.”

They both can’t seem to look away, and without Matt here to provide a buffer, she has to physically shake off the effect of his gaze and tear her eyes from his. 

Karen looks around the bunker and frowns.

“Frank… where do you sleep?” There’s no bed, and more importantly, no bathroom that she can see. “And, uh…”

“Yeah, you must be beat,” Frank says gruffly, his voice thick. Good to know the dazed feeling isn’t just on her end. “C’mon.”

He heads to a set of four standard lockers tucked against the far wall, by his weight bench. Karen watches as he goes to the locker on the far left and flicks the combination lock around a few times. He glances back at her, shyly, and lifts the latch.

The entire row of lockers swings open.  Not one by one, but all together– he’s cut the lockers in half and then welded the front halves into a single unit.  Behind the secret entrance, rather than the musty insides of decades-old gym storage, is a wall and a very normal looking door.

Frank awkwardly stands by the open passageway, and gestures her in. Karen can’t help it– she raises an eyebrow at his dramatics. 

“You know, most people would just hang a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign,” she quips, and immediately wants to kick herself for the flirty tone. Frank’s ears redden a bit and he ducks his head. 

“You wanna wash up and change into somethin’ that isn’t covered in blood, or you wanna make fun of my very reasonable precautions?” He snarks back, the hint of a smile in his eyes.

Karen is immediately aware of the sour feeling of fear sweat on her skin, and of the way her muscles ache. 

“I can multi-task,” she says primly as she steps forwards and opens the hidden door.

It leads into a small bedroom. 

Frank reaches in and flicks on a light switch. It’s not much more personal than the main area. A single bed, the kind she slept on in her college dorm, is wedged in a corner. The bedspread pattern is something she’d expect to see in a motel room. There’s a bedside table with a lamp, and a small chest of drawers. The walls are a faded white, no paintings or pictures. There’s an open door at the other end of the room, and she can see a mirror reflecting a bathtub and toilet. 

It’s such a lonely room.

“Here.” Frank steps around her and goes to the chest of drawers, pulling out a towel, a pair of sweatpants and a tshirt. He awkwardly looks at her, then puts everything on the bed. “You, uh, go ahead.” He gestures towards the bathroom. “There’s cloths and shit in there– don’t shower or anythin’ with that cut. Hot water’s usually pretty good. If it doesn’t come on, whack the pipe next to the shower with the wrench.”

“Earning your keep as building manager, huh,” Karen says. He chuckles awkwardly.

“Yeah.”  There’s a pause, like he’s going to say something else, but then he clears his throat. “I’ll be right out there.” He jerks his head towards the main room.  “You need anything, just holler.”

“Thanks, Frank,” Karen says quietly. He shrugs.

“Ain’t no trouble.”

And before she can say anything else, he brushes past her and shuts the door.

***

Karen strips down, letting her clothes fall onto the floor of the bathroom. She wets some washcloths and gives herself a scrub down, wiping the sweat and grime from her body, careful to avoid her bruised ribs and the bandage wrapped tightly around them.

Karen tries to push her feelings about Frank Castle down and away. He’s saved her life, again, but she doesn’t want to read too much into it. Sure, Matt had indicated that Frank felt… something for her, but that didn’t matter if he still didn’t want it enough. She closes her eyes and tries to let all the complicated emotions drain out of her. She can be professional about this. They’re two people on a mission, and that’s more important than any kind of stalled romance.

Once she’s as clean as she can get, Karen puts on Frank’s sweatpants and tshirt, blushing when she has to go commando. Rinses her underwear out in the sink and hangs them to dry over the shower rail, hoping they’ll be ready to wear again tomorrow.

Karen can feel herself crashing, the adrenaline and energy from her kidnapping and rescue suddenly leaving her empty and exhausted. She pokes her head out of his bedroom-slash-secret-hideout.

“Frank?” She says into the room.

“Hey. Feel better?”

“Much. Thank you.” She hesitates.  “I was gonna take the bed, but… where are you going to sleep?”

“I don’t sleep much. Got a camp bed out here, I’ll be fine with that.”

Karen frowns but doesn’t want to push anything.

“Okay. Um, I’m just gonna… go pass out.” She hesitates. “Good night, Frank.”

“Night, Karen.”

Karen’s thoughts and feelings are twisted up inside her, but they’re no match for an adrenaline crash. She turns out the light and once her head hits the pillow, she’s out in seconds.

***

Frank curses to himself.

“Outta all the gin joints, huh,” he mutters, ignoring the fact that the line from Casablanca didn’t really apply. She hadn’t wandered into his lair, he’d gone and fetched her. 

Karen.

She’s here.

She’s wearing his clothes. Sleeping in his bed.

He’d almost lost her tonight.

Frank grinds his teeth with rage. He didn’t know why Wilson Fisk had such a hard-on for Karen, but the man was going to fucking pay for what he’d tried to do here.  For every bruise, every cut she’d suffered. Was he kidnapping her to try and get to Murdock? Or was it payback for whatever she’d done to raise his ire? It didn’t fucking matter. Frank had made Fisk a promise, years ago, and he always kept his promises.

One of them wasn’t going to walk away this time.

Frank almost relishes the thought.

Until Matt fuckin’ Murdock’s voice echoes through his head.

“If you die, Karen will be the one to feel it. She’ll feel it hard .”

Frank curses to himself.

What did it fuckin’ matter, anyway? She might hurt, but fuck, she’d get on with her life.  A life he could never be a part of, even if he wanted to (did he?) Probably be a relief to her, if he was in the ground. She could grieve and then and move on. Like she should.

“Karen’ll find her way into the shit. It’s who she is.”

Frank curses again, fingers twitching, running them through his hair.

If he’s gone, who’s gonna look out for her? 

She’s got all these fuckin’ superhero friends, and it was him who’d figured out what was happening. He’d saved her. Not Murdock or Jones or Cage or Rand. Frank had rescued her. He had spotted the first van on his cameras, tracked it, ambushed it, shot the windshield out, fought the driver, blown the doors off, and killed everyone who’d laid a fucking hand on her. 

Frank can’t trust anyone else to keep Karen safe. Not even Murdock with his freaky-ass superpowers. 

So if he’s dead… what does that mean for Karen?

Fuck.

Frank is saved from having to think about this any further by the sound of screaming.

He’s grabbed a .38 and has barrelled through the door to his bedroom before he can really register his actions, operating on instinct. He clears the room, aiming the gun at every corner, heart pounding. There’s nobody there.

Karen is still asleep, her body twisting under the sheets, her mouth open as she lets out another scream. 

“Karen!” Frank flicks the safety on his .38 and puts it on the dresser, then crosses quickly to the bed and after a moment’s hesitation, puts his hand on Karen’s shoulder. “Karen! Hey, wake up!”

Karen moans, her brow furrowed, and listlessly thrashes.

“No…” she mutters in her sleep, “not him… don’t…”

Frank turns on the lamp next to the bed. “Hey. C’mon, wake up. It’s ok. You’re ok. Wake up.” He grabs her shoulders and gives her a hard shake, and her eyes open. She sucks in a loud gasp, like she’s been drowning and has just been let up for air. 

Karen looks like a panicked animal, her eyes frantically darting around the room but not taking any of it in. Frank gives her another little shake, and gently puts a hand on her cheek, angling her face towards his.

Once her eyes focus on his face, she utters a horrible wracked gasp of relief.  Almost faster than he can follow, her body snaps into a sitting position and her arms wrap around him, clutching him tightly.  Her nails are digging into his back as she claws at him, trying to bring him closer, but he doesn’t care. 

“Hey, hey, shh,” he soothes. His arms are around her before he knows what’s happening. “Shh. It’s okay. You were havin’ a nightmare. I’m here. Everything’s good.”  Frank’s arms seem to move by themselves. He brings a hand up to her head and begins to slowly stroke her hair, gently running his fingers through the strands. His other hand slowly rubs her back in circles. He tries to soothe her with little nonsense shushing noises, and before he can really think it through, he turns his head to gently press a kiss to her temple.

Karen’s body begins to calm, her breaths no longer coming in wracking sobs. She buries her face in his neck, still clutching him close, and lets out a long sigh of relief. 

“Sorry,” she mumbles into his skin, before pulling away, embarrassed. Frank pulls his arms back, but he can’t help it— he puts a hand on her cheek and angles her face towards his.

“You ok?” He asks intently, eyes searching her face. Karen nods jerkily.

“Yeah. Just a nightmare.” She breathes out, and he can smell his toothpaste on her breath. “They haven’t been that bad in a while.” She finally looks at him, and he’s suddenly extremely aware of how close their faces are,  of the blue of her eyes, and of the fact that he’s still cupping her cheek. He pulls back slowly, removing his hand and laying it awkwardly on the bedspread.

“You wanna tell me what that was all about?” Frank asks her, voice gentle. Karen takes a breath.

“It’s Fisk. Ever since…” she stops, like she’s holding something back. “For a while now, I have these dreams where he puts his hands around my neck. And he just tightens them and tightens them, and I can’t breathe. They seem like they last forever…” she breaks off into a choked sob, chest beginning to heave as panic begins to set back in. Wincing as the movement of her lungs presses against her bruised ribs.

“Hey. You’re safe here,” Frank soothes, and takes one of her hands in both of his. “You’re safe, you hear me? He’s not gonna lay a hand on you. Ever. I promise.”

Karen looks up at him sharply, eyes searching his face for something. 

“It’s not just me,” she says quietly. He frowns, not understanding. “It’s not just me. In my nightmares. Sometimes he makes me watch.” She takes a shaky breath, her eyes down. “He kills everyone I care about right in front of me.” Shit. That sounded way too familiar.

Frank tightens his grip on her hand.  “That’s never gonna fuckin’ happen. We’re gonna stop him, yeah? We’re gonna stop that shitbrick and I am gonna put him in the goddamn ground before he ever raises a finger to you again.”

Karen lets out a breathy sob.

“Maybe,” she whispers. “Maybe that’s the only way. I don’t know anymore.” She looks tired suddenly, exhausted, and he almost reaches up to run his fingers through her hair again.

“We can talk about it tomorrow, yeah?” He says quietly. “You think you can sleep?”

She nods, then bites her lip. Looks at the empty space next to the bed.

“You, uh, you want me to stay in here?” Frank’s offering before he’s registered what’s coming out of his mouth. He doesn’t have time to regret it, because Karen’s features immediately soften in relief.

“Yes. Please.” She swallows, nervous. Frank finds himself nodding.

“Okay. Be right back.”

He goes and gets his camping bed and his sleeping bag, drags them both into the bedroom.  Moves the end table away so he can put the cot flush up against the bed. She’s looking at him with something like apprehension on her face, her fingers nervously picking at her cuticles.

Frank takes off his boots and socks, and slides his pants down while sitting on the bed, not feeling entirely comfortable getting undressed under her gaze. He wriggles into the sleeping bag, and only when he’s in does Karen lie back down. Frank turns off the lamp and settles down on his side, facing her in the dark.

They lie in silence for a moment before Karen whispers “It’s good to see you, Frank.”

He swallows, a lump in his throat.

“Yeah,” he whispers into the dark. “You too, Karen.”

Frank lies awake until he hears her breathing even out, slow and steady. And even then, he listens to her sleeping, wondering how on earth he’s going to manage to let her go.

Chapter Text

When Karen finally wakes, Frank is gone.

The cot is folded and placed in the corner. There’s a clean shirt and pair of sweatpants on top, with a note.

Getting supplies. Back soon. Take two of these soon as you wake up. - F

There’s a bottle of ibuprofen nestled into the clothes, and he’s left a bottle of water on the dresser. She smiles despite herself and does as instructed.

Karen goes to the bathroom and finds that her panties have dried, so she puts them on after using the toilet. Washes her face, careful of the bandaid near her scalp, checks on the bandage over her ribs, dresses in the fresh clothes Frank left out for her, and heads out to the main room.

Time to do some snooping.

Not snooping. Investigating. She wants to know what he’s been up to, and doesn’t feel confident that he’ll tell her. The thought sticks in her throat.

Karen locates a pot of coffee, still warm, and pours herself a cup. She doesn’t take hers black, but she’s not going to be picky right about now. Sipping the bitter concoction and wincing, she begins her investigation.

She examines all his guns, checks out the contents of some of the boxes but stops when she finds one absolutely full of grenades (she’s going to have to talk to him about his storage system). Looks at the various monitors he has set up around the place, investigates his workbench with various tools, scraps of wire, and bits of microchips. Glances at the police radio, but it’s off and she doesn’t know how to work it.

Karen finally makes her way over to his… murder wall, for lack of a better term. There are maps, and blown-up photographs of faces, some of them crossed out. His tense handwriting scrawls across some of the images and maps, either in some unfamiliar shorthand or so messy that she can’t decipher it. Karen recognises some of the faces from her time at Nelson, Murdock and Page, and some from her time at the Bulletin. Big time mobsters, corrupt cops, a CEO who was knowingly dumping toxic waste into a town’s water supply, a notorious slumlord. She recognizes a politician with ties to Neo-Nazi gangs and notices the red X over his face with a shiver of approval.

Karen’s heart doesn’t exactly bleed for any of these people, but she still doesn’t know how she feels about what Frank does. She can’t… condone it, exactly, but she also doesn’t cry over the fact that someone is doing something . She wants to believe in the system, but with everything she’s seen, she’d be a fool to trust in it. And how many lives has Frank saved by doing what he does? Does that balance out the lives he’s taken, based on his own brand of justice? All she really knows is that the only reason she loses sleep over his methods is because she worries the work has consumed him.

As she scans the wall, she’s distracted. On the floor, tucked into a corner, is a stack of newspapers. Karen’s heart jumps when she sees the New York Bulletin logo, before she tells herself to calm down. It’s the third most circulated paper in the city. It’s not unusual he’d have some back editions lying around for… y’know, research. Murder research.

She crouches down carefully, mindful of her aching ribs, and rifles idly through the issues. It’s not only the Bulletin— there’s the Post, the Examiner, the Times in the pile as well. He’s got some big cover stories— the Battle of New York, the Blip, Spider-Man saving a bus load of high schoolers, the Hulk on a rampage, the disaster in Sokovia.

Her fingers register a change in the texture of the paper. Karen flicks back to the page that caught her attention and divides the pile, removing the issue with the worn pages. She stands and moves over to his workbench to get some more light on her discovery.

It’s the New York Examiner that proclaims FRANK CASTLE DEAD on the cover, with a huge image of the x-ray that she and the world have come to know so well. Karen’s fingers trace the side of the skull with the bullet, unconsciously mimicking her actions with the actual item when she’d held it in her hands, what seems like a lifetime ago.

Karen runs the sensitive pads of her fingers along the edges of the paper, finding the page that feels different from the others, and opens the issue to see what Frank had been revisiting.

It’s the continuation of the cover story, including some more photos. There’s Frank’s mug shot, his face battered and bruised, and Karen’s stomach swoops at the image. In the intervening years, she’s done her best to avoid seeing pictures of him, unable to stop the fist that clenches around her heart at the sight. 

Karen’s eyes flick to the bottom of the page, where the story touches on his trial. Tucked into the print, smaller than any of the other photos, is a picture from the courtroom.

It’s of her. 

Well, it’s of both of them. They’re sitting next to each other (God, she wishes she didn’t remember that so well) and the shot is taken slightly from the side, so Karen’s face is in the foreground, slightly blurry since the photographer’s focus is clearly on Frank. He’s looking at her with an inscrutable expression on his face while she’s looking away, mid-sidebar— probably discussing something with Foggy on her left, but he’s not in the image.

Karen fingers the worn edges of the paper. Frank had clearly come back to this single page again and again. The ink around the photo of the two of them has blurred more than anywhere else in the old issue, as if he’s repeatedly rested his fingers on the newsprint, or run them along the words surrounding the picture.  The page is more creased than the rest, softened by touch. She removes it from the issue and folds it along the same worn lines, just as he must have done.

Frank had folded the page so that only their picture showed, carefully tucking the rest of the newsprint behind it, hiding everything else from view. Just the two of them, caught together in that moment.

Karen feels a lump in her throat. She squeezes her eyes shut as his words from that stupid hospital come back, ringing in her ears, kicking her in the heart all over again. 

She kind of hates him for this. 

She hates that he pushed her away and disappeared, yet kept this picture of the two of them. She hates it because it’s proof he’d lied to her, that he had wanted something other than his war. She hates it because even in his inner sanctum, he’s keeping her safe, disguising his feelings for her in a stack of random newsprint. 

She hates it because why has fate thrown this man in her path again and again if this was all they could ever have, affection hidden away so deeply that no one could ever find it?

Karen inhales against the heavy feeling in her chest, the tightness in her throat. She’s known life was unfair from the moment that her mom and dad came back from the hospital with fear in their eyes and tense smiles on their faces for her and Kevin, and it seemed like life was going to just keep on reminding her. She’s tried so hard to bring justice and accountability to those who deserve it, to balance the scales, but at every turn life seems to throw something at her to remind her of its utter indifference to fair . 

She’s concentrating so hard on fighting down the storm of emotions this picture has dragged up that she doesn’t hear the door open, doesn’t quite register the heavy footsteps that cross the room until he’s almost next to her.  

“Karen?” Frank’s voice is hesitant, and she stiffens at the sound, body going rigid, but she doesn’t look at him. 

She hears it when he sees what she’s found, his tiny intake of breath. Karen can feel the rage inside her, rage at this situation, at the whole course of her life and of his that led to them being here, now, trapped in this stalemate. 

“Karen,” Frank says awkwardly. “You okay?”

She lets out a laugh that’s both bitter and incredulous.

“No, Frank,” she seethes. “I’m really not.”

Karen finally turns her head and looks up at him, and whatever expression is on her face causes Frank to take a step back. 

She glares at him, letting him see everything on her face. Her rage, her despair, her loneliness, her love. 

“What is this?” she bites out, gesturing sharply at the newspaper. At the picture of the two of them.

Frank shrugs awkwardly, unable to meet her eyes for longer than a second.

Karen doesn’t let him get away with it, glaring at him, breathing hard. She crosses her arms over her chest and waits him out. 

Frank looks up at her and huffs out a little grunt of annoyance.

“C’mon, Karen,” Frank mumbles, finally. “You know.”

“God damnit , Frank,” she snarls, and her hand moves before she can really think.  Karen grabs her empty mug and hurls it to the ground, a feeling of satisfaction running through her as she hears the ceramic shatter.

Frank jumps. “Jesus, Karen, what the hell?”

“Don’t you dare, Frank. You know exactly why I’m angry.” She gestures at the paper again. “You’re so full of shit.”

He bristles at that.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Okay, Karen, go on,” he snaps, opening his arms in a ‘come at me’ gesture. 

“You lied to me. Back in that hospital.  You made me think…” she stops, gathers herself. “And now I find this .” She grabs the page and holds it up, shoving it in his face. “ Look at it, Frank! Tell me why you have this picture. Tell me why this page is folded and worn out and the rest of the paper is untouched !”

To his credit, he doesn’t try to deny it. 

“I had to protect you, Karen. You were gonna throw everythin’ away for me.” He sounds angry and devastated at the same time, his rough voice gone even rougher.

“Don’t tell me what I would have done,” Karen seethes. “Whatever I would have done, it would have been my decision. You took that away from me!”

“I said what you needed to hear, okay? I had to keep you safe, Karen, you got that?” His voice is getting louder, and instead of shrinking away from his anger, Karen feels her own rising to meet it. 

“Bull shit , Frank. You tell yourself that all you want. But I think you felt someone getting close and it scared the shit out of you. You say you’re pushing people away so they don’t get hurt, but it’s really so you won’t get hurt.”  Karen glares at him, tears of devastation and fury spilling down her face. 

“Bill would have killed you, Karen! He would have used you to get to me without a thought. He’d have carved you up and left me to find the pieces! You think it wasn’t about protecting you?” Frank’s raging now, his breathing fast and erratic. 

“Maybe at first,” she concedes, but not backing down.  “But Billy Russo’s been dead for years. Why didn’t you turn up afterwards, huh? You’re afraid to let anyone get too close, because it would give you something to lose. 

And God, Frank, I know you’ve been burned. And I know it won’t be easy for you to let people in. But you gotta wonder, what’s scarier— getting hurt, or living the rest of your life like this ?” She gestures to his bunker. 

Frank glares at her. 

“This is all I got, Karen,” Frank says flatly.  “I dunno if I’m capable of anything else.”

“I think you are, Frank,” Karen replies. She brandishes the picture of them at him again, and he looks away, as though it’s painful to see it. “Why did you keep this? Why did you fold it up like that?” He looks away. “Why did you help me when I called you? Why did you come rescue me, if you can’t be anything else? If you don’t care?”

“What do you want me to say?” Frank demands harshly, his voice breaking. “You want me to tell you how I think about you all the time? How sometimes I miss you so much I can hardly breathe?” His chest rises and falls rapidly, his voice flinty and choked, like the words are being ripped out of somewhere inside him that’s been long forgotten. “You want me to tell you that I love you?” 

Karen flinches.

“What good would it do, huh?” Frank continues, voice raised not with anger, with despair. “I can’t… I can’t be any of that. I don’t get a happy ending, okay? The best… best I can do is to protect you.”

“Weren’t you the one who told me that when you find someone who can really hurt you, to hold on with both hands and never let go?” Karen chokes out, furious and devastated. “This all sounds like a bunch of excuses, Frank. How do you know what you’re capable of unless you try?” Karen is crying now, and she brushes tears angrily off her cheeks. “You want to protect me? I’ll let you. But you have to let me protect you too.  Even from yourself.”

They’re standing, glaring at one another.  Frank’s breathing hard, his eyes beginning to dart around the room, and he takes a few steps back. Seems to register what he’s said to her, because he suddenly goes pale.

“I gotta… I gotta go.” He drops a plastic bag onto the workbench and retreats to the door. His voice is noticeably shaking. “ I can’t… I can’t, Karen. I gotta go.”

Karen watches him bolt out the door, and waits until it closes before sinking to the floor and wrapping her arms around her knees, ignoring the pain it causes in her ribs. 

Fuck.

***

Frank bursts out into the alleyway from the basement, gasping in breaths of fresh air. 

“Goddamnit,” he gasps into the chilly air, scrubbing his palm over his face. “Goddamnit. Goddamn you, Karen. Shit.” 

He’s shaking, his hands trembling in a way they haven’t done since his first tour, the first time someone shot at him.  Frank clenches them into fists, trying to keep them still with pure force of will, which only serves to make it worse. With a roar, he kicks at a discarded pallet, the force of his leg smashing the rotted wood. 

It doesn’t make him feel any better.

“ You want me to tell you that I love you? ”

Fuck. 

He hadn’t meant to say that. 

Frank begins to pace, running his hands through his short hair, breathing deeply. Karen’s words ricochet around his head, calling him out, ripping him to shreds.

“You felt someone getting close and it scared the shit out of you.”

“You’re afraid to let anyone get too close, because it would give you something to lose. ”

Frank’s reminded of fights he used to have with Maria. She’d had that same fire– she went in for the kill, just like Karen, not pulling any punches or softening any blows, relentlessly hammering her point home. It had hurt, but damn it, she’d only done it because she cared. Because it mattered to her that he understood her point of view, whatever they were arguing about, and she hadn’t ever let up until they’d worked shit out.

Maria woulda liked Karen, he thinks to himself, and then snarls. Because a world in which Maria existed was one in which Karen didn’t. If he’d kept his family alive… 

How can he even think about loving her? Everything in his past has shown him that he’s not worthy of happiness. His family has been killed as a result of who he was, of his innate violence. Because he’d put his faith in the wrong place, had been happy to be a tool of destruction because the role fit him like a glove. He’d been blind to the truth—hadn’t even looked for it—  until it was much, much too late. And now they’re gone, all of them, and it’s his fault. It will always be his fault.

“ I can’t imagine that endless grief is what they’d want for you.”

Frank closes his eyes and groans. The thing is— and he’d bite his own tongue off before admitting it to the man’s face— Murdock was right. Maria would take him to task if she were here, call him a dramatic asshole and make him march back in there, to Karen, and—

But he can’t. He doesn’t deserve Karen, isn’t worthy of her devotion. He’s not a good man. 

“ I certainly agree she deserves better than you, but I’d also say she deserves to be the one to make that call. ”

“ Karen deserves a bit of happiness. ”

“It would have been my decision. You took that away from me!”

Frank shakes his head. She does deserve better than him, but fuck , he’d be lying if he said he didn't want to be with her. 

Murdock hadn’t been too far off with that white picket fence bullshit he’d needled Frank with the other night. Frank did think about what it would be like, the two of them, together. Not a white picket fence or a house in the suburbs, nothing that specific— but he did think about sitting across from Karen at a kitchen table, pouring her a cup of coffee. Reading the paper next to her on the couch, her bare feet resting in his thighs. Waking up next to her in the morning. Cooking her dinner while she watched, maybe sipping a glass of wine, telling him about her day.  Holding her hand. Seeing her smile, and laugh, and frown, and cry. 

He hadn’t let himself admit it, hadn’t even thought the word love –had tried to lie to himself that his little fantasies were just flights of fancy, thought exercises without any real meaning. 

Until Matthew fuckin’ Murdock had gone ahead and kicked him in the head.

“How long have you been in love with Karen, Frank?”

Frank scrubs his palm over his face and runs his hands through his hair. The fresh air is helping. He feels his heart rate beginning to even out, and his breathing becomes steadier.

“You could choose to love something, someone else, instead of another war.”

“How do you know what you’re capable of unless you try?”

Maybe Murdock is right. Maybe Karen’s right.

Karen isn’t a civilian. She’s survived some shit he knows about and probably way more shit he doesn’t. She’s smart and capable and brave, and she understands his life. Understands him . She knows who he is, what he does, and she knows why he does it. Karen had looked at all of his broken pieces and still said “it doesn’t change the way I feel about you.”

“Tomorrow could be her last day, whether you’re with her or not.”

In the end… if she did die tomorrow (Frank grinds his teeth at the thought), it would still hurt just as much. It wouldn’t matter that he’d never let himself get too close to her– he can feel the burning inside of him at the possibility, and knows that he’d go on a rampage the likes of which the city hadn’t seen since the Punisher was first born.

Frank had stayed away from her for years , convinced he was doing the right thing. But the feelings hadn’t gone away. He’d buried them, like he’d buried that newspaper photo, but they’d burned brightly just the same. 

“When… people like us… find someone – someone who knows who we are, what we are, and they still care– then you hold on to them with both hands. Even if it scares you.”

How had she done it? How had she gotten under his skin so deeply, in such a short amount of time? Everything about her just.. spoke to him. He wanted to know everything about her, to be there for her, to always be the one she called. He wanted to know her favorite color, if she preferred novels or biographies, what kind of shit she liked to watch on TV. Where she grew up, if she had siblings, if she liked her bacon crispy.

He wanted to know what she’d taste like when he kissed her. What kind of noises she’d make.  He wanted to drown in the softness of her hair, in the smell of her skin. 

Frank wanted .

It was something he hadn’t allowed himself to do in a very long time.

He loved her, whether or not he let himself be with her. The agent of his resuscitation, she was in the very marrow of his bones. He could no more let her go than he could change his DNA, than he could control the flow of time.  Frank had been a crumbling mess when they’d met, and without any fuss she had slotted herself into his foundations, keeping him standing. Repairing the cracks without even knowing that’s what she was doing.

Karen Page lived and breathed inside of him, the same way his family did. He’d shielded her body from harm with his own, taken bullets for her without a second thought, jumped down a flight of stairs, pressed his forehead to the barrel of a gun, all for her. He’d put aside his quest for vengeance so he could keep her alive, blown his cover and come back from the dead so he could keep her safe. Every word she’d ever spoken to him echoed in his fucked up head. Of course he loved her. 

Who’s gonna keep her safe if you’re gone?

Frank rubs his face with palms and groans.

“Karen’s part of our world, Frank.” 

He feels his decision settling over him, the weight of it. He’s about to alter the course of his life. Frank’s spent his last few years just waiting for the shot that kills him, almost relishing the expectation, and he almost reels at the thought of a life that stretches out longer than his next mission.  If she… if she’ll have him… there won’t be any going back. He’ll live long enough to see her into old age, or he’ll die trying. 

Frank heads back inside, descending the steps into the basement, feeling Karen’s presence urging him along, like a magnet being drawn towards true North.

***

Karen sits very still after Frank leaves.

Finally, though, she stands. Hunts around for a dustpan and broom. Cleans up the shattered mug. Puts the newspaper back into the pile by the murder wall. 

Karen considers her options. Frank’s bugged out on her, with no indication of when he’ll be back. She’s getting hungry, but she’s got no money or phone, and is being actively hunted by a dubiously legal arm of the NYPD. She very much wants to leave Frank’s lair, but that doesn’t really seem like a viable option, so she goes to his kitchen area and pokes around the cupboards. 

They’re so depressingly representative of Frank’s limited existence that Karen finds herself on the verge of tears looking at a can of Spam.

She wishes she hadn’t lost her temper quite so badly. But Frank always did have a way of firing her up, of pressing her buttons. And now she’s probably freaked him out so much that he’ll be shutting down completely.

Fuck.

Karen closes her eyes tightly against the tears she can feel gathering again, hot and salty. She’d told Matt that she wasn’t going to go chasing after Frank, and she’d meant it, but then he’d turned up and saved her life and looked at her like she was the most important thing in the world, and all that resolve had gone out the window.  

“You want me to tell you how I think about you all the time? How sometimes I miss you so much I can hardly breathe?”

Karen clenches her hands into fists, nails biting into her palms, trying to drive the resonance of his voice from her mind.

“You want me to tell you that I love you? 

What good would it do?”

Even if he had meant it… it didn’t matter. Nothing he said or Matt had felt mattered if he didn’t want to feel that way.

Karen makes another pot of coffee and hunts for something to do, but she ends up sitting on Frank’s bed, feeling numb. It’s been a whirlwind and she’s just so tired.

Frank finds her sitting there, staring off into space, biting her thumbnail.

“Hey,” he says awkwardly. Karen looks up at him, and damnit if her gaze doesn’t hit him right in his fuckin’ chest. The same way it’s always done— a pleasant pain, like a jolt of electricity right into his heart, stripping him bare.

Karen doesn’t reply with words, just looks at him, unflinching and open. 

“Hey,” he says again, and curses himself because he can’t think of how to begin. How can he tell her what she means to him, when the feeling is so big? When all he can think is that she’s the only thing that makes his dead heart beat?

Frank swears again and crosses the room in a few broad steps and kneels down in front of Karen’s seated form. 

“I didn’t lie to you,” he starts, and then realises that was a bad place to begin, because Karen’s look turns sharp. “I didn’t,” he insists. “And I did. I dunno. I can’t… look, there was…” Frank stops, scowling at himself. He’s fucking this up.  “I didn’t want to.  Not because… I didn’t, y’know… feel somethin’. Because I couldn’t see how I could choose somethin’ else without puttin’ you in the shit.  Bill wasn’t the kinda man to back down or stop. Ever.” 

Frank can’t quite look at her, but he can feel her eyes on him, searching his face as he stumbles through the truth.  

“And I knew there’d… there’d always be another Russo. There’d always be someone I pissed off, comin’ for me, wantin’ revenge, or just ‘cause they wanna take down the Punisher.  So I didn’t want to choose you. ‘Cause it would mean puttin’ you in danger.”  Frank takes a shuddering breath.

“You don’t know what it would do to me if somethin’ happened to you.” 

Karen’s looking at him like he’s breaking her heart all over again, anger and despair warring on her beautiful face. But he lurches on hurriedly, doesn’t want to give her time to interrupt before he has his say. 

“Shit, Karen—the thought that I could drag any of that near you—” Frank has to stop, to clench his teeth and curl his hands into fists. “I can’t even think about it. I can’t be the reason that you— that anything happens to you. I can’t . And I know you can take care of yourself, I know that, but still–”

Karen is sitting, staring down at Frank, her heart in her throat. How many ways can one man wreck her? Because Frank is looking at her like she’s the one thing in the world that matters, but he doesn’t see what he looks like to her .

The only person who’s ever really understood her, down to the core of her, and never flinched at what he found there.

“But Karen— I dunno. I don’t think I’m strong enough.” He looks up at her, and she feels his gaze all the way down to her toes. 

“Strong enough for what?” she finally asks, hesitant. His eyes drop, and he sighs. 

“Strong enough to stay away from you anymore,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “I can’t get you out of my head.  I tried for years and it only got worse.” Frank shakes his head, feels that old familiar pain in the pit of his stomach. “Jesus, it scares the shit out of me.”

“What does?” Karen wants to know, clasping her hands in her lap to hide their shaking. 

Frank meets her eyes, and she shivers at the intensity she finds coiled there.

“What I would do for you. If you asked me to.  If you were in danger.  The things I’d do to keep you alive… you terrify me.”

Karen is silent for so long that Frank begins to worry he’s finally said something to frighten her off, that this will be the moment she comes to her senses and runs as far away from him as she can. He can’t read the emotions that flicker across her face, they’re coming and going too quickly.

Karen’s just trying to find the breath to speak.

She finally takes her hands and gently places them on his shoulders, sliding off the bed and sitting beside him on the hard concrete floor. Karen moves closer, eyes never leaving his, and Frank is suddenly terrified she’s going to kiss him. It feels like the top of a rollercoaster, like he’s dreading the fall and yearning for it at the same time.

But she doesn’t kiss him. Slowly, she bends her head slightly and just presses her forehead to his, letting out a slow exhale that he can feel against his lips.  Frank’s eyes flutter closed, and Karen’s hand moves down from his shoulder and rests on his chest, right above his heart, and Frank slowly moves his hand to cover hers, his rough palm huge against her delicate fingers.  

His head feels foggy, like he’s floating, her presence calming his overactive nervous system, bringing peace to the warzone of his mind.  His other hand comes up to rest against the side of her neck, his thumb gently stroking the curve of her jaw. He can feel her pulse, hot against his palm.

“Frank,” Karen whispers, her voice tight. She takes a deep breath.  “You terrify me too.”

That wasn’t what he was expecting.

“You don’t think that’s how I feel about you?” Karen continues, her voice still low, forehead still pressed to his. “You don’t think I spent these last years dreading looking at the paper every morning?  Or feeling sick every time I heard about a mob shooting that could have left you bleeding out somewhere? Wondering if it even mattered, because maybe you were already dead? God, I spent so much time worrying about you and then kicking myself for it.”

Frank can feel her pulse shuddering against his palm.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t… I didn’t want that.”

“I was so angry with you, Frank.” She sighs. “I still am.”

“You should be,” Frank says, softly. “Shit, you should be fuckin’ furious with me.”

“Stop agreeing with me,” she says, but there’s a twitch of playfulness in her voice. 

“Yes ma’am,” he rumbles, and he feels more than sees her smile.

Karen takes a breath. She’s so scared of this, of how big this feeling is, how fragile the situation. She doesn’t want to do anything to shatter this moment, but at the same time, he has to know what it’ll do if he walks away again. She has to make herself absolutely clear.

“Frank,” and she pulls back a little, so he finds himself trapped in her blue eyes. They’ve both shifted so they’re sitting on the floor rather than kneeling, shoulders leaning against the other’s. Karen needs to stay close to him, to make sure he doesn’t run when she says what she needs to.

“You have to know how badly it hurt.” She swallows. “When you lied to me.” He frowns, like he’s disagreeing. “Okay, when you didn’t tell me the entire truth ,” Karen says, raising her eyebrows at him. It’s a look that clearly says you’re really about to argue semantics with me right now? Frank shuts up even harder.

“You had your reasons– even if I don’t agree with them, you had them. But if you do anything like that again… I don’t know if I’ll be able to forgive you. You have to let me make my own choices. I won’t have anyone in my life who makes decisions for me without letting me have a say.”

Karen backs up her words with a resolute stare, meeting Frank’s dark eyes with her own steel.  He looks wounded, anguished at the pain he’d caused her.

“And Frank… If you want to… not stay away, anymore… I gotta know what that means,” Karen continues in a rush. “I don’t want you here just because you’re not strong enough to stay away.  I don’t need you to stick around to keep me safe.  I need you here because you want to be.”

Frank’s heart starts slamming against his ribs, and he knows she can feel it, her hand still pressed against his chest. It’s a combination of terror, and euphoria, adrenaline and oxytocin pouring through his bloodstream, every molecule in him screaming get away before you hurt her  and for Gods sake never let her go.

“Karen,” he rasps, and God his voice sounds broken even to him, “I… I haven’t wanted anything in a long time. I almost forgot what it feels like. But shit, please believe me— when I say I want to—” he almost chokes on the words, the feeling inside him is so huge, but he struggles through— “it’s not a big enough word.”

Karen feels a weight lift off her heart that she didn’t know had been there.

“Yeah?” she asks softly.  There’s a giddiness beginning to rise in her chest, and something inside her that seems to be slowly unfurling, like the petals of a flower hesitantly opening at the hint of the sun.

Frank nods, and on instinct Karen wraps her arms around him and pulls him into an embrace. Frank’s arms come up and hesitantly take their place around her, and he relaxes into her, burying his face in her hair. Karen can feel his hitching breaths against the sensitive skin on her neck, can feel the warmth and the wetness of his tears. 

Suddenly, his muscles tighten, and Karen finds herself being delicately hauled into Frank’s lap. 

He’s careful with her, trying not to jostle her bruised ribs, but still forceful, desperate, like he can’t stand any space between them. She ends up sitting right on his thighs, her legs out to one side, and she curls them up and folds herself into his arms as they tighten around her.

Karen lets him shudder into her, lets him feel everything that he’s feeling as his halting sobs release years worth of pain. Karen runs her hands over his back, not mollifying or shushing, just supporting, affirming her presence. That he’s not alone. That she’s here for him, like she always has been.

When Frank’s breaths eventually slow, Karen waits for a moment, then pulls back to look at his face. Frank looks exhausted, eyes red, with deep circles under them.

“C’mon,” she says, getting to her feet with a groan at her own creaky knees. Frank cracks a tiny crooked smile, and she returns it before sitting down on the bed and gesturing for him to join her.  Frank hesitates.

“Frank, you look like you haven’t slept in weeks,” Karen says bluntly. “Come lie down.”

He fidgets. 

“Got somewhere you need to be?” she asks archly, and he huffs a small chuckle.

“Nah. Only place I need to be is here.”

Frank sits next to her on the bed, swinging his legs up and lying on his back. Karen gently positions herself next to him, resting her head on his chest, her arm across his ribs. He wraps his own arm around her shoulders. 

Frank can suddenly feel his exhaustion, his eyes fighting to stay open. It feels like he hasn’t slept in years– he hasn’t, not really. He’s been through the emotional wringer today, but he feels lighter. Less twisted up inside. He’s staying still, but there’s no raging in his head, no constant battle in his mind.  He can feel Karen’s warm body along his side, grounding him, assuring him that he’s not alone.  

For the first time in over ten years, Frank Castle falls asleep in the arms of a woman he loves.

Chapter Text

Karen wakes and immediately clocks that something is wrong.

There’s a low, insistent beeping coming from the other room. Frank’s body is tense under hers, his breaths coming sharp. When she opens her eyes, she sees that he’s reaching for a gun on the nightstand with the arm that isn’t slung around her shoulders.

“What is it?” she whispers, staying perfectly still.

“Alarm. Someone’s comin’,” Frank grunts softly.  “Stay here a minute.” Karen pulls her arm from around his chest and Frank slips from the bed silently, padding quickly to the bedroom door. He opens it a crack to check the room outside and slips through it, gun at the ready. She hears him swing the big row of lockers back, disguising the room she’s in.

Karen gets off the bed and goes to the door, peeking through the slits in the lockers, heart beating in her throat. She worries at her lip with her teeth and watches Frank standing in front of his bank of monitors, flicking through screens, stopping when he spots two figures moving through the basement hallways. She sees the tense lines of his shoulders relax, and he calls to her, “Think you’ll wanna see this.”

Karen slips through the narrow aperture and approaches the monitors, unconsciously reaching for Frank’s hand. He looks surprised, but quickly curls his palm around hers, squeezing it reassuringly.  Karen’s other hand comes up to wrap around his thick bicep, and she presses into his side, heartbeat still fast from the adrenaline spike.

On the monitors, she can see two people walking through the basement hallways, and relaxes when she sees Matt and Jessica. They’re making their way through the labyrinthine corridors, their mouths moving silently. Frank flicks a switch and their tinny voices begin to emit from an ancient speaker, fading in and out as they pass from one mic to another.

“Jess, I told you I didn’t need you to come with me,” Matt is saying crankily.  

“And I told you, we agreed nobody goes anywhere alone right now,” Jess snaps back, “or do the rules not apply to the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen?”

“I just don’t think he’s gonna be particularly glad to see I’ve brought someone with me. He’s pretty paranoid. And not known for playing nice.”

“Wow, the Punisher isn’t known for playing nice? And here I’d already made him a friendship bracelet.” Jess’s sarcasm is apparent through the poor quality of the speakers.  “If he’s that paranoid and cranky, why’s he bringing Page back here anyway? And why aren’t you more worried about her?”

“Frank knows Karen. You, on the other hand, are a stranger who isn’t known for her charming personality. He’ll probably shoot you,” Matt grouses.

“He won’t,” Jess says confidently. Matt snorts.

“Oh yeah? What makes you so sure of that?”

“He’s known you for ten years and hasn’t shot you, and you’re way more annoying than I am.”

Next to Karen, Frank lets out a low chuckle. 

“She’s got you there, Altar Boy,” he says, pitching his voice slightly louder. 

On the monitor, Matt stops walking for a second, then sighs.

“You have shot me, Frank,” Matt says clearly. Karen looks up at Frank sharply, and he shrugs his shoulders, a bit abashed.

“It was only the once,” he mutters rebelliously. Karen raises an eyebrow at him.

“Well, too late now.  He knows you’re here,” Matt continues on the monitor, addressing Jessica, and the two of them carry on down the last hallway towards Frank’s room.

Frank flicks the mic switch off, then looks down at Karen, at their entwined hands. Looks back up at her.

Their eyes meet, and there’s a moment of silent communication before she unwraps her hand from around his arm and they both let go of each other. Whatever is happening, it’s too new to share.

Karen steps away from Frank as the door to the room opens, and Matt strides in, all business.

“Thank God,” he says, crossing to her quickly and wrapping her in a gentle hug. “Are you ok?”

She hugs him back. “I’m fine. Bit banged up, but it could have been worse.” The unspoken if it weren’t for Frank hangs there, and Matt turns to the other man.

“Thanks for looking out,” he says, his voice slightly knowing.  Frank snorts.

“Yeah, appreciate the assist, Castle,” drawls Jessica from the doorway. “Next time, you wanna drop us a line so we don’t go chasing an armored convoy 40 blocks in the wrong direction?” She crosses her arms across her chest. “We only got one bulletproof guy. The rest of us gotta raw dog it.” Frank rolls his eyes.

“I don’t have Heroes for Hire on my speed dial, Jones,” he grunts sarcastically. “Keep a better eye out.”

“We’re just glad you’re okay,” Matt cuts in, speaking to Karen. “You’re sure you’re not hurt?”

“Contusion on her ribcage and some nasty bruises. Burn from a stun baton and some superficial cuts. She’ll be fine,” Frank cuts in gruffly, as though he’s offended at the suggestion that Karen could have been seriously injured under his watch— and also peeved that he’d let her get hurt at all. Despite Matt’s close proximity to Karen, Frank hasn’t moved from his spot by her side.

“Well, we can have Claire take a look at you once we get back,” Matt says, taking Karen’s elbow. “We’ve got a new safe house, up in Harlem. One of Luke’s spots.”

“Oh!” Karen says, startled. She hadn’t expected them to want her to leave . “I, um…” she casts her gaze desperately to Frank. She doesn’t want to go, she wants to stay here, with him. After his admission, she doesn’t want to give him a chance to change his mind.

He hasn’t even kissed her yet.

“Might be better if you stay here,” Frank grunts, trying a little too hard to be casual. He’s not quite meeting Karen’s eyes. “Bad tactics to all be in the same place. More likely you get found, that way.” 

Matt’s frowning, and Jessica’s frowning. Karen is about to say that sounds like a good idea to her, when Frank seems to make a decision and looks her in the eye.

“I got a couple contacts I can shake down, get you some dirt on Fisk that ain’t in the public domain. You can go through it here, pass it along to your pals.”

Before he’s finished, Karen is nodding her head.

“Yes. Yeah. That sounds like a good plan.” She can’t take her eyes from his, realizes this a few seconds too late, and quickly turns back to Matt and Jessica. Jessica is looking between her and Frank suspiciously, and Matt has his head cocked in a way that tells her he’s listening to more than just their words. Whatever he hears, Matt’s lips twist into a tiny, smug smirk. 

She wants to punch him in the face.

“Well, if you’re sure, Karen,” he says, trying to keep the grin out of his voice. 

“You’re serious.” Jessica is incredulous. “Page, you’re really planning on holing up in this dump with the most wanted man in New York?”

“None taken,” Frank mutters as Matt, insulted, corrects “ Second most wanted man in New York.”

Karen puts a reassuring smile on her face. “Like Frank said. It really is better if we’re not all frequenting the same area. It’s probably how the Task Force tracked us to Josie’s. And if we can get some dirt on Fisk we can use to force him out of office, or that’ll land him in prison, it’s worth a shot, right?”

Frank makes a small huff at her mention of prison, but she ignores it. Karen does not want to have a debate about the morality of murder with her Catholic vigilante slash lawyer best friend, an alcoholic superpowered PI, and a former Marine turned freelance executioner. Bringing up Frank’s promise to kill Wilson Fisk is decidedly not on today’s agenda. 

“And you have to be here to look through these mystery files that may or may not exist?” Jessica raises an eyebrow. “Where are you gonna sleep? Where are you gonna take a piss, for that matter?”

“I’d give you the grand tour, but the maid’s got the day off,” Frank snaps. “Look, if that piece of shit Fisk is gunning for Karen, this is the safest place for her to be, hands down. Sorry if it ain’t up to code.”

“Really— the safest place is hiding in a basement with a notorious mass murderer.” Jess is stubborn and blunt, and usually Karen appreciates that, but right now she really just wants Jess to stop badgering them.

“It’ll be fine, Jess,” Karen says, maybe a bit too sharply. “Just trust me, okay? Nobody knows that Frank is involved, and we’ve got Poindexter as well as Fisk to keep track of. A basement is probably the best place to hide from a sniper.”

Jess still doesn’t look convinced. Matt, who has been suspiciously quiet during their argument, clears his throat. 

“I’ll figure out a way to get you your laptop,” he promises Karen. His hand, still on her elbow, squeezes. “And your clothes.”

Karen smiles at him. “Thank you.” Then adds belatedly, “And my hair stuff!”

Matt chuckles. 

“Of fucking course. Can’t have a bad hair day while on the lam,” Jessica grouses from her position by the door. 

“We can’t all maintain our luscious locks with 3-in-1 body wash, shampoo and conditioner, Jess,” Karen teases. Jessica rolls her eyes again. 

“Whatever.  Can we go? I’ve got shit to do.” Jessica’s tone is acerbic, but she’s shifting from foot to foot, clearly unhappy with the situation. 

Matt turns to Frank. “Is there a way to get in touch with you two?”

Frank grunts and goes to one of the storage boxes, and pulls out an old flip phone. He turns it on, dials a number, then hangs up before the call connects. 

“Only turn it on when you’re gonna use it, and no texting,” he warns, powering the phone down and handing it to Matt. “And only call the number I dialed. This line ain’t secure, but mine has got some encryption. Should be good enough for now ‘til we can set up Karen’s laptop with somethin’ better.”

Matt nods seriously and pockets the phone. 

“Right. Thank you, Frank.” A smile plays around Matt’s lips. “I see you’ve gotten over your fear of getting your balls kicked.”

Frank huffs a single chuckle.

“Get the fuck outta here, Murdock,” he grumbles, but there’s no venom in his words.  

Matt smiles and gives Karen a final hug. Jess waves from her spot by the door, still looking halfway incredulous and glancing suspiciously between Matt, Karen and Frank.

“I still think this is a stupid plan,” she announces as Matt heads for the door.

“Duly noted,” he says dryly. “Shall we?” He gestures to the closed door.

Jess rolls her eyes. 

“And here I thought you were a gentleman,” she snarks back, as she opens the door and gallantly gestures him through it. Before she leaves, she turns and addresses Frank.

“Hey. Punisher. Anything happens to her, watch your back. I don’t need a gun to do my dirty work.” She levels a hard stare at him, making him mark her words.

Frank nods once, making a face that says fair enough . 

“Shit, Jones. Tell you what, anything happens to her, I'll hand you the gun myself,” he answers. 

That doesn’t seem to be what Jessica was expecting, so she covers her surprise with a glare and slams the door behind her a tad harder than necessary. 

Karen lets out a breath. 

“Should probably get a surveyor in here to make sure she hasn’t cracked the foundations,” she says lightly, turning to the monitors to watch Matt and Jess leave. 

Frank snorts in agreement, and flicks the mic switch on.

“Well, he didn’t shoot you,” they hear Matt say, chuckling. Jessica snorts.

“How long have those two been fucking?” she asks bluntly.

Karen’s cheeks flame red. Almost as red as she thinks Matt’s must be, as she hears him splutter over the microphones.

“Jesus, Jessica –”

“Guess it makes sense why you were so chilled out about leaving her there overnight. He’d definitely have shot you if you’d interrupted–”

Frank flicks the mic switch off, his ears red.

They fall into a slightly awkward silence.

“What did Matt mean?” Karen finally asks, deciding to skirt over the conversation they’d overheard… and the fact that Frank had basically told Jessica to shoot him if Karen were in any way harmed. 

Frank looks a bit chagrined.

“Red needs to keep his smartass comments to himself,” he mumbles. Karen gives him a look, and Frank rubs his hand through his hair—one of his nervous tells, she remembers. 

“I don’t disagree,” she says, rolling her eyes, “but now he’s said it.”

Frank fidgets a bit.

“Ah, he came by the other night, bein’ a pain in my ass.” He pauses. “‘Bout you.”

Karen tries to keep the exasperated smile from her face.

“Matt came by to try and– what, warn you to keep your distance?”

Frank snorts. 

“Yeah, you’d think. Nah.” He pauses, embarrassed. “Opposite, actually.”

Karen raises an eyebrow. “He— what, tried to play wingman?” she teases, and Frank huffs.

“Somethin’ like that,” he agrees, letting a small grin onto his face, and Karen sees that spark in his eyes, the same one she’d first seen in a jail’s visiting room, a lifetime ago now. That little mischievous glint, the one that told of humor, of fun, of a man who had more inside him than pain and death.

“And the topic of your balls came up because…?” she continues to tease, and Frank’s ears go even redder.

“Mind outta the gutter, Karen,” he says gruffly, still fighting down his grin.  “I said some shit about happiness bein’ a kick in the balls waiting to happen. He asked if I was so scared of gettin’ my balls kicked, I’d cut ‘em off instead.”

“Did he actually say ‘balls’?” Karen wants to know, unable to stop the smile that’s creeping onto her face.  Frank nods.

“He did.”

“Wow. I’ve known Matt for ten years and I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say ‘balls’ until today.”

“Sounded weird, comin’ from him. Like hearin’ a nun curse.”

“What it would take to get him to say ‘tits’, do you think?” Karen wonders, and Frank scowls, even as his lips quirk up into a half grin at the thought.

“Nothin’ I want you doin’,” he mutters. Karen rolls her eyes.

“I hate to break it to you, Frank, but I just don’t like him like that.”

Frank’s eyes are suddenly on her, serious.

“Why not?” he asks, and Karen’s reminded of how penetrating and incisive his gaze can be. How naked she feels under it.

She shrugs.

“We just don’t…fit, that way,” she tries to explain. “The first time we tried, it just messed everything up. We were both lying to each other too much. And then once we stopped lying, it was just sort of clear that the people we really were didn’t fit together.” Karen stops, to guage Frank’s reaction. He’s still looking at her intently, and she bites her lip before continuing. “We had a casual thing going on for a bit.  Hooking up, no strings. But with work, starting the new firm, and … Foggy… we just realized it wasn’t something either of us wanted.” Karen shrugs. “I love him, but not like that. He’s my family.”

Frank’s eyes search her face. His lip had twitched when she mentioned their “casual” hookups, but seeing as the last time they’d seen each other he’d basically shoved her at Matt, she wants him to know she’s considered that option and rejected it. That they both had. That her friendship with Matthew Murdock is dear to her, and always will be, and it’s never going to go beyond that.

“You, uh, didn’t find anyone else that fit?” Frank hedges, and Karen huffs.

“No, Frank,” she replies, allowing a little sarcasm to creep into her voice. “It’s hard enough dating in this town when you don’t have a pile of skeletons in your closet. And in my case, some of those skeletons are literal.” Karen takes a deep breath. “I’d only be putting them in danger.”

Frank frowns. 

“You think Fisk would try to go after you through someone else?”

“Fisk. Bullseye. The Gnuccis. The Hand. I’m too close to it all.” She shrugs. “Anyone around me could get killed because of what I do.”

“Well, I got some practice at that,” he tries to joke, but Karen’s not laughing.

“Don’t you dare, Frank Castle,” she chokes out, and suddenly she finds herself throwing her arms around him.

“You’re not allowed,” she whispers into his neck. “You hear me? I won’t allow it.”

Frank’s arms come up to wrap around her. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs into her ear. “Shit, sorry, Karen, I didn’t mean–I wasn’t makin’ fun–” 

“I know,” she whispers back. “It’s ok. But just… just… I already had to mourn you once. Don’t make me do it again.”

He nods into her hair.

“Yes ma’am,” Frank finds himself saying. “But Karen…” he sighs and pulls back from her embrace. “Look, I gotta do what I gotta do, okay? We got business to take care of. I’m not even thinkin’ about changin’ a single goddamn thing until that shithead Fisk is in the ground.  And it’s gonna… it’s not gonna be safe, y’know?”

“I know. But remember. If anything happens to you, it happens to me too.” She’s glaring at him. “Just… remember that.”

Frank nods, seriously, chastened.

“Yeah. You too, Karen. But even… after,” he winces at the word, “I’m never gonna be who I was,” he warns. “I’m…I’m not gonna be that guy.”

“Frank,” Karen sighs. She places a hand on his cheek. “I’m not…asking you to change. I don’t know what… this… will look like. But I never met that man,” she says gently. “I don’t know him. He’s… he’s not the one I want.” She swallows, drops her eyes before meeting his again. “I want the man who fits me.”

“It ain’t gonna be easy, Karen,” Frank whispers, worried.

“Frank,” says Karen, half amused and half exasperated, “do you think I want ‘easy’?” She bites her lip.  “I just want you,” she whispers. 

“Yeah?” he asks, and there’s a hint of that smirk on his face again, of the Frank she knew years ago, and Karen’s heart jumps at the sight.

“Yeah,” she says, rolling her eyes at him a bit, fighting down a smile.

“Okay,” Frank says, and the smile lights up her face.

He looks into her big blue eyes and feels it right down to his toes, the love she has for him. Frank feels humbled, unworthy of it, but at the same time there’s a giddiness creeping through him, his blood prickling with possibility. It’s scary and exhilarating all at once.

There’s a sudden feeling in the air, close and hot and still, like the atmospheric pressure before a storm. Frank feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand, reacting to the change. Karen’s face morphs from shy to something wide-eyed and anticipatory.  Her eyes flicker over his features, from his eyes to his lips and back again.  He swallows against his nervousness.

Karen’s hand is still resting on his face, and he moves in towards her, slowly, unable to stop looking from her eyes to her lips.

“Karen,” Frank says, his voice low, hesitant.   “Do you… Shit. Uh, can I…”

“Please,” she breathes.

He brings his hands up to either side of her neck, thumbs resting against her jaw. He can feel her pulse fluttering under his fingers, mirroring the rapid beating of his heart. It pounds in his ears, so fast but so sure , telling him this is his only way forward now. There’s no other path for him but the one she walks on.

They’d been circling each other for so long, keeping just at the edges of the other’s life, that this feels like an impossible inevitability — something that could never happen and was always going to anyway. A controlled collision, two objects hurtling along the same trajectory, pulled together and forced apart by forces beyond their control, until they’d had enough and decided to collide on their own.

Frank’s lips come down on Karen’s gently but firmly, tentative and yet certain. She’s trembling under his hands.  He feels the softness of her lips on his, can sense the heat of her breath, taste the sweetness of her skin. He pulls back slightly, letting out a sigh of relief, his face pulling into a smile, before he goes in again, kissing her more firmly, more definitively. Her mouth responds to his, moving with him to a rhythm that they’ve never felt before but both instinctively seem to know.

Finally .

It reminds him of his first taste of ice cream. 

Frank’s parents hadn’t been big on sweets, so he’d been older than most kids the first time he tried it. He can still remember the way the cool creamy chocolate felt on his tongue, the way his brain lit up at the sweet taste, craving more, more, more . Like it was all he’d ever need to be happy, forever.

That’s what kissing Karen is like. 

Her hands move behind his head, one resting at the nape of his neck, the other dragging fingers through the short, spiky bristles. The touch lights a fire in him and suddenly her mouth isn’t close enough, it can never be close enough. Frank makes a noise he can barely hear through the pounding of his blood in his ears and one arm wraps around Karen’s waist, pulling her closer, and the other slides into the soft fall of her hair. 

Karen sighs into his lips and kisses him back with the same desperation, the same release of inhibition. There’s no going back now.  This isn’t the gentle first kiss of a man who’s taken the pretty girl who’d flirted with him in the park to dinner, it’s the first kiss of two people who’d already been through hell together, who have been changed by one another. It’s not a beginning, not really, it’s an affirmation. A surrendering. A recognition.

I see you. I know you.

I love you.

Frank pulls back after what could have been hours or days or months, breathless, his chest heaving against Karen’s. Their eyes meet and he knows the amazement he sees in hers is mirrored in his own.

“Karen,” he whispers, his fingers moving against her back, stroking her through the soft fabric of her borrowed t-shirt. “I—” 

He chokes, the words too big to come out. Frank closes his eyes and rests his forehead against hers. Sighing. 

“I’m yours.” He murmurs roughly, dragging the words from a place inside himself he’d thought was dead and gone. “I’m yours."

“Frank,” Karen replies softly, fingers still stroking the nape of his neck. “Yeah. I’m… I’m yours.” She smiles, he can feel it, even though his eyes are still closed and the only place their faces are touching is their foreheads. He can feel the energy in the air change with the joy on her face. And so he opens his eyes.

Karen’s shyly smiling, but it lights up her face like nothing he’s seen before. It hits him hard in the gut, how strong she is, how brave and smart and kind, and how he’s such a fuckin’ idiot for trying to deny her.  He grins back at her, and kisses her forehead, keeping her close.

Karen’s stomach takes the opportunity to let out a low growl. She blushes.

“I heard that,” Frank says in a wry voice. 

“Heard what?” she asks innocently, blushing harder.

“When was the last time you ate?” Frank curses himself. She hasn’t eaten anything the entire time she’s been here, and knowing her, she’d skipped a meal or two on the day of her aubduction.

“I, ah, I don’t remember,” she admits sheepishly. 

He frowns.

“C’mon, I’ll make us somethin’.”

Karen doesn’t let go.

She tightens her grip, pulling him closer. Brushes her lips against his. 

“I’m not hungry,” she murmurs. And kisses him again.

Kissing Frank might be Karen’s new favourite drug. Better than champagne, his lips make her blood bubble with sparks of joy, mixed with something lower, deeper, more intense. Like whisky with a champagne chaser, smoky and warm and spreading through her body, feeling every inch of her respond to his lips, from the floatiness in her head right down to the tips of her toes. She's never going to get enough of the way his chest feels against hers, of the softness of his lips, of the light scratch of stubble against her face. She feels lit up from the inside, giddy.

Frank kisses her like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do, and he wants to do it right.

He finally pulls away again, just enough to speak, ignoring the small huff of disappointment she makes.  

“Karen, you keep that up and you’re not gonna get any breakfast,” Frank mock growls into her lips. Karen grins and pecks him again, eyes sparkling with mischief. 

“I’m a dangerous man, Page,” he says mock warningly. “You sure you wanna test me?” She rolls her eyes.

“You ever think that maybe I’m a dangerous woman, Castle?”

“Don’t I know it,” he says wryly, kissing her again before they reluctantly let each other go.

Frank makes some omelettes for them on his hot plate, slicing in some veggies he’d picked up when he’d been out earlier. They eat standing at his workbench, using plastic plates and utensils that had come into the lair with the veggies and eggs, and Karen smiles, touched that he’s taking care of her. It’s been a long time since anyone had tried, and even longer since she’d let them. 

She lets him.

“So, what now?” She asks once they’re done eating.  Frank clears his throat.

“Way I see it, we got two problems, Fisk and the Task Force,” he says. “So I’m thinkin’ we see about gettin’ some shit on Fisk that turns his goons against him, divide and conquer. He won't be as powerful if he doesn't have an army at his back-- he'll be vulnerable.” He looks at her, a bit gruff, not used to asking for someone else’s opinion on his tactics. “That sound like a start?”

“Sounds good,” Karen says, then smiles. “And… after that?”

He huffs.

“That ain’t enough to be gettin’ on with?”

“What can I say. I’m a long-term planner,” she says solemnly.  Frank snorts.

“Karen, you are as impulsive a person as I’ve ever met,” he says, fondly exasperated. “But… after… I dunno.” He ducks his head. “But I guess I’d kinda like to find that out. Y’know. With you.”

Karen smiles.

“I think I’d like that, too.”

For now, there’s a Mayor to topple, a war to fight, pretenders to put down, a city to save. And after that, who knows. There will always be criminals, scum who try to drag the city down to their level, and good people who try to raise it up. Frank knows he’ll never stop fighting, in one way or another– and neither will she.

It feels good to know they won’t have to fight alone.