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Frank Castle is starting to wonder about the repercussions of regular overconsumption of caffeine. He’s had two pots today, two goddam pots of straight black caffeinated brew.
The hours he is pulling at the bar are ridiculous, covering shifts and working overtime, one day blending into the next. He can’t remember the last time he’d had a full night of sleep.
He thinks that exhaustion has finally caught up to him. He’s ready to give in to siren call of sweet unconsciousness.
If only this asshole would finish his drink and get out.
“Hey, buddy,” he says casually, leaning over the bar, “last call. We’re closing in five minutes.”
The guy nods, giving a sloppy salute. “Aye-aye sir,” he slurs.
Frank sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. He really wishes his boss would stop bragging about his service to anyone who would listen. Some people are really great about it, thanking him for his service, giving an extra measure of respect. Most, however, decide to mock him with it.
After all, how pathetic is it that a Marine ends up a bartender in a slum like this? No offense to Josie, she does the best with what she has, but honestly, if she’d just let him fix the sign out front, maybe slap a new coat of paint on the walls— he shakes his head. Ah, what did it matter? He’d still be a veteran with a criminal record working in one of the shoddiest bars this side of New York. A new coat of paint isn’t going to change that.
The asshole finally decides to get the fuck out, slapping down his money with a leering grin, purposely leaving a miserable tip.
“Have a nice night,” Frank says pleasantly, but he lets his eyes say what he’s really thinking, danger in the way they narrow.
The man suddenly seems to remember that Marines are not to be fucked with. He swallows, wobbling off his stool and making his way towards the door. “I’ll— I’ll do that, thanks.”
The door swings open, letting in a blast of muggy air. This summer has been sweltering, even the nights are warm, the trapped heat suffocating and humid, locked in every alleyway, sealed in every street.
Frank turns to put the cash in the register, thumbing through the guy’s sweaty bills. His head jerks up as the door swings open again, annoyance already rising against the person who is daring to come in right at closing time.
He begins to speak, but the words die in this throat as he takes in the leggy blonde sliding onto the bar stool. She tries to hide her face, but he catches a glance anyway. What he had thought to be a flush from the heat is actually the result of a very intense cry. Strands of her long hair are plastered to her face, her nose is bright red, her porcelain cheeks stained with sharp pink.
Shit. He swallows. Just what he needs. He glances up at the clock, knowing it’s time to close, knowing he’s gonna get his ass kicked by Josie if she ever finds out what he’s about to do, but his greatest weakness has always been a crying woman. Or dog, really.
“Ma’am?” he asks, as gentle as he can, knowing that his battle worn voice really isn’t up to the task of being soft or comforting. “Can I get you something?”
She raises her eyes to his, and holy god is he glad he decided to let her stay. Glistening baby blues shine out of her sweet face, making his chest tight with the urge to fuck up whoever or whatever hurt her.
She licks her lips, gathering her composure, and he can’t help but follow the movement. Jesus, her lips— stained an uneven cherry, like she’s been sucking on a lollipop.
“Um,” she breathes in, steadying her voice, “can I get a Michelob?”
He tsks out the side of his mouth. “Sorry, no can do. We’re out.”
She laughs bitterly. “Big surprise. The way this day has been going…” she trails off, hiding her head again, and tucking her hair behind her ears.
Well, dammit. He frowns, tapping his fingers on the top of the counter, and makes the decision that neither of them are leaving this bar until he’s made this woman laugh. As much as he hates the stereotype of the wise, ever ready to listen bartender, if she wants to tell him her life story he’s gonna damn well let her.
“Well, really, it’s lucky for you we don’t have it.”
She lifts her head, fingers still perched behind her ears, and frowns at him. “Why?”
“Cuz’ Michelob is a shit beer, that’s why.”
She makes an indignant noise of surprise, but he can tell she’s not really offended. He even thinks he might see a smile threatening at the corner of her mouth.
“Oh, really?”
“Really. Hate to say it ma’am, but you have terrible taste in beer.”
The smile peeks out now, though she tries to hide it behind her hand. “Okay, Mr. Bartender, what do you recommend I try?”
“We got this new craft beer in last week,” he tells her, turning to open the fridge and grab her a bottle, “Josie doesn’t normally hold with the “fancy shit”, as she calls it, and to be honest neither do I, but it ended up being a big hit.”
He pops the lid off the top and sets the bottle down in front of her, nearly startling out of his skin as she accidentally brushes his fingers before he pulls away.
She tucks her hair behind her ear again, sheepishly hiding a pleased grin.
“Sam Adams Boston Lager,” she reads off the label. “Sounds staunchly American.”
He snorts. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t watch her try a sip, doesn’t watch the way her smooth throat moves as the liquid goes down. Doesn’t watch her pink tongue travel over her lips as she considers the taste. He doesn’t.
She tilts her head. “It’s kinda…spicy, actually. With a little caramel mixed in.”
He raises his brows, unimpressed. “If you say so, ma’am.”
She frowns, a playful smile still in place. “You’ve never tried it?”
“As I said, I don’t really hold with the fancy shit.”
She hums, taking another sip. “Well, I like it. Thank you for the recommendation.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
The conversation lags after that, her quietly nursing her beer, him trying to appear busy, washing glasses, wiping down the counter for the third time, pretending like he’s not watching her out of the corner of his eye, like he can’t see that she’s getting close to breaking down again.
When she’s halfway through the bottle, and the tears tremble at her lids, he finally can’t stand it anymore.
He clears his throat softly to get her attention, hoping that she won’t be offended by his offer. “Look, ma’am, I know it’s none of my goddamed business, but if somebody is hurting you I’d be more than willing to kick their ass.”
She huffs out a little breath through her nose, her sweet mouth twisting sour. “What are you, the patron saint of wounded women? The vigilante that protects the defenseless?”
He counters bluntly. “Are you defenseless?”
Her eyes flick to his quickly, battle flaring inside them. “Absolutely fucking not.”
“Then no ma’am, I’m not protecting the defenseless, I’m offering to help.” He sends her a wicked grin. “I’ll hold ‘em down, you punch.”
She shakes her head, unable to help the smile spreading across her face. “That doesn’t sound so bad right about now. And I could certainly use the extra man power.”
He shrugs. “Then what’s stopping us? Let’s go teach that shitbag a lesson.”
She sighs, the enjoyment going out of her face. “That’s the problem, he’s not a shitbag, not really.”
She swirls the liquid at the bottom of her drink, looking off into space. “He just…he just wants to do the right thing. But sometimes that means he ends up hurting people, to “protect” them. He’s been lying to me for so long and I feel so goddam stupid because I should have seen it, should have known without him telling me, but I was so enraptured with him I couldn’t see what was right in front of my nose.”
Frank grunts. “Still sounds like a shitbag to me.”
She sighs again, dragging her fingers slowly through her hair, and he notices how tired she looks. Like the weight of the world has been resting on her shoulders for awhile now, and this was the final brick to topple the balance and send her tumbling.
“You—you care about him a lot, huh?” he says softly.
She looks up, her sad eyes speaking volumes without her having to say anything. “What makes you say that?”
“Because the people who can hurt you, can really hurt you, are the ones that are close enough to do it.”
“Yeah.” She nods. “Yeah, that sounds about right. But it’s not… it’s not just him. It’s everything. It’s my life, this place, everything that has happened in the last couple of months, it seems to just keep escalating. And it feels like I’m stuck right in the middle of every shit storm that happens.”
He leans his forearms on the bar, eyes attentive and kind. “You wanna tell me about it?”
She holds his gaze for a moment, contemplating, then softly, so softly and so broken, she replies, “Yes. Yes, I think I do.”
/
By the time they finish talking the bright light of dawn is filtering through the bar’s streaked glass windows, casting a shimmering haze around her bowed blonde head.
To say he’s blown away by what this woman has been through, by what she’s survived and how strong she is, is the understatement of the goddam century.
And she knows, she’s got to know, that she’s told him things that can have her landed in jail for years if it ever got out. And yet, she had told him. He doesn’t know if it's because she trusted him, or if everything she was feeling had suddenly come to a head and she needed to get it all out— and by chance, he had been available. He could certainly relate to that feeling.
She’d told him everything, holding nothing back, once she had started it was impossible for her to stop without revealing every truth. No reservations, barreling through the pain, crying more often than not, she poured out her life story, her troubles, her sins, keeping that fierce, unwavering fire in her eyes all the while. She had told him, trusted him, a stranger, and he would keep that trust.
And that trust was returned. For when she had finished, and sat shaking, knees knocking under the table they'd seated themselves at, rattling the numerous empty beer bottles sitting atop, he had told her sins of his own.
He talked about his time overseas; he talked about the killing. He told her how his life fell apart when he got the message that his family was dead. He told her how he fell into a state of apathy, too broken to function. How when that apathy was replaced with rage he landed himself in jail for involuntary manslaughter.
It had seemed like the night would last forever, in the darkness their admissions had felt safe. But as light pours in, glaringly bright through the wide windows, everything spoken feels exposed.
Two strangers, seated at a table, surrounded by their demons. Knowing that eventually they will have to raise their heads and look eachother in the face, acknowledge what has been borne between them in the late hours of the night, not knowing if the other will see a monster living within.
She’s the first to break the silence, still looking down at her twisting hands. “Um…” she starts, then halts, barking out a soft laugh. “God, I don’t even know your name.”
He can see her reaching for her beer in his peripheral, and extends a hand to stop her.
“I’m cutting you off,” he rumbles. “You’ve definitely reached your limit, ma’am.”
She looks up as he grasps lightly around her wrist, her bloodshot eyes and frazzled hair not making her any less beautiful in the early morning light.
They hold that gaze. His twitchy fingers, the traitors, start rubbing soft circles into her skin.
“Okay,” she whispers, not moving her hand. “Okay.”
He searches her eyes for fear, for judgement, and finds none. She looks back, appearing to be looking for the same. He hopes she can feel the acceptance in his gaze, his pride for her being so brave.
He finds he doesn’t want to pull away. Her skin is so delicate, the downy hair of her arms glinting almost auburn in the sun.
“Frank,” he tells her, an answer to a not-quite-question nearly forgotten, “Frank Castle.”
“Karen,” she breathes, lips pressing together as her throat works, tears of relief pricking at her eyes. “Karen Page.”
He hushes her soothingly, instinctively bringing a hand up to wipe away her tears. “You got nothin’ to worry about ma’am. Nothin’ to worry about. Not from me, anyway.”
“Thank you,” she says simply, needing no explanation, needing to say nothing else.
The alarm on his phone goes off, breaking through the still silence, sending them both startling back.
He curses as she smiles, watching him fumble to turn the blasted thing off.
“Damn,” he grouses, finally shutting it up, “where the fuck did the time go.” He glances up from the screen. “I gotta open up in thirty minutes.”
She glances at the clock over the bar. “Oh my god. I’m going to be late for work.” She drops her head in her hands. “And I haven’t brushed my teeth for twelve hours.”
Frank grins suggestively. “Want me to check to see if you have morning breath?”
Karen snorts. “I wouldn’t ask for such a sacrifice, not after all you’ve done already. Speaking of which, how much is,” she waves her hand over the bottle littered table, “all of this?”
“Nothing,” he states firmly. “It’s on me, ma’am. And it’d be a sacrifice I’d be very willing to make.”
She begins protesting immediately. “I can’t let you do that!”
“Do what? Buy all the beer or make that sacrifice?”
She narrows her eyes playfully, studying him. “Well,” she says eventually, “if you won’t take my money, I guess I’ll have to pay you another way.”
He ducks his head to the side, a grin creeping up his face. “I didn’t mean that ma’am. You don’t owe me anything.”
She leans in close, guiding his face forward with the tips of her fingers. She’s so near he can smell her shampoo. Some flowery vanilla shit, and God does it smell good.
He’s stuck staring at her like a deer in the headlights, her fingers a light but distracting, pleasant pressure on his chin.
“Well,” she goads, “aren’t you going to check?”
He tilts forward, the natural pull of attraction taking the decision from his conscious thoughts.
But uncertainty still simmers inside the allure, it’s been so long since he’s felt this drawn to someone. He’s unsure, desire warring with guilt, genuine like fighting doubt.
She must see it in his eyes, for her fingers gently drag down his stubble and drop, her face full of dejection, and yet understanding.
“It’s alright,” she murmurs, eyes soft. “I pushed too hard. I’m sorry.”
She laughs, her sadness simmering beneath the sound. “I should have known. Everything I touch seems to go wrong.” Her eyes go distant, racing across miles and miles back to a little town and a brother long lost. “Everyone I touch—“ her voice wobbles.
He doesn’t want to let her finish that sentence. Assurity surges within him as he makes up his mind.
He places a steadying hand on the side of her seat and leans over into her space— and clumsily, cautiously, his lips catch her own.
She startles slightly, then immediately tilts her head for a better angle, her bottom lip sliding slick against his, her hands coming up and twisting in his hair.
He’s out of a practice, he’s sure she can tell, but the feel of her warm hands clutching at him, of one of her long legs hooking behind his muscled calf to pull him closer, of her sugary sweet lips smooth from cherry chapstick teasing his mouth, distracts him past the point of caring.
They break away in sync, both breathless, color high in their cheeks.
She smiles saucily, looking out from under her lashes as he tries to regain his composure.
“Well, shit,” he finally drawls, “You were right. It does taste like fucking caramel.”
Karen throws back her head and laughs, loud and free, and for that moment, the burden of her troubles fall away.
Frank smiles. Mission accomplished.