Work Text:
Snow crunched under his feet, fresh powder sifting down through the bars of the fire escape. It had become a routine for him to knock twice before she’d let him in, for information sharing or the occasional stitch up, but this time he froze before his fist could tap on the window. Beyond the glass he could see the lights of her kitchen were on, faint and yellow against the December night. A line of more colorful Christmas lights bordered the cabinets and a small potted pine sat at the center of her dining table.
And there was Karen— lying sprawled, face down against the linoleum.
Not moving.
A bolt shot through him, instinct taking over.
In two heartbeats he had slid the window open and then eased his body soundlessly inside. His boots alighted on the floor without any of the noise their size and heft might have suggested. No intruders were visible, but his gun was at the ready.
“Karen,” he hissed.
She jerked up in surprise, a hoarse gasp catching in her throat as she twisted to look over her shoulder. “Frank!” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Jesus! You can’t do that to me.”
“You were on the floor.” His pulse plummeted back into something that resembled sanity. “Unmoving. I thought you’d been attacked.”
He’d thought she was dead.
“No. No attack.” Still breathing heavily, she got to her feet, dusting off her knees before letting them drop from visibility under the straight line of her skirt. “This is a stakeout.”
“A stakeout.” Frank’s eyes swept over the kitchen again, the green cabinets, the shelves of cooking supplies— a more impressive collection that one might have expected her to own, given that he knew she didn’t cook often. Some boxes of Chinese Food were on the counter, and the only thing slightly out of place was an overturned mixing bowl on the floor.
Karen gestured at said bowl and then at the refrigerator. “Yeah. For that.” She jabbed a finger at a small shadow under the gap beneath the fridge door. As if on cue, the shadow suddenly moved— scurried— towards another nook in the baseboard by her sink.
Frank had a brief impression of beady eyes and a tail.
He blinked. “You’re hunting a mouse.”
“It might be a rat,” she said with grim dignity. “It has a certain girth.”
“Pretty sure it’s just a fat mouse,” Frank said, crouching down to try and get a better look. A smile twitched on his lips. There was something amusing about discovering Karen Page, intrepid journalist, not in any real danger but in the midst of planning an ambush of a brazen, intrusive rodent.
“Well, he raided my cookie stash, so either way, that’s a declaration of war.”
He looked up to give her an understanding nod. “Need some backup?”
“You already broke in, so you might as well be useful,” she said. “I rigged a trap, but he hasn’t fallen for it yet.”
Karen left his side, briefly, to shut the window he’d left open, so that the warmth of her radiator wouldn’t escape into the chilly night.
Frank moved closer to look at her handiwork. Upon inspection, he saw that she’d propped up the mixing bowl with a leftover chopstick and smeared a little peanut butter at the base. If disrupted, it would fall, trapping the mouse.
“Nice set up. And at least you didn’t use cheese.”
Karen snorted. “No, I know better than that. We used to have to set traps to keep rats out of the hen house.”
His eyebrows shot up in mild surprise. “You grew up with chickens?”
“My parents ran a diner.” She shrugged. “We needed lots of eggs.”
“Country girl, huh?”
It was the first time she’d mentioned anything about her family and the shuttered look on her face— he could feel the pain, the loss, that sat underneath. Oh. He knew that feeling all too well.
Frank cleared his throat. “If he’s not going for the peanut butter, maybe it’s because he has a sweet tooth. You have any of those cookies left?”
“I tossed the ones he got into,” Karen said. “But I have an unopened bag. I put it in the fridge after he shredded the one in my pantry.”
She went to the fridge and took out the remaining cookies.
“Ginger snaps?” Frank said quietly, noticing the bag.
“Yeah.” Her mouth tightened. “My mom and I used to make them every December. I don’t really bake anymore, but— I always miss her, this time of year. Every time of year. But especially now.”
“Yeah?”
She didn’t say anything else, but he took the cookie bag from her, and gave her hand a little squeeze. Her fingers were cold.
Frank ripped open the bag and broke a cookie into pieces. He left a short trail of crumbs leading up to the bowl and then placed a good sized chunk under its rim.
Then he came back over to Karen.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Now we wait,” he said and moved to the kitchen floor, going prone, chest flat against the tile, bracing himself on his elbows so he could scan for movement. Karen slid down next to him, and assumed a similar position to the one he had found her, minutes earlier. Except now they were lying side by side, stealthily positioned next to her dining table bench.
There was a faint whispery rustle as the chiffon of her blouse brushed against his shoulder and he could smell her shampoo— nothing heavy or floral, just clean and bright and entirely her– and he had to stop himself from inhaling too hard to absorb more of the scent. He remembered tangling his hand through that long, golden hair the last two times he’d wound up on the floor with Karen Page. Shielding her from bullets. Cupping the back of her head as he scanned her face for blood and shrapnel.
She leaned closer and the hair cascaded to one side, luminous despite the harsh glare of the fluorescent ceiling lights. A few strands tickled his arm and he turned to look at her— her eyes sparkling and winter blue, her lips just inches from his own. Something stirred in Frank— the quiet intimacy of being this close to a woman— but there was no hiding any truths from himself. It was being this close to Karen that did things to him. Karen, breaking his resolve, making him doubt, letting him want to have something other than his next kill to care about.
She dragged the bag of cookies over to her and fished one out. Breaking it in half, she handed it to Frank.
“Snack break,” she said.
He laughed and took the cookie. It was still a little cold from being in the fridge and tasted of cinnamon, nutmeg, and had tiny bits of candied ginger packed into its crisp, spicy crunch. “Not bad,” he approved. “Even when not in a broom closet.”
She smiled.
Just then, there was a flash movement and the creature itself darted out and over to her trashcan. It lingered there for a moment, before its little quivering nose emerged, sniffing the air. Karen grabbed Frank’s hand in excitement and they watched it tentatively approach the trap.
Cautiously, it ventured closer and closer toward the irresistible treat, nibbling on a crumb, then edging even closer. Yes, yes, come on, buddy—
The plump mouse crept right up to the rim of the bowl and stuck its head under. Its little paws moved in and it scrabbled to get another tasty morsel, when suddenly, it bumped against the chopstick that precariously supported the trap—-
The mouse dove out before the bowl finished clattering to the floor.
“Damnit!” cried Karen but before the word was out of her mouth, Frank had sprung up, unwilling to accept failure. He snatched a large coffee mug from next to the microwave and leaped into the mouse’s path. The thing squeaked in surprise and veered off, straight at Karen.
“Shoo!” she yelled, but it charged right at her.
She dodged and then managed to give it a small kick with the side of her shoe– sending it scampering back towards the fridge. Frank whirled around and in one swift motion, he clamped the mug down upon its small body. It barely fit, but he’d managed to capture it precisely.
“Oh my God!” Karen panted after the chaos had ended. “That was crazy! Did you really catch him?”
“Yeah.” He gave a grin with just a touch of pride.
Karen fetched the mixing bowl and a piece of cardboard to slide under the mug and dump him into the bowl. Then she covered the top with the cardboard so he couldn’t escape again.
Frank watched her.
“You’re gonna let it go?”
“Of course. It’s nearly Christmas.” She straightened, her smile settling— a little sad, a little hopeful, the way people smile when the season aches more than it comforts. “Besides, we’ve had enough killing between us, haven’t we?”
His throat tightened, imperceptibly— he hoped. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Guess we have.”
The mouse thumped his body against the side of the bowl, unimpressed by the gravity of their moment.
“If you put him out, he’ll just come back inside.” Frank pointed out. “And probably bring the rest of his family along too.”
“We can relocate him,” Karen said, peering into the bowl. “Or maybe— rehabilitate him. He’s kind of cute.”
“You want to keep it— as a pet?”
“I don’t know. . . Just look at him, he’s exhausted. His little heart is beating so fast.” Karen broke off a piece of cookie and dropped it into the bowl. “He was running for his life, like a little hero.”
“He’s a rodent,” Frank protested. But not very convincingly.
“Well, I’m not gonna turn him out in the cold tonight at least. But maybe— temporarily, he can stay here.” Karen went to her bedroom and emerged carrying a clear plastic storage tub, with a lid.
“Jesus Christ,” muttered Frank.
But he helped her shred up some old copies of the Bulletin and paper towels as bedding and then heated up the tip of a screwdriver on the stove to punch air holes in the lid. Karen nodded, looking impressed at the technique.
The mouse dove into its new nest and made itself a happy burrow. Frank rolled his eyes.
“I hope he’s not lonely,” Karen frowned a little.
“He’ll do fine,” Frank said. “He’s clearly a survivor.”
“Tough guy, huh?” Karen said. “Even so– it’s a— hard time of year to be alone.”
“Even for mice,” said Frank dryly, not missing her meaning.
“Even for anybody,” she said with conviction. Then she went to the cabinet and pulled out two clean mugs. “I was going to make some hot chocolate before I caught the pitter-patter of little feet across the kitchen floor.” She kept her chin turned carefully away from him as she asked, “Will you stay?”
He hesitated, but it was only a symbolic effort. Then– “Okay.”
It turned out to be good cocoa too, not the kind you have to pretend to like. Frank took a long drink.
“What are you gonna call him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Steve.”
“Steve?”
“He looks like a Steve,” Karen said. “Why, you don’t like it?”
“Well, it’s better than Eugene,” Frank huffed.
“Eugene?”
“Never been a fan of that name. But it’s kind of hard to ask a mouse what he likes.”
“He seems happy,” Karen said.
“Steve” had arranged his new habitat to his liking, washed his whiskers, and now had curled up into a soft ball, his eyes half closed, ears relaxed. Frank supposed he must be enjoying going to bed warm and with a full belly.
“I guess it’s better he’s in a cage than chewing on power cords or leaving mouse turds next to your cereal.”
“I don’t have any cereal. Cupboards are pretty bare actually. I don’t know how he got so fat.”
“Well, I’m not letting you starve before him,” Frank said wryly, and passed her another ginger snap. “Not on my watch.”
“I’m glad you’re looking out for me.”
Outside, the snow fell. Inside, there was cocoa, ginger snaps, the glow of Christmas lights, and a warmth to the room that had nothing to do with the radiator in the corner.