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Carving out a private spot by the water happens without much forethought.
Karen had thought her bottled up grief towards him would come bursting out if they ever saw each other again. It doesn't.
Two months pass after they trade momentary gazes from rooftop to street before they accidentally stumble upon one another. It’s fitting that it happens while they are following the same criminal lead, albeit for different reasons and with different tactics.
All she can notice is how Frank look, weathered in a way that has less to do with the perpetual bruising and more to do with the tired lines sinking further into his skin. She gets an urge to put a hand to his cheek and trace those lines with a warm touch they undoubtedly need.
Her hands stay tucked in her coat.
They fall into this pattern of shared company before either really recognizes it for what it is. She thinks perhaps she initiated it, but in their world of unspoken knowns, it feels too mutual for her to take credit.
The only thing she can take credit for is the spot, one of many passing locations she’d been called to by Ben way back when. She thinks it might be a requirement of every New Yorker to enjoy this kind of view. It helps give perspective, after all.
At a bench by the waterfront, they meet.
Sometimes they trade notes or texts calling upon the other, sometimes it's planned at the end of the previous meeting. Most of the time, business is involved, trading information to help one another out.
But that's not always the case. Occasionally, it's out of unacknowledged loneliness, with only a handful of words exchanged throughout.
It's one of these times that they find themselves sitting on the bench again.
Frank initiated this particular meeting, but there's no discernible reason for it. She has nothing to offer and neither does he, so instead they sit, braving the cold in matching dark ensembles of coats and boots, watching the rough waves crash against one another.
Eventually, Karen opens her mouth first and absently asks about faith. The words aren't very loud against the wind, but she never has to worry about whether or not he’ll hear her.
He scoffs at the question. "Hanging out with Red again, are ya?"
The simple yet easily understandable nickname brings a soft curve to her lips. She sends him a sideways look. "Why? Is that what he does when you two...run into each other?"
"You mean, does he try shoving religion down my throat every chance he gets? Yeah. Seems to think it’ll— it'll force some enlightenment of guilt out of me. Stupid shit think's I'll stroll down to confession and ask forgiveness from my sins one of these days."
Frank's trigger finger taps lightly against his jeans. She catches the motion, watches it for a few seconds as the silence falls back down. She doesn't have anything to say to that, really. What Matt does nowadays doesn't concern her as much as it did before.
When she turns her head to watch the water, Frank turns his to watch her. "Surprised?"
She shakes her head, then reconsiders. "I guess I never really thought about the devil part of the costume being part of his identity.” It certainly explained a lot.
“Things change, people change. Sure if you really thought about it, something would stand out for you.” Frank leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees as he looks around. He’s stopped looking her way at some point, but she’s only just noticed. “You know him better than me.”
“Not really.”
A chill dances up her spine from a sudden gust and she shivers, rubbing her arms.
“And you didn't answer me.” His head turns again then, enough at least for her to see that his eyes are downcast now. “I didn't mean religion, I meant faith. Like... like believing good people will prevail, or good intentions can fight against the corrupt. That the truth is stronger than lies, sometimes.”
His hands fold together in front of him but his head moves every so often. She has a suspicion that he’s watching the seagulls swooping along the surface of the water, the only other beings remotely near them right now.
“Once. Maybe. But it’s bullshit — complete bullshit,” Frank affirms. “People don’t happen to be nice, or a dickhead, they choose it. People thinking some kind of general good exists somehow, like it’s floating in the wind or some shit— them thinking it will magically save everything every time, it just makes them complacent. You want something done, you get it done. Simple as that.”
“You don’t think that’s a little cynical?”
He breathes out a harsh laugh for a moment before looking at her. It’s the first lingering stare she’s gotten from him since she showed up to find him already sitting here. “Come on. Everything you’ve seen in this city, everything you’ve chased. You gonna say I’m wrong?” His eyes are open wide, devoid of everything except curiosity and haunted sadness.
A sense of déjà vu hits her out of nowhere, then, calling her back to the hospital room filled with clouded memories and quiet fears. It dawns on her why he called her out here.
She tucks some of her wayward hair back in place. “Then what about me? Hm?”
Frank’s eyes narrow as he blinks several times.
Pressing her lips together for a moment, she rolls her eyes. “Look, you didn’t do yourself any favors when we first met. Or in the hospital, at the beginning. But I saw you, saw what you did— and, I don’t know, I just had faith you wouldn’t hurt me.”
Scoffing, he looks away, shaking his head back and forth. Avoiding her once again as he swears some ironically religious names under his breath.
“And yeah, that was probably stupid of me to do, but you put faith in me too. Enough to take a chance on the crazy woman that broke into your house.” He stills, and in an instance is locked in her stare again. Karen smiles mournfully. “What? You gonna say I’m wrong?”
The corner of his eyes crinkle when she echoes his words. “We’ve got different definitions of faith, Ma’am.”
“Hm. Maybe.”
Another chill goes through her as she watches him repeatedly rub his hands together.
“For what it’s worth, I have faith what you’re doing has made this city safer for families this week than it was same time last year.”
Whether or not he expected her to remember the anniversary, he dips his head at her recognition of it, but turns subtly closer.
She stops talking then, and he doesn’t fill the void himself, sitting there hunched and vulnerable. At some point, she catches sight of a dark spot or two on his jeans in the shadow beneath his head.
Karen pretends not to notice. She doesn’t think he wants her to.
The sounds of the chopping waves surround them and she loses herself in this peaceful moment for a while until a loud ship-horn blasts nearby. The seagulls scatter again.
They’re both flushed completely pale red from the cold. She stands then, unleashing a shiver that makes her shift on her feet looking like an idiot. Frank straightens, moving to pull his hood up from underneath his coat.
He looks just as freezing as her, but she knows he has no comfortable place to retreat to. She has the urge to hug him, solidly and warmly, just like he deserves after the hell he’s been through and hell that’s going to undoubtedly haunt him more vividly in the next week.
She holds out a hand.
Frank looks up with a furrowed brow.
“What, you don’t want free coffee?”
“Depends on the coffee,” he jokes, after a moment, when he takes her hand.
He lets go as soon as he’s stood up, but she’s practically grinning at the improvement of his mood, no matter how fleeting it will be. She feels like she's accomplished something, helped in some small way. “I already know you drink the worst of the worst most days. What I buy will always be an improvement on yours,” she shoots back.
They bump shoulders as they walk and somehow, for the moment, Karen drags a jerky smile out of him. The cold doesn't feel so bad after that.