Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

We’re losing him! We’re losing him!

Isn’t it crazy how fast time passes by? How both everything and nothing can change in mere seconds; one second: alive, breathing, smiling, laughing, and ‘I Love You’s. And then the next: gun shots, floating through the air like he’s back on the battlefield, fighting an enemy. The shots are ringing in his ears, but this time, he isn’t the one holding the gun.

Get the defibrillator out! Clear the area!

This time, it isn’t the enemy lying lifeless on the battlefield; it’s little Frank Jr., once holding an ice cream cone Maria had purchased for him after he wouldn’t quit bugging her about it.

One second, his mouth was covered in sticky, vanilla sugar, running down his chin and threatening to stain the brand new t-shirt Maria had bought him to wear when Frank returned back home.

“Hey bud, if I see any stains on that shirt when we get back h—“ But before Frank could even spit out the next few syllables, shots were firing off out of nowhere.

The next second, rather than ice cream, it’s blood that’s spilling out of Frank Jr.’s mouth and onto the grass.

Doc, it says there’s a Do Not Resuscitate order for him! A DA apparently came in just a few minutes ago to place it!

One second, it’s Maria. She had been kneeling next to Frank Jr. on the blanket, searching her purse for a tissue to wipe the ice cream off his face. She doesn’t notice, but Frank’s watching her from a short distance, while Lisa runs ahead of him. Maria’s eyebrows are furrowed, and she’s mumbling to herself; she’s too far away for Frank to hear, but close enough to read. She’s rummaging through her bag, becoming increasingly frustrated with each item she manages to rip out that isn’t the pack of tissues. A soft chuckle rises from Frank’s throat; he’s not sure, but fairly certain he reads, ‘Shit, I swear I packed them before I—‘

The next second, the first shot is ringing out, hitting Frank Jr.; Frank doesn’t have to read Maria’s lips to know she’s screaming as their little boy collapses in front of her. Before Maria can remove her hand from her purse, another bullet slices through the air, right to her neck. She’s reaching up her neck, hands shaking as she struggles to comprehend what’s happening as blood spills down her arms.

Three more shots ring out, and Frank watches in horror as each bullet collides with her chest, sending her falling backwards. He swears she’s falling in slow-motion, and when her body gives way to the ground, Frank notices that her lips are parted, but she’s no longer speaking. He’ll never be able to read her lips again.

He’s flatlining!

One second, it’s his little girl, clutching tightly onto his hand, but pulling with enough force to rip his entire arm off. Lisa had the perfect carousel horse in her sight, determined not to let anyone get in her way of it. She’d scanned the area to make sure she had the advantage, to confirm that by the time she reached the gate, the red horse would be within her grasp.

“C’mon, hurry! I want to get there first!” Without a second thought, Lisa loosens her grip from Frank’s hand and zips past Maria and Frank Jr. Her hand grasps onto the gate handle firmly, and she pushes against the heavy metal frame; the red horse is only a few feet away, finally within her reach.

The next second, Frank Jr. and Maria are collapsing, and as Lisa turns her head, bullets come at her face faster than she had ran for the carousel horse. Frank’s yelling, rushing over as gunshots cut through the air. He falls to his little girl and holds her lifeless body in his arms; the only thing red within Lisa’s grasp is her father’s hand, stained with her own blood.

We’ve lost him.

Isn’t it crazy how fast time passes by?

One second, he’s out at Central Park with Maria, Frank Jr., and Lisa. The last time Frank had been home, they all went to the carousel together; it had become a tradition over the past few years and held even more significance when Frank would return for his leave. The very first time they went together, Frank Jr. cried his little head off; they checked his diaper, felt for a fever, even tried singing his favorite songs to him, but Frank Jr. was restless. It wasn’t until Maria spotted a small ice cream stand across from the park that Frank Jr. finally quieted down. That same day, Lisa had insisted that she wanted to ride the carousel, but Frank knew she wasn’t tall enough to ride. But Lisa, she wouldn’t take no for an answer; she was stubborn just like her old man. She walked up to the carousel, grasping Frank’s hand, and waited for the gate to open.

“Sir, I’m afraid she’s a tad too short for this ride.” The gatekeeper smiled softly at Lisa. “Maybe next year, okay sweetheart?“

Frank rubbed the back of his head; he knew that within a few seconds, Lisa would burst into tears and beg the gatekeeper to let her through. There was nothing he hated more than seeing his little girl in tears. The last time he was back home, he recalled hearing her sniffles before he had found her, tears staining her cheeks. She begged him to stay home, to tuck her into bed each night and read One Batch, Two Batch. She was in the first grade by that point, and although Maria had read it to her every night, she wanted to hear it from her daddy. He had to tear his eyes away because he knew he couldn’t keep that promise. Not only was his stay that month temporary, but he knew that every time he left, there was a chance he wouldn’t be coming back home. He always made sure to give Lisa and Frank Jr. everything they ever asked for, but some things were just not possible. Frank loved fighting for his country, and anyone that knew him knew that was true. But he would have been lying if he had said that he didn’t envy those that had the luxury of watching their kids grow up. See, for Frank, he made sure to write letters when the opportunity struck and buy presents when he returned home. But the drawings, the sports trophies, the memories shared over breakfast—he missed almost all of that. He knew he wouldn’t always be there to tend to Frank Jr. and Lisa’s every need, and that realization broke his heart every time he had to say goodbye.

Frank squeezed Lisa’s hand, and looked down at her. Tears were threatening to fall any second now, and Frank couldn’t take it. There was a lot that wasn’t in his control while he was stationed back in Iraq, but he was home now, and this was something he knew he could at least try to make right.

“Ma’am, my little girl here really wants to ride the carousel. I can stand next to her and hold her; I promise that she’ll be fine.”

“I’m sorry sir, but these are the rules. I don’t make them; I just enforce them. We can’t risk her getting hurt.”

“Look, I respect that, but I—“

“Sir, there’s nothing we can do. Feel free to come back next time when she’s grown.”

Lisa started bawling, and Frank had to bite his lip to stop himself from ripping the gatekeeper a new one. For a second, he contemplated it, but quickly pushed the thought of it behind him, accepting the fact that the gatekeeper was only doing her job. Causing a scene wouldn’t do anybody any good. Instead, Frank scooped Lisa up in his arms, thanked the gatekeeper, and walked off.

“Hey, shh shh shh. It’s okay, it’s okay. You just gotta grow a little bit more, gotta drink your milk so you can grow fast. How about we go get some of that ice cream that your little brother got, hmm? How does that sound?”  Frank wiped the tears off her cheeks with the pad of his thumb.

“O-okay,” Lisa sniffled. “Can we- can we come back together next year, Daddy? Do you promise?”

Frank held the back of Lisa’s head in his hand as he drew her closer to kiss her temple. “I promise. Don’t you worry; I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Since that day, they had been going back to Central Park every weekend, and even more frequently when Frank returned home. Frank Jr. became accustomed to vanilla ice cream cones, and Lisa had quickly grown fond of the red carousel horse. She had grown so quickly that Frank swore she had to have doubled in size since the first time they visited the carousel.

Lisa’s scrambling from the blanket, grabbing Frank’s hand, and rushing over to the carousel. He knows before she even has to say it; the red horse is hers. He’s trying to keep up with her as she sprints towards the ride, golden hair flying in the wind. Maria shouts that they’ll join them in a second once Frank Jr. gets all cleaned up.

“Daddy, you’re going too slow!”

As Frank slows down to catch his breath, Lisa unclasps her hand from his and makes a run for it. Frank smiles, but the moment is bittersweet. When did she get so fast? he asks himself. He glances over at Frank Jr., who has vanilla ice cream running down his chin. Maria is kneeled beside him, cursing about not being able to find the tissues she had in her purse. Frank can’t help but crack a smile; he’d thought about this moment the entire flight back home. Finally back with his family, just like old times.

“Hey bud, if I see any stains on that shirt when we get back h—“

The next second, gunshots are going off, and they’re caught in the crossfire. Bullets are whizzing through the air, but despite all his training, despite being Class 307 in Quantico, despite all the battles he’d been through, Frank freezes. He watches as bullets tear his family apart, one by one. Frank Jr. and Maria are slumped over on the blanket, at their spot at the park. Before he knows it, he’s running towards Lisa, but he knows it’s far too late. He cradles her in his arms and runs his fingers across where her face used to be. He’s screaming, but he can’t hear it.

A single bullet dislodges his cognition before the shock ever does.

Just the night before, Frank Castle returned home from Iraq. He didn’t want to admit it, but for the first time, he was tired. He blamed it on the jet lag, but would later admit to himself that it was much more than that. He couldn’t play with Frank Jr., read One Batch, Two Batch to Lisa, take Maria to bed; hell, he didn’t even have the energy to get himself a beer. Internally, he was panicking. What if this is me now? He repressed that thought and reassured himself that all he needed was a good night’s rest. He’d feel better by tomorrow. They’d go out to Central Park, and then come home and watch a movie together, as a family. However, Frank had no idea that less than 24 hours later, Maria, Lisa, and Frank Jr. would no longer be there with him. ‘When we get back home’ was now no longer part of the equation.

Time of death: 6:27 P.M.

That night, bullets removed his family from that equation. Just when he thought that he would finally have the opportunity to be there for everything he so constantly missed—the drawings, the sports trophies, the memories shared over breakfast—it was taken from him all within a split second. But for some Godforsaken reason, he wasn’t about to be pulled from the equation just yet.

Wait, we’ve – we’ve got a reading!

You see, for Frank Castle, he wasn’t looking to come back from one battlefield to be instantly thrown into the next. He was looking to come home, to settle down with his family, to finally unwind. He was exhausted, but this, perhaps this was God’s sick sense of humor in an attempt to help put him to rest. Perhaps this was planned from the beginning. Perhaps this was just bad luck. Some of nurses claimed that he was dead for about a minute and then came back to life, but they were wrong. Frank Castle had died on that hospital bed, but came back as The Punisher. However, it wasn’t the bullet that had killed him; it was the realization that everything he once loved and held dear to him was gone.

I should’ve seen it coming.

I should’ve seen it coming.

I should’ve seen it coming…

-- 

Frank scans the interior of the house; it’s the first time he’s been back since the massacre. He remembers telling Red about how it seemed as if the house had been holding in its breath because it was always the same when he returned. He’s made it back home, with everything just where it had been left, except this time, Frank can feel a difference in the air. There’s an eerie feeling one gets upon entering a home, once occupied with others; you start to pick up on the little things, the missing sounds you never knew you’d grown accustomed to. It’s the sound of the water running during the 7 o’clock bath, the quiet tip-toeing down the staircase in search of cookies at midnight, the soft humming from the kitchen while breakfast is being made.

He swears he hears their laughter when he enters the room.

He glances at the photos adorning the piano. Memories of their first pumpkin patch trip; Frank Jr. sporting his brand new cowboy hat, Lisa sitting with the pumpkin she had carved all by herself, and Maria, grasping onto Frank’s arm, grinning at the camera. His eyes drop to drawings Lisa and Frank Jr. had made, resting on the sheet stand. His trigger finger finds it’s way to the piano keys, but this time, it isn’t twitching. He contemplates pressing a key, to fill the air with the familiar sound, but decides against it. Instead, he heads towards the kitchen, skimming the room, until the dining room table catches his eye.

The plates, were they…were they on the table, or did they get into the sink?

I think washed. On the rack.

Frank stares at the table, empty bowls and cups still sitting there. Karen had been wrong. The dishes never made it to the sink, much like how his family never made it back home.

He pulls out his chair and looks across to where his family was supposed to be. He sets today’s newspaper on the table, fingers grazing over it’s edges. Frank Castle Dead: Escaped Vigilante Suspected Dead After Explosion. He skims the first few lines and then sets the paper down; he’s had enough of that shit. If Frank Castle was truly dead, then he needed to make sure that every last remnant was dead, too. He sighed, letting his head fall back as he opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. The house merely stood as a vessel that only brought back old memories; four walls and a roof no longer meant anything to him if his family would never occupy it again.

-- 

You do this, and you are the monster that they say you are. Do you hear me? You do this, and I am done. That’s it. You’re dead to me. Do you hear me?

I’m already dead.

Karen woke up in a frenzy, bed sheets soaked with sweat. Unlike her nightmares of Fisk coming for her after she had killed Wesley, this nightmare was all too real. She grasped the bed sheets, pulling them closer to her. The night in the woods had occurred a few days ago, but Karen felt like she had never escaped. The gunshot that rang throughout the woods was still ringing in her ears. She tried to fixate on something, anything other than that night, and her mind ended up wandering to Matt, of all people.

I, uh… I have something.

No, I don’t want it…  

I have something that I need you to see…. I’m Daredevil.

Karen’s mind was racing at a million miles per hour. All the times she had defended Daredevil, the times Matt had shown up to Nelson and Murdock’s with fresh cuts on his face, the times he hadn’t gone to Frank’s trial. You know I’m blind, Karen. Was he, though? Or was this all an act? Did Foggy even know? And why had he kept it hidden all this time?

Look, Matt. I… I can’t do this right now.

Karen, please. Just hear me out.

I-I’m going to need some time to, to process this.

Karen, wait—I’m sorry.

She’d paused at the door. She hadn’t noticed how quickly she had grabbed her coat, ready to make her way back to her apartment, to drown herself in something other than her problems.

Yeah, well, me too. Have a Merry Christmas.

By the time she’d gotten past the front door of her apartment and kicked off her heels, her eyes had already made a beeline to the kitchen. The bottle of scotch Ellison gifted her was still sitting on her countertop, blue and silver wrapping paper glistening against the Christmas lights that decorated her walls. She snatched the bottle in her hands, ripping off the paper, and fumbled for a bottle opener in her drawers.

That helps you write?

No, it just…helps me not care so much.

Karen contemplated grabbing a glass, but what was the point? She knew she was going to down the whole thing anyway. 

Running her hands through her hair, Karen closed her eyes and focused on catching her breath. She turned to her bedside table, empty scotch bottle serving as a reminder of her miserable night. Grabbing her phone, she checked for the time. 5:54 A.M.

With a pounding head, Karen knew she wouldn’t be getting much more sleep, so she climbed out of bed, shuffling towards her bathroom to grab a bottle of Aspirin. Heading towards the kitchen, she turned on her television; the 6AM news would be on any second. Karen opened the pantry, grabbing an almost-empty canister of coffee grounds. She made a mental note to buy a new canister when she had the chance. 

Good morning, Hell’s Kitchen, and Merry Christmas!

Karen tossed the coffee grounds into the filter, closed the lid tightly, and turned the machine on. The coffee maker whizzed to life as the water began to heat up. The news served more as background noise, something to fill her apartment with some kind of sound, to make her feel a little bit less alone. Coffee began filling the glass carafe, sending a dark, rich aroma floating throughout the air. Karen opened her cupboard in search for a mug, eyes still filled with sleep and head throbbing, reminding her to never drink that much scotch ever again.

We want to start our broadcast today with a fire warning. Throughout this week, we have been following the recent escape of fugitive vigilante, Frank Castle. We have received word that Castle’s apparently abandoned home had been set ablaze earlier this morning. We have reporter Thembi Wallace out at the scene. Thembi, what can you tell us so far?

Hi, Josh. There’s not too much word yet. I’ve spoken to firefighters, who say that the fire erupted a few hours ago and that their crew has been working hard to put it out. It isn’t clear yet as to whether or not this was intentional or an accident. I had the chance to speak to a few neighbors that mentioned that the neighborhood had been fairly quiet for the past few months and that they assumed Castle’s home had been abandoned…

Karen dropped the mug she had reached for, sending glass shards to scatter across the tile floor.

“Shit.”

She stared at the television screen; Frank’s home, or the better half of what was left of it, was burning uncontrollably. As the fire flickered behind the reporter, Karen’s eyes shifted to her notepad. Sighing deeply, she decided that she’d clean the broken mug up later; it’d still be there waiting for her when she would return. Besides, Ellison was going to be on her ass about this within a few hours anyway. Hell’s Kitchen was a city that never slept, which meant that her work didn’t either.

-- 

It was approximately 8 A.M. by the time Karen returned to her apartment, notepad filled with scribbled down quotes and reports. She hadn’t gotten much out of the neighbors aside from what had already been reported on the news. It had been odd being back at Frank Castle’s home; she recalled upon Lisa’s bedroom, plastered with colorful drawings, the myriad toys scattered outside of Frank Jr.’s room, the countless family photos, and Frank’s medals and awards from the Marine Corps, neatly framed and displayed above the fireplace. She knew this fire had to have been Frank’s doing—anyone who was out for him that wanted to send a message would have done this a long time ago. Part of her was able to wrap her head around why he had done it, but the other half of her ached at the thought of it. She wondered if he took anything with him before he left—photos, drawings, anything to serve as a reminder—but she knew it was probably unlikely. Frank Castle was already dead, after all.

After locking the front door behind her, Karen tossed her bag into an empty chair and made her way back to her coffee maker. The small metal thermos she had brought with her only carried 2 cups of coffee, which had been gone within the first half hour after she had left her apartment. She makes sure to watch where she steps, remembering that the glass from her broken mug was still scattered on the floor. But this time, it isn’t. Karen’s eyebrows furrow; she’s well aware that she had downed an entire bottle of scotch, but swears that she left the apartment with the glass remnants still on the ground. Maybe I was still drunk… she thinks to herself. Shaking her head, she reaches for the glass carafe, ready to pour another cup or two into her thermos, but her fingers linger over the handle when she notices that the coffee maker is half empty. Her machine spits out up to 12 cups, and Karen always fills it with water to the brim. She should have had 10 cups left, but instead, there’s were about 5 remaining. Her eyes wander to her dish rack; it’s completely empty, except for a single mug; washed, rim-side down. Water residue trickles down the handle, signaling that whoever used it had used it recently. She doesn’t have to guess at who was here, but still holds her breath. It isn’t that she’s afraid of Frank being in her apartment; it’s the small sliver of hope she has that he’s still here.

Setting her thermos down, she tiptoes to her bedroom.

“F-Frank?”

Karen swallows, waiting for a response, but is only met with silence. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t disappointed, but she was still upset from the night in the woods. Perhaps it was better this way, to keep their distance from one another.

Her attention returns to the coffee mug, sitting in her dish rack. She’s taken back to the night at the diner; nothing but two cups of coffee and unresolved tension sitting between them. She can’t help but dwell on the past; although she’ll never admit it, she still can’t quite comprehend when You stay. Please. had turned into Get away from me. Just stay away from me.

Isn’t it crazy how fast time time passes by?

She scans the rest of her apartment, looking for anything out of place. She opens every drawer, lifts every paper, even opens her laptop in hopes of a small note, but she can’t find anything. Sighing, she grabs her thermos and takes a seat on her sofa. She doesn’t focus too much on the fact that she’s frustrated that she can’t find another trace of him having been in her apartment. For all she knows, he could have never been there in the first place. Maybe she had poured herself a cup of coffee to drink while getting ready. Maybe she brewed less than 12 cups. Maybe she had cleaned up the broken glass. Maybe there was never a broken mug to begin with. After downing a bottle of scotch and proceeding to run on fumes for the rest of the day, losing your mind seems inevitable. Her eyes fixate on her bullet-ridden walls in an attempt to clear her mind, but it’s yet just another reminder of Frank. Her focus travels to her Christmas tree—a small, fake tree that Foggy bought her after declaring that it was outrageous that she didn’t have one yet.

Karen Page, what are you doing with your life?! Everyone needs a Christmas tree! You’re breaking my heart!

Along with the tree, he handed her a card and small package.

Foggy—no, I can’t. This is too much!

Hey, I insist! Plus, you covered last time we were at Josie’s. It’s the least I can do!

She smiled, glancing at the base of her tree. Amongst his gift sat a few more: a box from Matt that he gave her a few weeks in advance, a neatly wrapped present from her landlord (hopefully containing more of the delicious cranberry almond cookies that his wife made for all the residents), a handful of cards from some of her new coworkers at The Bulletin, and an ambiguous bottle adorning a small bow, courtesy of Marci. Despite everything that had been happening, Karen found joy in her Christmas tree. She took another sip of her coffee, admiring the Christmas lights that encircled the tree, blinking red and white. It wasn’t until she was about to head back to bed when she noticed it; tucked behind Matt’s box was a small, brown paper bag with the top neatly folded down. She did a double-take, rubbing her eyes to make sure she wasn’t just seeing things. Having an extra cup of coffee and cleaning up the glass shards, although unable to be recalled, were events that Karen acknowledged as having been possible. The brown paper bag, on the other hand, was brand new. Setting her thermos aside, Karen rose from the sofa and kneeled by the Christmas tree.

Inside, she found a container of wall plaster, canister of coffee grounds, and next to it, a burner phone. There was a small note at the bottom of the bag.

For your walls. And for if you ever want to contact me. Sorry for drinking half the pot.

Merry Christmas,
F.

Karen turned the phone on and brought up the contact list; there was a number preloaded, with no name or title. Her finger hovered over the call button, but anxiety rose to her throat. The last time she saw Frank was the night The Hand had attacked Hell’s Kitchen; she saw him perched on the rooftop, overlooking the city. Whether or not he noticed her didn’t make much of a difference; he had slammed the door in her face the night he killed Schoonover, and she was certain that he probably still felt the same the next day. Instead, she pressed ‘Message’ and let her fingers quickly graze over the buttons.

Thank you, Frank.

Without a second thought, she pressed send and placed the phone on the coffee table. It hadn’t been much longer than a minute when the phone went off. Karen picked the phone up, not wanting to acknowledging how fast her hand had shot for it.

You’re welcome, ma’am.

Karen stared at the screen with a faint smile on her face. Climbing off the sofa, she took the phone and note with her into her bedroom. Facing her nightstand, she slowly pulled open the drawer. She kept very select things in the wooden stand, mainly items that she deemed as valuable. Scattered about were a few letters from a friend back in Vermont that she no longer talked to, a couple of movie stubs, an empty notebook for her dreams (however, lately, all of her dreams had been one’s she’d much rather forget), a few photographs of her, Matt, and Foggy, and a copy of The Catcher in the Rye, a book that her younger brother, Kevin, had loved. He’d read that book cover to cover, so frequently that the edges had grown worn. Turning off the phone, Karen placed it in the drawer with the note amongst the rest of her belongings. She climbed into bed, pulling the blankets over her shoulders.

Maybe Christmas wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Chapter Text

11:57 P.M.

Karen glared at her television, coffee mug radiating heat into the palm of her hands. Drinking coffee late at night hadn’t become fairly new for her; by now, her body had built such a high tolerance for the caffeine that a cup or two before bed hardly had any effect. However, only recently did she start drinking her coffee black, ditching the cream and sugar once and for all. She told herself that she was merely getting a head-start on one of her New Year’s resolutions, but the fact of the matter was that it served as a reminder of the night at the diner. Before that night, she rarely ever took her coffee black—she didn’t quite dislike it, per se, but had always preferred it a bit sweeter. But when the diner claimed they had run out of cream and sugar, she accepted the black coffee for what it was; it had been a long day, and she wanted something, anything in her system. After that night, she subconsciously began switching out her normal order of lattes and macchiatos for the regular cup of joe. She told herself it was better—healthier—this way, but in reality, it had nothing to do with that. The reality of it was that Karen craved more from that night.

Use two hands and never let go. You got it?

She stared at the bottom of the mug; a small ring staining the surface to serve as a reminder of what used to be there. She thought back to the night at the diner from time to time, trying to fixate more on their discussion rather than the aftermath of Frank’s sudden ambush. It wasn’t that often that she had the opportunity to just talk with Frank—sure, the pit-stop at the diner had been a setup to lure Blacksmith’s men in, but that didn’t take away from the authenticity of their conversation.

Maybe it’s not your first rodeo.

Maybe it isn’t.

For one of the first times since leaving Vermont, Karen didn’t have to pretend. While it had only been three words, it had been a relief to say it—the truth—out loud. Ben had done his fair share of research on her, digging into places she thought nobody would have bothered to look into, and Ellison had stumbled upon her file after cleaning through Ben’s desk following his passing; there were already two people that had uncovered a few truths about her that for some Godforsaken reason didn’t quite seem to care. But that truth had yet to come directly from her, until the night at the diner. With Frank, everything seemed to come naturally to Karen; there of course was always an underlying discomfort in the back of her mind when she spoke with him—she’d seen enough crime scene photos to know his style by this point—but at the same time, there was also a subtle peacefulness that clouded over. Frank played judge, jury, and executioner, and although this was something Karen knew all too well, she didn’t feel judgment when she opened up to him. Things she swore she would never tell anyone soon shifted in plasticity, becoming malleable and somehow not as horrifying. For what it was, it would always sound terrible on paper, but out loud, something about it changed. She told herself that perhaps the change was because she had seen, in her books, much worse damage than anything she’d ever done, but she ruled that possibility out. At the end of the day, what Karen had done was not much different from what people behind bars did; the only difference was that she hadn’t gotten caught. Essentially, her past hadn’t changed in nature, which prompted Karen to believe that the sudden change had to have been much larger than that.

Unnerving, the way he could look into a person’s soul.

Despite her hatred towards Schoonover, at least he had gotten one thing right. Not only could Frank really get into one’s mind, but he also never hesitated to pull back the layers; he was blunt and didn’t bother sugarcoating anything, something Karen had done her entire life. He exposed parts of her that she acknowledged, but didn’t want to accept. That was the thing about Frank; he didn’t have time for your bullshit, couldn’t care less if you didn’t like his phrasing, and wasn’t afraid to rip the band-aid off. He was careful when he brought out the truth, but he didn’t handle Karen like she was ready to crumble at any given moment. She respected him because he respected her, and that made it easier for her to open up around him. For Karen, the shift had never occurred in her feelings towards her actions, but more so in herself; subconsciously, she had become drawn to Frank, acknowledging newfound attraction to something different, yet all too similar to herself.

The television flickered, dim shades of blue and purple bouncing off the walls. Marci and Foggy had invited her to join them in Times Square to watch the performances and ball drop at midnight, but Karen had politely declined their offer. After everything that had happened with Matt, Karen had found even more love and fondness towards Foggy, appreciating the little bit of honesty she still had in her life. They had promised to keep in touch and hang out when they could, but the New Year’s Eve celebration wasn’t something Karen had particularly been up to. Perhaps it was the obnoxious tourists, cranky and unapologetic after waiting in the cold for hours, or maybe the fact that Karen knew she would become a third-wheel, even though Foggy reassured her time and time again that it wouldn’t happen. Regardless, she turned down the offer, claiming that she had a write-up for Ellison with her name on it due in a few days. Although it hadn’t been a complete lie, Karen and Foggy both knew that she wasn’t actually going to write on New Year’s Eve. There was a lot in Karen’s life that was pathetic—her love life, her coffee (according to Foggy), the fact that she didn’t have a pet yet—and her attempt at lying was just another addition to the list.

Oh, come on Karen! I promise it’ll be fun!

The only reason I remotely ever wanted to go when I was younger was because of the cool glasses they handed out, and obviously, that died out after 2009. Besides, Ellison wants me to have a two thousand word write up on his desk by Saturday afternoon; I told myself that I’d start it tonight.

You and I both know that won’t actually happen. C’mon, live a little!

I’m good, really! But I appreciate the offer; tell Marci I said hi.

You know you could do that yourself if you joined us toniiight…

Foggy.

Okay, okay, you got it. But hey—don’t push yourself too hard tonight! Relax, have some fun, do something other than just writing. And have a happy new year!

Thanks, Foggy. You too!

Bright lights shined down on people in the audience, all decorated with their ridiculous-looking 2016 cardboard glasses, noise-makers, and the like. Everyone was bundled up, wrapped in scarves and thick layers of clothing, chanting as the time inched closer and closer to midnight. Yet, despite how absurd everyone looked, a small part of Karen wished she was out there. In a perfect world, she would have been there, with Foggy, Marci, and Matt. She and Matt would have shared a New Year’s Eve kiss, and she'd describe all the colorful pieces of confetti floating throughout the air, just like how she’d done at the Indian restaurant that dripped with chilis. But unfortunately for Karen, she wasn’t living in a perfect world; she lived in Hell’s Kitchen.

5…
4…
3…
2…
1…

Happy N-

Karen shut off her television as she pushed herself off the couch. Foggy was right; she hadn’t typed a word of her article which was now due in…approximately thirty-six hours. If she was going to get anything on Ellison’s desk by then, she’d need at least a few hours of sleep. Entering her bedroom, she turned on her bedside lamp and plugged her phone in to charge. Her eyes traveled to the small burner phone that sat next to her tissue box. Occasionally, she left the phone on, though she wasn’t quite sure what she had been expecting. Frank said that the phone was for if she ever wanted to contact him, but never mentioned if he would ever be contacting her. Her finger hovered over the message button, and she contemplated wishing him a happy new year, but decided against it. Wanting and needing to contact Frank were two very different things. And while the Christmas present had been a nice surprise, it didn’t mean that everything between them was cleared up. Karen was still hurt from the night in the woods, and she knew that it’d be quite some time before they both would put that behind them. Turning off the phone, she opened her nightstand drawer and placed it next to her belongings. Although much of the drama in Karen’s life had died down, there was still plenty on Karen’s plate; she wasn’t looking for seconds anytime soon.

--

♪ You’re a shining star, no matter who you are
Shining bright to see what you can truly be
You’re a shining star, no matter who you are
Shining bright to see what you can truly be
You’re a shining star, no matter who you are
Shining bright to see what you can truly be ♪

“What the hell…” Karen opened her eyes, groggily reaching towards her bedside lamp, fumbling to turn it on. Attempting to rub the sleep out of her eyes, Karen grabbed for her phone, but soon realized that wasn’t where the music had been coming from. It only took her a split second to make the connection, and she couldn’t help but crack a smile. The last time she had heard that song was the night Schoonover forced her into her car, intending to get rid of her for good. Turn that shit off. The tape had been destroyed when Frank t-boned her car, but she hadn’t been in the mood to go looking for a new cassette anytime soon; it wasn't like she had a car to play it in, anyway.

Rummaging around the nightstand drawer, Karen grasped the burner phone; a single message notification popped up on the screen. It was now mid-March, meaning it had been roughly three months since Karen had last heard from Frank. She still kept in touch with Brett back at the precinct to bribe him for information on specific cases she had been writing articles about, and recently she’d seen a few crime scene photos revolving around none other than the Dogs of Hell. Four men, each with a single bullet to the head. One shot, one kill, she thought to herself. Although they hadn’t spoken to one another in a while, Karen was fairly certain Frank was still around, cleaning the kitchen when he deemed it necessary.

Got some info pertaining to your article.
Erie Basin Park, Brooklyn. 8AM.
F.

It was currently 6:08 A.M. The park was roughly an hour away, but the bus stop that would connect her to the Metro North railway was a fifteen-minute walk, and then the park was another ten minutes from the station. If Karen hurried, she’d possibly be able to catch the next bus soon. She ran her hands through her hair, groaning loudly. Why does he want to talk now, of all times? She had all the reasons in the world to not go, to just mind her own business and keep working on the article; by this point, she knew all too well that being around vigilantes always brought more than just a little crossfire. However, in the back of her mind, she swore she could hear Ellison, pushing her indecisiveness down. Tick-tock, tick-tock. You’re gonna miss the next bus, Page. Sunday’s coming.

Throwing off the covers, she rushed over to the bathroom to start the shower. It was going to be a long day.

--

Karen stepped off the train, rushing towards the park; she had been running a few minutes late and still had a ten-minute walk to go. She wasn’t all too familiar with the Brooklyn area—she hardly went outside of Hell’s Kitchen—so she was focusing on the GPS on her phone when she heard it.

“Could you spare some change, ma’am?”

It hadn’t registered in her head first, but she stopped and reached into her purse for her wallet, rummaging around for a few dollar bills.

“I think I have more at the bottom of my purse, if I could just get past all the receipts…”

“…ma’am?”

Karen glanced up and practically choked on her breath. “W-what the h—“

“Hey, shh shh shh. Keep it down.” Frank glared at the people passing by, keeping a serious tone, but Karen swore she heard the slightest bit of amusement in his voice.

Regaining her composure, Karen brought her tone down to a whisper, “I thought we were going to meet at the park.”

She had a mix of emotions running through her—there was anger in her voice, but she couldn’t overlook the small spark of joy she felt as she took in everything. He still sported the same black baseball cap that he had worn at the diner, but he looked different. His face was no longer painted with bruises, he no longer sported his military crew cut, and he’d recently grown a beard, too. If it weren’t for his hoarse voice and polite mannerisms, she probably would have left without even knowing it was him.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show up.” He took off the brown blanket that had covered his head and bundled it up in his hands. She looked down and noticed that for the first time in a while, his hands also weren’t covered in cuts and bruises. Karen had a plethora of questions—why was he asking for money on the streets of Brooklyn, why did he look so different, was he still in hiding—but she brushed them away for another time. Karen crossed her arms, scoffing lightly.

“Yeah, well I thought about not coming. What am I doing here, Frank?”

He smirked, narrowing his eyes as he looked up at Karen. “All due respect ma’am, but nobody put a gun to your head. Pretty sure we both know why you’re here.”

Karen rolled her eyes, “Nobody’s putting a gun to my head to make me stay, either, huh?” Adjusting her bag, she turned away, ready to head back to the station. You’re making a mistake, you’re making a mistake, you’re making a mistake. At that moment, Karen couldn’t decide what the bigger mistake was—staying or leaving.

“Hey—wait”, Frank interjected, grabbing ahold of her arm. His grip wasn’t strong, but enough to send a message, prompting Karen to freeze-up. “Look. I said I had information, and if it wasn’t important, I wouldn’t have contacted you. I’m not here to waste your time, ma’am. There’s a small benched area by the dock next to the park. We’ll head over separately. Got it?” His voice was steady, and he scanned Karen’s face, waiting for a response.

Karen swallowed; even in heels, she was about the same height as Frank, just tall enough to meet his gaze. She looked into his eyes; he wasn’t pleading, but demanding. She’d seen this look before twice, once when he showed up at her apartment right before the Blacksmith had shot the entire place up, and another time at the diner. Frank wasn’t just being serious, but was also trying to warn her that she could be in danger. She let out a sigh she didn’t realize she had been holding in. “Okay. I’ll meet you there.”

--

Karen approached the dock, benches in sight just as Frank had said. There were a few people nearby—a man walking past, black lab trotting along his owner’s side, a woman standing near the dock, tearing off pieces of bread to toss out for seagulls, and an elderly man, perhaps homeless, fast asleep against one of the benches. For the most part, the area appeared quiet and safe. Karen sat at a random, worn-out bench, setting her purse down as she overlooked the water. It was a peaceful day—a bit cold—but still breathtaking. There was so much of New York that Karen still hadn’t explored, and it was nice seeing something different for once. She heard his footsteps before she saw him, but didn’t tear her eyes from the water.

“So, what’s this information about?” Karen crossed her legs, rubbing her arms for warmth.

Frank rested his hands against the top of the bench adjacent from her, eyes following a small boat that passed by. “That article on the Dogs of Hell you’ve been writing for the past month or so—it ain’t safe putting your name out there like that.”

Karen laughed, “You said you had information, not advice, Frank. It’s been what—3 months now? I don’t hear a word from you, and all of a sudden you claim you’ve got information for me. I’ve been working on this for weeks; it’s one of the biggest continuing articles The Bulletin’s got right now. I can’t just cut it.”

Frank walked over to the bench, sitting down next to Karen. He kept his voice low, almost to a faint rumble. “Look. I’ve got this…friend. Used to work as an analyst at the NSA. Let’s just say he overheard a conversation between Pope and his leader, Jimmy. Said they wanted to clear out any of the accusations about the Dogs of Hell being associated with the recent drug dealing that’s been occurring throughout Hell’s Kitchen with the Mexican Cartel. Couple a’ days ago I went to one of their warehouses and got rid of a few of ‘em, but we both know there’ll be more where that came from.”

“That’s ridiculous, though. Everyone knows that they’ve been selling and distributing with the Irish and Mexican Cartel for years now. Just because Blacksmith is dead doesn’t mean business is too.”

A soft rumble came from Frank’s throat, “Yeah, well they aren’t the smartest people now, are they? Regardless, they’ve been trying to cover their tracks, attempting to keep continuation of the operation on the down-low, making sure they don’t fuck it up this time or some shit.” He rested his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together while he dipped his head to look Karen in the face. “They’ve been keeping tabs on some of your articles lately.”

Karen shifted, turning her head to look at Frank. She scoffed, “Well, newspapers are for the public. I’m not trying to hide this; I’m trying to bring light to it. They’re bound to find out one way or another.”

“Yeah, well I’ve read ‘em, and you’re on the right track. That’s the problem. Look, when I say they’re tryin’ to clear out the accusations, I mean clear out.” Frank’s trigger finger tapped lightly against his knuckles, eyes fixated on Karen. She turned to face the water again, letting out a frustrated sigh.

“I can’t just stop writing articles each time someone is dissatisfied with my writing, Frank. My job is to write the truth, regardless of whoever likes it or not.”

“Never said you had to stop, ma’am.”

Karen’s attention jumped back to Frank, and her eyebrows furrowed. “Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that it isn’t safe where you’re at. And before you go off about not needin’ anyone to protect you—just hear me out. That .380 of yours ain’t gonna do jack shit. If Schoonover was able to find your apartment and shoot it up, Dogs of Hell can do the same thing. You can expose them, but you gotta be careful about it.” Frank turned away from Karen, glancing down at his boots. “You need to get out of Hell’s Kitchen, get away from all of it.”

Karen took in what he said—taken aback by his suggestion. She had grown acclimated to Matt and Foggy constantly warning her to stay out of trouble, that she had already been caught in enough crossfire to last her a lifetime. But Karen couldn’t just watch as everything in Hell’s Kitchen became dismantled right before her eyes; she’d dealt with enough of that crap to decide that she needed to make a difference. She considered what Frank insinuated, and nodded her head. “Okay, and where exactly do you suggest I go?”

“You’re not gonna like it.” Frank scanned the rest of the dock, making sure nobody was within earshot of their conversation. “I’ve got a safe house, ‘bout thirty minutes outside of Hell’s Kitchen. Secure, well-hidden, and no one else knows about it. It’s nothin’ permanent; just long enough to get this cleaned up. I’m hardly ever there, so you’d have the place to yourself.” He scratched the back of his neck, and his lips overturned into a small smile. “Well, almost. I’ve got a dog, too. For protection, or company; whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Karen smiled, but maintained her level of seriousness. He was right; she didn’t like it. It had a lot less to do with moving in with The Punisher than it did with the fact that it was all true; her safety would always be on the line if she wanted to continue writing the articles she did. She had grown tired of running away, and this time she knew that she would have to—quite literally—if she wanted to keep delivering the truth. However, she wasn’t going to brush her uneasy feelings under the rug, either. They hadn’t left on the best of terms, and she still didn’t exactly know where they were standing.

“Can I…uh, can I sleep on it first?”

Frank laughed, and it was loud and genuine—one that Karen rarely ever heard from him. “Ma’am, you can do whatever the hell you want. Don’t need my permission. But I’m not gonna just let you go about Hell’s Kitchen like everything’s safe when it ain’t. I can’t just sit and watch as something happens; you should know that about me by now.” Frank kept what he wanted to say simple, but there was still a hint of uneasiness in his voice.

I heard it, and I didn’t do anything. My job was to keep them safe. I didn’t. I didn’t do it.

“Same time, same place tomorrow?”

“I can work with that.” Karen rose from the bench and flattened out her skirt. She was about to make her way back to the station when she paused, standing next to Frank. He was still sitting at the bench, eyes following a little girl who was on the dock, skipping as she tailed behind her parents. Karen hesitated at first, but then placed her hand on Frank’s shoulder; she had half expected him to flinch, but he remained still.

“It’s…it’s good to see you, Frank. Thank you.”

He turned his head towards her slightly, and he cracked a smile.

“It’s good to see you too, ma'am.”