Work Text:
Heavy rain drops battered against the office windows, filling the lobby with an ambience of rolling thunder and a muted pitter-patter against the roof. Gloom hangs low throughout Hell’s Kitchen as October commences, bringing weeks of rain and chilled winds sweeping through the streets. The firm saw its last clients hours ago, leaving the building quiet save for the clack of keyboards and pen clicks. The street out front was void of car pollution, indicating most of New York had found their way home. Unfortunately, the Nelson and Murdock firm worked tirelessly into the night.
Dim desk lamps lit the room, highlighting paperwork and files strewn about the front desks. She runs her hands up and down her face, no longer caring for the state of her make-up. Eyes heavy from the blue light emitting from her laptop, she checks the time before shutting the computer. “11:42 PM,” she sighs, rubbing her eyes, “nearly midnight and we’re just now finishing up this case load, unbelievable.” Karen yawns, “This might be our biggest case yet. I can’t wait to get some sleep,” she slouches back in her chair as fatigue washes over her. Her partner nods in agreement, “You know, we would’ve been finished hours ago if the men didn’t leave early, causing us to fend for ourselves.” She crumples up a paper ball and throws it at Matt’s office door in annoyance. Karen laughs in response, “Maybe they think their names being on the building gives them some leeway with paperwork.”
Karen stands with a stretch, letting her body adjust to its new position after sitting for hours. She begins to pack her folders back into the filing cabinet and starts to tidy her desk. “What— wait you finished,” her co-worker looking with pleading eyes, “Wait come on, don’t leave me here!” Karen gives a solemn look, “You’re almost finished,” she gestures to the desk, “just that last file with a couple more proofreads and signatures.” She yawns once more, picking up her purse and putting on her coat, “I’ll see you Monday, alright? Text me when you get home, please.” She gets a groan in response, “Ugh, will do,” ending with putting her head in her hands, muffling her voice. Karen laughs, calling her name with a wave of her hand, “Goodnight!” She receives a final muffled response, “Mhm, yup, goodnight...”
With the wall clock now reading 12:03 AM, she had finished her final file of paperwork. She lets out a sigh and a dragged out, “Finally...” With a wave of exhaustion crashing down, she files the paperwork with the forms Karen organized in the filing cabinet earlier. Preparing to head home, she goes around the office with heavy steps to click off all the lamps and ensuring the safes were locked, finally being able to put her coat on and lazily swing her purse over her shoulder to call it a night.
She goes to leave the firm, only to stop as she opens the front door. Right, the rain. Failing to bring an umbrella to work this morning leaves her scrambling for a solution to avoid getting drenched. As she scans the office for an umbrella or jacket someone had left, she found herself looking at yesterday’s newspaper. With a roll of her eyes, she grabs the newspaper and mentally prepares to walk into the autumn storm. The awning provides one last reprieve from the cold raindrops, allowing her to lock the front door. A breeze sweeps through the air carrying a mist of the rain with it, cutting through her work clothes and sending a shiver down her spine. She looks down the brick stoop of the building, watching the warm streetlamp light sway and distort amid the rain and wind. With a sigh, she embarks into the night.
She looks up and down the street, finding nothing but herself and the soft howl of the wind, giving her a peaceful yet eerie sense. The ringing of her phone caused her to jump, bringing her back to reality. When she grabs her phone from her purse, the contact's name reads “Unknown Caller.” An unsaved, unknown contact only meant one person, she thought, Frank. As she answers the phone, her eyes scan the streets and alleyways, dancing across the edges of rooftops in hopes to find this ghost of a man, "Hello?"
-
Late night stake outs were always taxing, physically and mentally. Preparing for a long night, while donning dark clothes that concealed his signature skull vest and a black baseball cap, Frank set up his gear on a rooftop coincidentally near the Nelson and Murdock firm. A perfectly tuned sniper rifle, a police radar, extra bullets, and a burner phone accompany him.
He’d received a tip from an old friend regarding Billy Russo, that some of the men that used to do grunt work for him were living under the radar around the Hell’s Kitchen area. And now, Frank’s mind had zeroed in on finding whoever is left of Russo’s team. Unfortunately, the cold temperatures and rain made the foot traffic down below sparse, turning the night highly unproductive.
With lights dim in the office, Frank fought the idea the keep an eye on the storefront due to seeing Matt and Foggy leave earlier that evening. Damn emergency lights, it’s nothin, he shook his head and dismissed the thought. That was until he saw Karen leave at quarter to midnight, the hell? Red can’t even walk his own damn employees' home? He shot her a text to tell him when she made it home, hearing from her soon after. However, when he turned his attention back to the front of the building, he noticed the light remained on. You’ve got to be shittin’ me.
Twenty minutes later, he watched the second secretary leave and lock up the office. He picked up the burner and typed her number in, keeping a keen eye on her as she descended onto the sidewalk. After a few rings, he saw her put the phone to her ear, and then heard a soft, “Hello?”
"What sort of shitty, makeshift umbrella is that? You usin' a newspaper? What— Red not paying you enough?" Still acutely aware of her surroundings, she scoffs, "Oh, I'm good, thanks for asking," she said with feigned enthusiasm, "you stalking me, Castle?" He snickers as he watches her turn in circles in the street, "In your dreams, daffodil." She rolls her eyes, giving up on being able to find him and continues her walk home, "So what do I owe the pleasure? Surely this isn't a social call with you being all broody and self-sufficient." "‘Broody and self-sufficient,’ huh," he scoffs, "Yeah, alright. Saw Karen left late, but the light was still on. Knew Red and Nelson left earlier, leaving only one option left."
She chose to dismiss the fact that he'd been watching the front of the firm all evening, "Did Karen get a bodyguard home too, or do you pick and choose the girls you look after?" He shakes his head in disbelief, "Ah, listen," Frank's tone picks up, "She got home safely and making sure you do too. Not like Red's here to walk his own secretaries' home, some devil of Hell's Kitchen he is." She starts to choke out a laugh, "You're the only one who brought up Matt. Don't work yourself up, big guy. I'll be fine, I've walked home plenty of times before." Frank looks around the rooftop he's occupying, then back to the street where she's walking. Making sure to keep an eye in the spots the streetlamps don't reach.
"Yeah, yeah, think no one was keeping an eye on ya then?" He lets out a sharp tsk, "Gotta be more aware of your surroundings, daffodil." She stops in her tracks and starts sporadically looking around, heat creeping up her neck. "Oh, so this is what—normal for you? Watching people walk home?" She once again looks up at the rooftops. "Seriously, where are you?" He says her name amusingly, "Careful now, don't wantcha to get dizzy. Wouldn't be a very good stake out if you could see me, huh." Frank takes a minute to assess his set up, looking down at his rifle and ensuring it's not waterlogged from the rain and checking the quality of his scanner and bullets.
-
As she continues walking, balancing the soaked newspaper above her head while trying to keep her phone dry, she turns in circles. "Seems like you're getting a real kick out of this-," her sentence ends with an abrupt gasp. Her phone crashes onto the concrete along with the newspaper. Two men donning Halloween masks emerge from the unlit alleyway behind her, unknowingly tracking her movements as Frank was. In a moment of negligence as she eyed the roof tops, they struck.
One of the men wrap his arms around her waist from behind, trying to restrain her. She tosses and flails about as her attacker had his body engulfing her own. "C'mon man, hurry up," the man holding her let out a whispered shout, "she won't hold still." She manages to get her hand in her purse, grabbing the pepper spray Foggy had gifted her soon after she joined the team. She ducked her head out of the way, squeezed her eyes closed tight, and aimed the nozzle at the man's face. As soon as the spray made an impact, she felt the man's grip loosen, allowing her to kick her foot back and break out of his grasp. "Ah shit, SHIT! She sprayed me with something," the man frantically wiped his eyes. "Don't let her get away, we need this!"
What? Who are these guys? She starts to make a break for it, wiping her now rain-soaked hair out of her face. With adrenaline pumping through her, she reacts before thinking. The thick wall of rain made visibility low, causing her to weave in and out of miscellaneous trash bags and benches, careful not to lose her footing. While running, she began digging around her purse once more. Shit, shit, shit, where is it? Then, she felt it. The knife Karen had given her after she turned down conceal carrying a gun, she better not turn this into a shooting lesson.
She heard heavy footsteps crescendoing behind her, stomping through puddles. "Get back here!" In hopes of slowing him down, she whipped around with her knife in hand, hoping he was close enough to deal enough damage to scare him off. With a grunt, she manages to slice his left bicep and scratch his chest. Dammit, I thought he was closer. He lets out a panged cry, "You bitch," he spat, "you'll pay for that!" Not getting the result she hoped for, she keeps running. Her throat burned from the cold air and her legs screamed at her to stop, but she fought against stopping. She turned forward feeling frantic, looking around for anyone in the streets. Where’s Frank?
-
Frank looked back up from checking his materials when he heard the gasp through the phone, and the line suddenly went dead. He asks her name once, then twice. “Fuck, where’d you go, daffodil?” Trying to use his rifle scope, he squints through the dark rain and finds her a couple yards down the street from where he last saw her. God dammit. She was wrestling with a large man, with another beside him, both wearing matching cheap, plastic Halloween masks.
She was too close to the attacker for him to shoot them. Frank grunts in frustration, “C'mon, space out a bit...” She took off running after spraying the man with something and gained some distance. He then saw her try to fight the second man who took off after her off with a knife. Frank chuckles to himself with a smirk, Atta girl. But unfortunately for her, then man didn't falter for long, continuing his pursuit. Due to the lack of proper lighting and less than savory weather conditions, the scope was nearly impossible to see out of, making precision shots more difficult. As distance grows between the two, Frank manages to shoot the ground around the man's feet, trying to follow the target, causing him to stumble in his chase.
What he had failed to remember was the first man. "Oh shit," he looks back to where the initial struggle happened and the man is gone. When he has her back in his sights, she's being dragged down a dark alley by the first attacker, followed by a dark blue car peeling out from the darkness. "Fuck."
-
As she was running, fighting tears and exhaustion, she heard gun shots right behind her. She flinched and ducked her head, not knowing who it was or where it was coming from. She managed a glimpse over her shoulder and saw the man chasing her had let off a bit. Her eyes lit up, Frank, she thought, Frank's trying to help. She smiled and let out a small sigh, feeling more hopeful with his help but continuing her dash to safety.
As she was looking behind her, the first man emerged from a passing alley. He came up behind her and hushed her by covering her mouth, wrapping his arms around her torso, effectively pinning her arms on her sides. Her eyes got wide; she tried to fight and squirm but took a blow to the head, being pistol whipped by the assailant. Soon, the dark, puddle ridden alleyway became nothing but a grim memory.
Frank jumps up from his prone position. He paces the rooftop with his hands on his head, panting, as panic fills his veins. He kicks over a stack of discarded construction materials with a roar. His explosion comes to a halt as he tries to think on his feet. With the rain battering on his shoulders, he trudges back to his step up. He pockets the bullets and police scanner, swinging the rifle sling over his shoulder, and opens the burner phone. He races down the fire escape while typing in a phone number, not caring of the loud clangs and creaks emitting from the structure. As he reaches the bottom, he eagerly awaits an answer. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon—” He clambers into his van with a pounding heart, discarding the materials he collected on the rooftop. The phone line finally comes to life, “Frank? What’re you doing, I thought you were on the stake out?”
“Took you too damn long to answer, Lieberman. Need you to track a vehicle now, a blue —” David erupts in confusion, “Woah, woah, woah man, slow down. What’s going on? Track a car? You found Russo’s guys already?” Frank slams his hands on the steering wheel, saying her name desperately, “Two men took her as she left Red’s office.” He describes the vehicle the best he could without seeing the exact model, sharing the address and direction the car went in.
After reuniting with his family, David and Frank were rarely in contact. After hearing whispers of Billy Russo’s name throughout the Department of Homeland Security, David took it upon himself to dig deeper. He then found buried information on some of the men that were on Russo’s team that personally worked against Frank. David broke the silence between the two, wanting Frank to know about these men. After successfully filling him in on all the details, the rift between them slowly began to close.
Frank heard typing through the phone, knowing David was quick to help. He starts his van but hesitates to leave without a proper lead. He drums the steering wheel as his eyes pace back and forth, up and down the street, watching the wind push waves of rain against the windshield. He unpacks a pistol from beneath the passenger seat and ensures it's loaded. After a minute or two of silence, Frank interrupts David’s search with a groan. “C’mon Lieberman, gimme something, let’s speed this up,” saying quick tempered. “Yeah, yeah I’m getting there,” a few more seconds of typing and miscellaneous clicks, “getting into the traffic cameras now.”
Franks puts the van in drive and slowly pulls out of the alley he was parked in. He strolls down the street as if he were in a school zone, watching for any indications as to where the car went. Unfortunately, the tire marks from where the car pulled out of the alleyway end soon after hitting the street.
“Okay, we got something, I think I found your guy. Blue four door sedan headed west for a while before turning left towards the river.” Frank floors it, knowing exactly where they were headed, “The river. The shipyard. Half abandoned, no one around, secluded... Fuck.” David hums in agreement, “You got that right. They pulled into the docks and parked by a loading dock warehouse.” Shit, not good. “I owe you one, Lieberman.” The line goes dead as Frank rushes towards the shipyard. The adrenaline giving him a manic feeling, he mentally prepares for the worst.
Startled awake by a slap to the face, her head hangs low with a burning cheek and brain fog. She groans as she tries to lift her head to take in her surroundings. She tries to slur words out only to realize there's a cloth stuffed in her mouth. She manages to look around, assessing her situation through dizzy vision and dim lighting. All she can recognize is the rain pouring outside and the two men in front of her. Regaining feeling throughout her body, she realizes she can’t move her limbs. She’s been tied to a chair with her ankles bound to the legs and her hands bound behind her. She starts to panic, heavy breaths and whines escaping her throat as she tries to shake out of her bonds. Shit, my phone. I can’t get ahold of anybody. “Wake up sunshine,” one of the men said, “we got some work to do.” The masked men close in on her, towering over her as she sits.
As they approach her, she notices each brandish a weapon; one with a knife and the other with a gun. With wide eyes, tears well in her eyes. No, no, no— One of the men remove the gag and give her a sideways look. “Listen lady, all we want is a little bit of information for our boss, alright? That’s it. Give us what we want, and we can all go home tonight,” he ends his sentence in a sarcastically cheerful tone with his hands in the air.
She coughs as the cold air hits her dry throat, gasping to catch her breath. She looks up at the men through her eyelashes and talks through her teeth, “Go to hell.” As her eyes adjust to the low light, she tries to find something, anything, that she can use to get out of this situation. Unfortunately, she realizes her circumstances are entirely abysmal. A dull hopeless surges through her body, unable to find an out other than denial of information.
The man with the knife steps up, placing the blade tip just under her chin and looking into her eyes, “Oh you’ll talk, give it time.” His eyes quickly glance at her arm before returning to her eyes. He snickers and smirks, "A cut for a cut." He takes his knife and lazily drags it across her left arm, torturously slow. She lets out a hiss as her arm begins to burn. "Not so proud now," he grabbed her chin with a forceful grip, "Stupid bitch, thought you could get away with it." He threw her head back down and retreated behind his accomplice.
As she looks at her arm, she grimaces as the air stings the cut now matching her attacker's. The man with the gun steps forward. “Daredevil, what do you know?” She was taken back, what? Matt— What the hell is this about? She tried to think of any recent clients that might have suspicious inclinations towards Matt or who he’s been investigating while touring New York’s rooftops. Her mind racing to find a solution, eyes darting around her feet as if the answer lies in front of her.
“Hey,” the man shouts, causing her to snap back to the conversation, “What. Do. You. Know?” Enunciating each word pointedly, jolting the gun in her direction with emphasis.
She shakes her head in desperation, frantically looking between the two men. “Nothing,” she stutters, “The vigilante? What the hell would I know about him?” Eyes pleading as her search for a logical answer continues, running through solutions in her head as if it were a filing cabinet. The men give each other a look before one pulls photos out of his jacket pocket, throwing them on the floor in front of her. Shit.
It was her and Matt, Daredevil, talking down an alley with three men littered at their feet. Her eyes grow wide as she softly gasps; she remembers that night. She was about to get mugged, and Matt found her as he was patrolling Hell's Kitchen. She begins to second guess the nature of the “muggers” as she looks back up at the men. “Wanna explain this, huh?”
She continues to play dumb, not wanting to put Matt in jeopardy. “He stopped those guys from mugging me one night,” feigning innocence, “I swear, I don’t know anything about him, just that he helps people.” She shakes her head in disbelief with a heaving chest, trying to sell it. Please believe me, the pictures prove nothing.
“Jesus Christ, lady,” one of the men run his hands down his face, “We know you know who he is. That,” he points his gun at the photos then back at her, “was not your only meeting.” He throws more pictures down. Some depicting her giving documents to Daredevil, others where they’re hugging, and some just caught talking. Her breath picks up as she scans the floor in front of her, but her thoughts didn’t falter, protect Matt first. “It’s just coincidences,” she manages, “You’ve got the wrong person-”
Her plea is cut off as he kicks the chair, causing it to fall onto its side hard onto the concrete. She cries out as her shoulder and head slams onto the floor. Dazed, slowly regaining her vision, she thinks of nothing. No suspicious clients or overly confident interrogations Matt recently led. Nothing as of late that would identify these men. The second man approaches her again, "Oy, ya know what, I hear she knows the Punisher too..."
Her eyes double in size, looking up. "Oh? Is that right, pretty? How 'bout some information on the tough guy instead, hm? Where's he at? Who's he huntin' nowadays?" Giving up the act, she scowls at the men groveling in front of her, spitting in their faces. "Oh, I bet you'd assholes would love to know."
The man grabs her by the scalp and holds his pistol under her chin, forcing her to look him in the eyes, "What'd you just say to me you little shit!?" The room turns quiet save for the stifled groans and winces escaping her lips as she shoots daggers into her attacker's eyes.
BANG!
As Frank pulls up to the location David found, he saw the blue sedan parked out front, but no one around or in it. Getting out of his van, he’s grateful the rain muffles the noises he’s making. He approaches the car and places his hand on the hood. He sighs, warm, there's still time.
He surveys the lot, looking through the odd shapes made by rising steam and dim sconces as the cool raindrops hit the black pavement. He spots an open loading dock door with a soft light emitting from it. He jogs over to the door, mindful of the puddles under his heavy boots. He presses his back up against the wall next to the opening, readying his pistol and holding it high.
A muffled conversation can be heard, followed by a loud thud and groan.
"Oy, ya know what, I hear she knows the Punisher too..."
Frank's eyes shut, they got to her because of me, dammit.
"Oh? Is that right, pretty? How 'bout some information on the tough guy instead, hm? Where's he at? Who's he huntin' nowadays?"
Frank grunts as he whips around the corner into the opening.
With a bellow, gun shots pierce through the silence of the empty warehouse, painting the walls with quick flashes of white and orange. "Guess."
-
Frank enters the garage never lowering his gun, assessing the space's occupants. The man she had cut earlier remained. He walked behind her and gripped his knife, holding it to her head. "Stay back," he stuttered, "stay back or I swear to god I'll kill her."
Her eyes slowly open, unaware of if the gun shots came from her attacker or a savior. Feeling the damp air fill her lungs, she knew she was alive. Exhausted, but alive. As her sight comes to, her breath catches as she watches Frank enter the space.
Frank slowly came to a halt. He took his finger off the trigger and raised his hands, "C'mon kid. Let the girl go, just you and me.” He slowly puts the gun on the ground in front of him while keeping eye contact with the assailant. Keeping his hands visible, Frank stands back up and takes slow steps towards the other man’s body lying in front of him. "You wanted information, right? I'm your guy..."
Frank tries to grab her attention, wanting to make direct eye contact with her, wanting to give her hints. Glancing back and forth between the assailant and her, c’mon daffodil, any day now. "I'm unarmed now, kid. Let's all stay calm, yeah? Let her go..."
She watches as the body in front of her stains the concrete floor a deep red, pooling in sporadic spots as the he was decorated with bullets by Frank’s pistol. She looks and sees the gun now a couple paces behind him. With furrowed brows, she looks up at him, locking eyes. His eyes flash in recognition, Bingo.
"I said stay back," the man yelled, holding the knife even closer to her throat. She gasped and shuddered at the cold metal on her neck.
Frank eyes the dead man's gun lying at her feet. Bolting his eyes from hers to the gun, signaling her to kick it towards him at the right time.
"Don't do a disservice to the lady, kid, c'mon. Be a man, she's tied up and hurt," Frank gestures to your predicament, "Think about your mom or a sister… Back away from her and let's talk." The man falters slightly; the knife is moved a couple inches away from her neck and he's stuttering some incoherent sentence out.
"Yeah, yeah that's it. Respect the lady and let's have a man-to-man. See," Frank raises his hands one last time and looks down at her, "unarmed." And with that last word, she knew. With all the power she could muster due to her ankles being bound, she used the top of her foot to kick the gun towards Frank. It skidded across the concrete just before him.
"LIAR," the man shouts. She forces her eyes shut, unable to predict the next sequence of events. The man goes to use his knife but is stopped as a bullet reaches his head. The knife clatters to the ground, followed by his body, behind her.
She looks through her lashes and sees Frank kneeling a few feet away from her, pointing the gun just above her head where the man was just standing. He releases a breath and stabilizes himself on his knee before standing.
She sighs as he walks over, "It's really good to see you..." "It's good to see you too," he says with a heavy breath, "glad to see you're still in one piece." His eyes frantically scan her body for injuries as he sets her chair upright and begins to cut her bonds loose. "Ya'okay?" He asks with a light hand on her shoulder. "Yeah," she shivers, "yeah, I think so." He takes a step back to give her some breathing room.
Frank takes a moment to gather some more information on the attackers. He spots the photos on the ground and pats their bodies, looking for any other clues as to who they are or what organization they're a part of. He manages to find a folded-up manila folder in the gun man's inner jacket pocket. He unfolds the envelope and removes the contents, immediately understanding what tonight's goal was for these men. "Well, shit."
Paying little attention to Frank's ransacking, she releases a deep breath and loosens the tension in her shoulders she didn't know she was holding. She examines her wrists and rubs the raw skin as her eyes begin to well, "dammit..." She looks down at her legs and realizes her shoes have been long lost, each ankle baring an angry red ring. Her mind begins to run after reflecting what just happened; the night’s events begin to pile on top of each other. Over worked, soaking wet, kidnapped, interrogated, threatened, beaten...
Frank watches with caution as her eyes shake in fear. Pocketing the folder, he takes a step toward her. He says her name softly in a low tone, not wanting to startle her, "Think you can stand?" She nods, quickly wiping her now wet cheeks and swallowing her embarrassment regarding her state.
He steps forward and holds his hands out, offering himself as stability. She reaches forward and grips his hands tight, standing slowly to not worsen the tight pounding in her head. As she wobbles to stands straight, a quiet wince escapes her lips. "You alright, daffodil?" He bends down and tilts his head to the side to look her in the eyes, "Those assholes do anything else to ya?" "No, no. Just... some hitting and threats, wanting information on Daredevil and Punisher." She looks up with worry in her eyes, "I didn't tell them anything, I swear... Dick thought hitting harder would get me to choke it up." Frank shushes her quietly, "I know you didn't, I know." He softly cradles the side of her head and pulls her close to him, resting his forehead on hers. Frank’s mind races to find a solution to pull her away from vigilante involvement. She's too close, this can't happen again. He rubs soft circles over her temples, taking in the earthy smell of her hair and grounding himself in her safety.
He pulls back after a moment and examines her face, "Lemme look at you." He hones in on her busted lip, bleeding brow and cheek bones, and miscellaneous bruises littering her face. "C'mon, let's getcha cleaned up." Frank turns around and motions for her to walk in front of him, not wanting to take his eyes off her again. His eyes rake up and down her body, seeing the state of her now tarnished work clothes, matted hair, and slight limp. He sighs, Jesus Christ.
She takes a step towards the open loading dock door, hesitating as she sees the bodies lying on the concrete, cold and lifeless. "What about... them? Shouldn't we clean up the evidence," she asks hurriedly, "surely someone heard the guns shots." Frank shakes his head and grunts, "Ah don't worry about it, got it taken care of. C'mon, van’s out front." He takes off his jacket and helps it onto her. He slips his arm around her waist to guide and support her towards the exit.
The rain persists with scattered lightning bolts on the horizon and the continuous hum of thunder filling the air. "If only I had a newspaper right now," she said lightly, giving Frank a humorous look as she shielded her eyes from the onslaught of water drops. He gives her a look of disbelief and rolls his eyes with a snicker.
-
Frank helps her into the van, lifting her bridal style and placing her into the passenger seat. Heat flushes on her face at the gesture as his strong arms hug her. He buckles her seat belt, grazing his knuckles across her hips. He looks back up at her, resting his right hand on her leg and the left cradling the side of her face. “You sure you’re alright, daffodil?” She sighs into his touch, placing her hand over his resting on her face. She nods and closes her eyes, soaking in his warmth as it contrasts with the cool air on her skin.
He slowly pulls away but hesitates to close the door. He looks between her and the floor. She gives him a puzzled look, placing her hand on his bicep, “What’s wrong?” He gives her an unsure look before pulling the envelope he found earlier out of his vest. “I found this on one of the guys... explains those photos and why they targeted you.” She wavers, her hand hovering over the folder, “Are these the men you were looking for on your stake out?” Frank just shakes his head and groans, “Nah, it’s bigger than that.” He nudges his head towards the paper, “Read it.”
He closes the passenger door, leaving her and the envelope in the van. She looks down at the damp paper, deliberating what its contents could hold. She turns it over in her hands, looking out the window at Frank texting on his phone before returning to the folder. With her heart pumping, she folds the top open and removes the documents within. All the documents were photographs and identification files of Matt, Frank, her, and even Foggy and Karen. She drops the documents in her lap with shaky hands, “oh my god—” A business card falls from between the files reading “Call if acquired new information” on one side and a phone number with “James Wesley” on the other. Fisk is behind this entire stunt.
Frank returns to the van, climbing into the driver's seat and shaking the water from his hair. He glances at her, seeing as she sits there frozen, staring at the files and business card lying in her lap. He sighs, looking out the rain battered windshield and back at her. He slowly gathers the files and puts them back into the manila folder, placing them in the center console. He says her name softly, “Hey.” She looks at him, wide eyes softening and breath evening out, “What the fuck is happening?” “Fisk’s trying to get the jump on Red and I, questioning anyone they’ve been seen with.” He carefully watches her facial expressions, trying to read her feelings. She furrows her brows, unable to say anything.
Guilt and shame flood Frank’s mind. He knows that without his ties to her, her involvement would have been minimized. He knew entangling with her from the beginning would put her safety in jeopardy, but he selfishly ignored the red flags to come. And now, she’s reaping the consequences of that. Of his selfishness. Even some anger is directed towards Matt for having her work at the firm and revealing his identity to her, digging her grave even deeper.
“Hey,” he says softly again, “I’ll handle it, okay? I won’t let them get to you again,” She nods unsurely, adrenaline washing away and fatigue swarming her mind, “Alright...”
Frank turns his attention back towards the van, starting it up and pulling out of the shipyard. “I got a safe house we can go to for the night until I figure this out, alright?” He glances between her and the road, “We’ll get you cleaned up and you can get some rest, promise.” He grabs her hand as he drives and fans his thumb over her knuckles.
As they drive out of Hell’s Kitchen, she begins to succumb to sleep with fluttering eyes and a heavy head bobbing forward every now and again. The white noise of rain, distant electric skies, and hum of Frank’s van lulling her to sleep as exhaustion catches up. The events of the day falling behind her as her mind wanders into a dream state. Frank notices her drowsiness in his peripheral vision, glancing over. “Keep your eyes open, sweetheart,” he says softly as he places his hand on her knee to nudge her awake, “just wanna make sure you aren’t concussed first, alright? We’re almost there, just a couple more minutes.” She jolts awake at his touch, humming in acknowledgement despite her vision remaining groggy.
She begins to take in her surroundings more, eyes flickering to the radio clock reading just half past one in the morning. Some generic rock song plays softly though lost to the sound of the rain. She watches streetlamps pass by, their warm light muted and distorted. The drive was monotonously normal as Frank’s black van camouflaged in the late New York streets. “Where are we going,” she asks as she looks back at Frank with a cocked head. “Safe house, apartment, in Queens. A buddy of mine tipped me off a while back, it's secure. Wanna check your place for bugs before you go back.” Frank answers as he looks straight ahead, occasionally looking out each mirror and checking his blind spots, “No one's followin’ us though so, we should be clear for the night.” She scoffs into a snicker, “Well, that’s a little reassuring considering a fucking crime lord is behind this whole stunt.” She sighs and rests her head on her palm as she watches out the window, what did you guys get tangled in?
The van slows to a crawl as it turns into a dark parking lot behind an apartment complex. The building was poorly lit, decorated with dirty bricks and concrete. The small parking lot was scarce of cars, indicating it was either holding vacant spaces or it was primarily used as temporary refuge. The wind pushes the clouds quickly through the sky, allowing for sneaks of moon light to reach the ground, painting the complex in an eerie light. She eyes the building with suspicion and makes a sweep of the exterior. A group of loitering man smoking cigarettes under an awning, raccoons and pigeons searching for dinner in an overflowing dumpster, and rain filled potholes scattering around the asphalt. Looks homey, with no fortitude, she refrains from making comments to Frank.
He puts the van in park and starts stuffing materials into an already half-filled duffel bag; the police scanner, pistol, extra bullets, a couple of water bottles, and a few nearly expired protein bars from the glove compartment. He climbs out of the van swinging the duffel over his shoulder, “Stay put, I’ll be back in a minute.” He closes the door and walks to the building’s back entrance. She watches as he approaches a keypad and tries a combination. He tests the door, ensuring the code’s reliability, and walks back to the van. With a racing heart, she ignores the red flags going off in her head, hoping the building’s sanctuary is enough to throw off Fisk’s scent.
Franks arrives back at the van and opens her door. “Code’s good, room’s on the third floor. We should get going,” he scans the lot and keeps an eye on the loitering group. He takes her hand, helping her out of the van, then snakes his arm around her to support her weight.
When they reached the room, Frank pulls a key out of his pocket and unlocks the door, “Stay here.” As she leans against the doorframe, Frank grabs the pistol out of the duffel bag. He scouts the place, disappearing into rooms she has yet to see. She assesses the hallway, failing to see any signs of other occupants. With a pounding head and eager to get rest to put the day behind her, she cries out softly, “Frank... come on, it’s probably fine.” He emerges a couple seconds later, letting out a sharp tsk, “Yeah, yeah. It’s safe, come on in.”
She gauges the apartment as she enters. A small kitchen with a flickering fluorescent ceiling light on the left and a dining table missing its fourth chair on the right. Walking further, the room opens to a living room housing a small couch and coffee table lit by the glass door leading to a questionably rusted balcony and fire escape. A doorway to the left becomes a bedroom with an ensuite bathroom, while the door to the right is a coat closet.
Frank tosses the duffle bag onto the dining table and motions for her to sit down. “Just wanna make sure you didn’t get a concussion before cleanin’ up and you go to sleep, that okay?” She nods as she sits down, letting out a long sigh as bruises bloom under her skin. He pulls up a chair in front of hers, pulling her chair by the sides of the seat to wedge her legs between his. Sitting impossibly close, he locks eyes with her before glancing at her lips and returning to her eyes. He almost thought she wouldn’t notice based on her state, until a shy blush creeped onto her cheeks. He clears his throat and starts the quick assessment.
“Alright the good news, you aren’t concussed.” She lets out a reliving sigh, “and the bad...?” He swipes his thumbs across her cheekbone and speaks softly, “You’re beaten to hell and covered in dirt. Got the strength to shower?” She looks down at herself and takes in the sight; ruined work clothes, drying blood dripped down her left arm, raw wrists and ankles, and facial wounds she knew looked ugly. “You don’t think this is a good look?” Frank stands up with a snicker, “Oh yeah, you’re beautiful, daffodil. Complete eye candy.” He reaches into the duffle bag and retrieves a change of clothes. “Packed some extra clothes for the stake out because of the rain,” he walks over and hands her a sweatshirt and sweats, “might not fit ya the best though, sorry.” In reality, he was anything but sorry. Selfishly, he was anxious to see her donning his clothes. His own oversized sweats engulfing her frame. The scent of her perfume woven into the fabric of his hoodie. Suddenly feeling suffocated in his own attire, he walks the duffle to the living room to rid himself from breathing her air.
“Thanks, they’ll do just fine.” Watching him walk away, she lets out a breath she’d unknowingly been holding. Looking down at the clothes she held, they smelled like gunpowder and rain. They smelled like Frank.
“Bathroom’s in the bedroom,” he points to the left, “there’s some soap and towels left in there. We’ll getcha patched up when you’re done.” He plops on the couch, running his hands over his face. She makes her way to the bedroom, Frank’s clothes in hand. His scent consuming her every step of the way. He looks over as she passes by, mulling over a thought. God dammit, you’re killing me sweetheart.
Walking with a nasty limp, steadying herself on the wall as she walks, Frank interrupts her stride. “You look pathetic, daffodil. C’mere,” sneaking up behind her, she yelps as he sweeps her up into his arms. He flicks the harsh yellow light on and sets her on the bathroom counter, her hands resting on his arms. “I don’t wantcha passing out in a hot shower, you can barely walk as is,” he gestures to the hallway. Taken aback, her hands fall into her lap, “Frank, I –” “Let me help you,” his eyes fixate on hers, “I’m part of the reason you’re in this mess... let me fix it.”
She tries to look anywhere but the man standing in front of her, wondering what this means for them moving forward. She recalls the last time she patched him up in her apartment and where they ended up that night. Frank’s arms and gentle touch gave her an elated sense of security and warmth. With flushing red ears and her heart in her throat, she takes a shaky breath and looks back up at him. “Okay...”
She anxiously watches as Frank moves around the small bathroom as she picks at her fingers. He prepares the tub for a bath, filling it with hot water. He grabs a folded towel and a washcloth from the under-sink cabinet, along with whatever was left of soap and shampoo.
He pauses his tasks and watches as she fiddles with her hands and stares down at her lap. He places his hands over hers, attempting to offer reassurance, "You alright? I'll only help if you want me too..." She holds his hand in hers and looks up to him, "No, no, I want you to help. Need your help, I trust you." Frank's heart rate picks up, resting his forehead on hers, he assures her with a soft tone, "Okay, let's get you cleaned up."
He picks her up off the counter under her arms and sets her on the floor, stabilizing her unsteady legs. He places a hand on her shoulder as she lets out a shaky breath, "Ready?" She nods, taking a step back and turning around to face the tub. Frank listens to the signs and turns around to face the door.
She stands still, watching the water in the tub ripple back and forth as thunder continues to sound. It's fine, she reassures herself, it's not like he hasn't seen me before. She hugs her torso and takes a few more shaky breaths, trying to calm her nerves. Despite spending the night together, this setting is far more intimate. The small bathroom. The steam filled air. The exposure. The vulnerability. The trust. A heavy exhale signals her preparation.
She tries to begin undressing but hits an unexpected hurdle. As she lifts her arms to remove her top, her arms begin to burn due to her injuries; the cut on her left bicep and an angry bruise on her right shoulder from hitting the floor when the chair was knocked over. Letting out a frustrating breath, she tries again but is met with the same sore, burning sensation.
Frank listened to any and all sound cues as he faced the bathroom door. Listening for discomfort or confirmation to turn around. Hearing her shaky breaths and whines is tortuous. His mind is filled with imagery from earlier in the night; Her being taken down the dark alley, being tied up at the shipyard, her fear and uncertainty. He wanted to protect her, felt he should've been there to prevent this. He wants to be her stability, her warmth. The imagery in Frank's mind began to unfold. Pictures of her stitching him up. Of her breath on his neck. Of her underneath him in her own bed. Her soft skin under his rough hands–
"Frank?" His head snaps up, shaking the thoughts out of his head, "Yeah, sweetheart? Ya'okay?" A beat passes, and he notices her hesitancy. He asks her name in a clarifying tone, giving her space to continue talking. She lets out a quick, frustrated sigh, "I need help. I can't take my shirt off because I can't lift my arms." Frank's posture straightens out at the question, lolling his head at the request. He shifts his weight and glances to the mirror before fulling turning around, seeing her now facing his back. He turns his body and holds her steady gaze. He nods his head with furrowed brows, silently asking if she's sure. She plays with the hem of her top and nods in response, swallowing her nerves.
Frank approaches her slowly, taking in her sight and reading her body language. He watches the tremor in her fingers and the tap of her foot, watching her chest rise and fall just quicker than normal. He soothes her arms by brushing his hands up and down her biceps, careful of the cut. Her breathing calms as she soaks in the warmth from his callused palms. She watches as his hands move down from her arms to her hands, his eye glancing up to her asking silent consent. When she nods, his hands find her hips. Frank takes a step closer to her, now standing inches away from each other. His hands shift to the hem of her shirt, fingers slipping underneath the fabric and finding her warm skin. He watches her face down his nose as her breath hitches and eyelids flutter. Absorbing her beauty he feels holy undeserving of. He eyes her lips once more before returning his attention to her shirt.
Her mind races in desperation as his hands run up her sides and lift her shirt over her head. Both come to a standstill, eyes caught on each other. Parted lips and heaving chests cause the room to shrink. Lust mixing with the demanding events of the day set tensions high, each wanting to chase a never ending high.
Despite his desires, Frank's eyes dart to the dried blood on her face and the deep maroon bruise forming on her shoulder. Fuck. He takes a step back with his hands remaining on her hips. His finger rubs the skin just under her waistband, signaling her bottoms were next. With heavy eyelids, she places her hand on top of his and brings it to the button of her bottoms. He opens the closure and kneels in front of her, turning his attention to her hips. She steadies herself on his frame, placing her hands on his shoulders as her balance begins to give. She watches him with an attentive gaze, watching as his rough hands move softly over her hips and slowing ease down the length of her legs. He taps the top of her foot, "Almost there, lift your foot for me," his voice sounding gravellier than earlier.
As she steps out of her bottoms, Frank's eyes return to her hips, focusing on the bruise matching the mark on her shoulder. His thumb gently stroking the spot, guilt returning to the forefront of his mind. "You're tough to crack, ya know that," he stands up meeting her eyes, "You held your own out there... you're brave as hell, daffodil." She snickers at the sentiment, "Yeah well, you should see the other guy." Frank barks out a laugh and looks down at this vest, "You're damn right."
He removes his vest, leaving him in a black Henley and dark wash jeans. He gives her a sideways glance, "Ready to get cleaned up?" A tired sigh leaves her lips as her shoulders slump forward, "Yes, please." With that anxious pit back in her stomach, she turns around to face the tub, looking back over her shoulder as Frank approaches her from behind. She softly gasps as she feels his knuckles move up from the small of her back to her bra clasp, releasing the flimsy fabric from her shoulders with a heavy exhale. Frank moves to her hips and shifts her underwear down her legs, piling it with the other pieces of discarded clothes.
Frank winces as he takes a step back and fully sees her exposed form, both in awe and in concern. The bruises littering more than just her hips and shoulders, but across her legs and torso; signs from being manhandled earlier that evening. Jesus Christ, sweetheart. Heart of steel you've got.
He walks to her side and grabs her hand, gesturing to the tub. She stabilizes herself in his grasp as she steps into the basin. Slowly bending to sit, she sighs as the hot water seems to seep deep into her aching muscles, granting instant relief. As she reclines back, Frank excuses himself to grab a cup from the kitchen so he can wash her hair easier. When he returned, her eyes were closed and only her soft breaths could be heard. He leans against the doorframe and watches her resting form for a moment, knowing she's been chasing this peace all night.
He kneels next to the bathtub and gently strokes her hair, coaxing her awake. "I'll be quick, promise." She pouts and groans, causing Frank to snicker. Frank washed her hair as gently as he could, rinsing it with the hot tub water, watching the suds run over her shoulders and chest. He takes the washcloth and saturates it in body wash, washing away any dirt, blood, or debris left on her body. Though careful not to irritate any open wounds or sores.
Frank's careful movements and the warm water were like a siren singing her to the depths. Leaning into his touches with closed eyes and feeling the relief of her skin being able to breathe again. Though rough and callused, his hands felt like silk, void of any intent other than cleansing the night down the drain. After his hands had explored her worn body, he stands with a stretch, "All done, daffodil. Let's get you dried off, patched up, and off to bed. 'Fraid you might not survive much longer." She rolls her eyes as she stands, grabbing his hands stepping out of the tub and allowing Frank to wrap a towel around her.
He places her back on top of the counter and grabs a pitiful looking first aid kit from under the sink. "You know, for this being a safe house, you really should restock your medical supplies instead of using," she picks up the kit, "... five-year-old bandages and expired ointments? Seriously, Castle? Does this shit even work anymore?" "Ahhh," he throws his hands up and place them on either side of her hips, caging her in, "You wanna sit here and complain or get your ugly gashes cleaned up?" She throws her hands up in defense, "Just saying this might not be the most effective med kit out there..." He leans back, grabbing a clean washcloth and kissing his teeth, "Lemme tell you something," he points the rag at her face and shakes it with emphasis. "Hasn't anyone ever told you, 'You get what you get.' Ya wanna be patched up or not?" She brings her hand to her mouth and does a zipping lips motion, holding an innocent expression. Frank rolls his eyes and grumbles, "I like you better when you're tired. Just lemme work." She giggles to herself as he retrieves material from the kit.
He makes quick work of wrapping her wounds. Holding her arm out and wrapping the bandage roll over the cut and using plasters to cover the abrasions on her face. He applies a small amount of aloe vera topically to her bruises in hopes of reducing the inflammation. She watches Frank work as if he has it down to a science as he holds a neutral expression and moves much more skillfully than she had when patching him up. The air in the room changes from the sensual, intimate environment they engrossed themselves in, to much more tender and domestic.
"Thank you, Frank. You went through a lot of trouble for me and put yourself in danger... I could've never asked you to risk your life like that... Especially with Fisk on the other end of this." "Don't mention it." Frank hasn't let anyone close since his late wife. He got too close tonight. He knows if he continues down this path with her, she'll only get hurt again. He shakes his head, I can't keep doing this, "Plus I owed you, now we're even." She felt him pulling away, just as she thought he'd begin to let her in, "Owed me? For what?" "Patching me up under Red's nose, even knowing it'd put your job at risk. You know that asshole and I don't exactly see eye-to-eye," he scoffs. Flushing heat creeps to her cheeks, remembering that night, "Oh yeah, that... Well, as a wise man once said, don't mention it."
He snickers and grazes his hand over the bandage, "Wrappings don't feel too tight?" He looks back up, making eye contact with her. She rolls her shoulders and moves her arm around a bit, turning soft under his touch, "No, just right, thanks..."
Frank looks back at her bandaged arm. Eyes lingering for a moment too long; long enough for him to open his mouth without thinking first. "I was so relieved to see you sitting in that loading dock, you have no idea," he said softly. His hand ghosting over her skin, moving up from her arm towards her cheek. He gently fanned his thumb over the bandage covering her cheekbone, not being able to tear his eyes from her injuries. His eyes were still dark as the red he saw earlier lingered in his mind.
"Hey," knocking him out of his trance, "I'm alive. See," she places his hand over her heart, "Still beating, still here. I know you're in your head about this but stop blaming yourself for what happened." She gave him a gentle look, kissing the palm of his hand before placing it on top of her thigh, resting her own on top of his. He watches the glimmer of hope and safety in her eyes, their innocent adoration.
As they hold a steady gaze, she timidly inches closer to him, eyeing his lips as she closes in. Frank tosses any second guesses out of his mind, closing the gap between the two of them. As her soft lips melded to his, quiet whines left her throat as his hand snake up her neck to her jawline. Both had been dismissive of this need all night. To need to feel each other closer. To be in each other's arms. To feel secure. She opens her legs to allow room for him to stand between them, wanting to breathe his air and share his warmth. He silently obliged with a groan, shifting closer as her hands run up the nape of his neck into his hair.
His hands move from her face to rest on her hips, massaging the muscles through her towel, causing her to arch her back into his chest. She lays her arms over his shoulders, allowing herself relish every inch of his being. Everything around them ceased to exist in that very moment. No more Fisk, interrogations, stake outs, extra hours at the office. Nothing. Just the two of them tangled together in the small bathroom.
As the moment seemed to produce more steam than the bath water itself, Frank pulls back, rubbing his nose on her. He sighs, “As much as I’d love to continue this, I hardly think this is the time…” He softly brushes the bandage on her arm and watches her blown out pupils. Her breathing stutters after it was stolen seconds prior, “Yeah… yeah, you're right…”
After a beat passes, Frank clears his throat and turns away to start repacking the leftover medical supplies. She twists around and admires his handy work in the mirror. "Not complaining about the old bandages now, huh," he said snidely. She shakes her head in humorous disbelief, stepping down from the counter and grabbing the bandage roll from next to her. She throws it at his head as she walks away, "Whatever, Castle." As she enters the bedroom to change, she shouts back, "And get a new med kit, or I'll tell Matt!" Frank rolls his eyes and scoffs to himself, "Brat."
Frank watches the rain pour outside from the living room, lighting a few half-burnt candles on the coffee table and sitting on the couch. As the day catches up to him, he feels as the fatigue starts to set in. He checks his wristwatch, reading 2:33 AM. Not the latest night he's had but surely a long one. Upon finding out Fisk has assigned Wesley with collecting information on Hell's Kitchens vigilantes, it leaves Frank wondering how to handle the situation. Solo or with help? Lieberman, Red, or someone else? Ambush? A hit? Sabotage? Which was the most effective?
It was all too much to think about tonight. He'd give anything to get his revenge, to get her revenge. But the dominos have yet to fall. First: rest. Nothing is more unproductive than a half-assed plan running on adrenaline and exhaustion. He lets out a heavy sigh as he kicks his boots off.
He rubs the back of his neck, resting his arm on the back of the couch. Watching the rain and lightning out the window reminds him how slowly the night has moved and yet how quickly its events unfolded. Just two hours ago he was watching her walk home, and now he's finished patching her up after being abducted. He taps his foot anxiously, angrily, seething at the thought of her hurt.
The sound of soft steps and shuffling feet pulls him away from his spiral. He looks over his shoulder and there she is. Damp hair and barefooted, walking into the living room wearing his clothes. His hoodie swallowing her torso with his sweatpants bunched at the drawstring. It's as if she were walking in slow motion, suddenly all his worries and tensions melted away at the sight of her. "How're ya feelin'?" She sits on the couch next to him, their legs just barely touching each other. She rests her head back, staring at the ceiling. "Like a million bucks," she glances over to him, "I've never felt cleaner." He snickers and bumps her shoulder with his.
They sit in much needed silence. Taking in each other's presence and finding comfort in the candle flickers and thunderclaps. As the hour passes, both slowly sink deeper into the couch with Frank's head reclined on the back cushion and her's resting on the armrest, legs strewn across Frank's lap. As he mindlessly strokes her legs, lost in thought, her quiet voice grabs his attention. "Thank you for all you've done today." He looks over at her, meeting closed eyes and a face nearly hidden by the sweatshirt hood. "You already thanked me, daffodil. I know," he meant in an endearing tone, "Get some rest now."
She smiles, "I know I did, just feeling grateful." She yawns and snuggles deeper into the hoodie, "You're like my guardian angel, Frank." He grabs the throw blanket off the back of the couch, tossing it over her sleeping figure, "I'm anything but, sweetheart." After a beat passes, he says in a low, whisper tone, "I'll never let them touch you again... I promise you that."
Frank watches her chest slow to a steady rise and fall, indicating she'd fallen asleep. He watches her for a moment, savoring the peace after the hectic night. He glances out the window, watching the raindrops race down the glass and the lightning strikes light up the room after the candles had long burnt out. He turns an idea in his head over and over until push comes to shove, "God dammit."
Frank may be a stubborn man, but he prioritizes the safety of those in his life over petty differences. He picks up his phone and clicks on a contact he never thought he'd willing reach out to.
"Tomorrow night. Roof top across from Clinton Church. 911."
He got a response almost instantly.
Red
"10 PM, I'll be there."