Chapter Text
Inside her purse, Karen grips her handgun firmly as she slowly nudges open the door to the Punisher's hideout. It doesn’t have a lock, which was something she noticed her first time there, and had found to be uncharacteristically sloppy.
“Frank?” She calls softly. When there isn’t a response she withdraws the pistol, clicks the safety off, and holds it at low ready position. She clears the corner like a cop drama, her eyes flicking about the space wildly. Nothing. The tension leaves her shoulders with a sigh.
It looks much the same as it had the other night, she observes, putting on the safety and returning the gun to her bag. She begins to poke around, searching for signs to indicate where he'd gone. The shelf is lined with whiskey, protein powder, canned foods, coffee – she flips open the lid of the percolator on the countertop. It is half full and long cold. Her gaze continues to search the room and she finds Matt’s nearly full mug, right where he'd left it. Then, as she nears the cluttered table in the corner, she spots Frank’s mug. Half full, long cold. He had left in a hurry, and maybe not long after she and Matt had.
Fingers pressed to her lips, Karen sinks into the chair there, her mind racing with possibilities. Should she stay and wait? Try calling again? Leave and pretend she never came by? Her eyes continue to look around the tables without actually seeing, until she catches her reflection in the little mirror. She looks a bit tired, but otherwise fine in spite of it all. It seems like every ten years or so her life erupts in tragedy… yet here she stands. In tact.
What is she even doing here?
“10-13, 34 at Red Hook, Frank Castle is on the move. Multiple casualties. All AVTF please be advised, the Punisher has escaped. ”
Karen nearly leaps out of her skin when the police radio crackles to life. Then the meaning dawns on her and she’s on her feet before she has time to think. She empties a nearby USPS crate, the closest large container, and runs around the place filling it. A gun and an extra clip, first aid kit, police walkie, other bits and bobs – she starts to leave but turns back around as it occurs to her he might make it back here before her. She worries her lip but quickly thinks of a solution. Scurrying to his murder-board in the back, she grabs the nearby red crayon and writes a little ‘KP’ in the corner. It wouldn’t stand out to anyone else, but he’d notice it and know what it meant. On her way out she shrugs on a heavy, oversized jacket, hefts up the crate, and books it to her car.
-
Frank kneels in a pile of rubble, hands on his head. He was pretty damn close to getting away wearing Petruccio’s vest, and he'd mostly-quietly killed several AVTF officers along the way – but the prick in front of him now had gotten the drop on him. He'd been disarmed, so now he pretends to comply as he calculates his next move. There’s plenty of rebar around, and bludgeoning-friendly sized chunks of concrete galore. Getting out of this won't be a problem, but if he allows the asshole to call for backup first he figures it'll concentrate their attention to one area while he gets the hell out of dodge.
“10-13, Castle’s been apprehended but I could use an assist bringing him back in. Where Columbia Street meets the access road.”
Very good. Frank has his eyes on a choice selection of concrete now, and just as soon as there's a response on the radio, he'll strike.
“10-4, I’m right around the corner. ETA less than a minute.”
Curiously, Frank finds that the voice coming through the radio knocks the wind out of him instead. There's a dizzying sensation in his head as he tries to convince himself he's imagining things, but it doesn't work. He remains glued to his spot.
“You stay put, asshole,” the officer instructs Frank, gun still trained on him as he backs up a few steps toward the road. Frank remains still, internally panicking in a way he hasn’t for a long time.
Then a horn blares as a set of headlights whip into view, only the car doesn't stop in time and sends the officer careening forward.
“Jesus Christ! Frank, let's go!”
He's certain he has never scrambled to his feet and run so fast in his life. He doesn't even stop to kill the officer first, just leaves him writhing on the ground. As he throws himself into Karen's little Honda, she's already throwing it into reverse.
“Wheel!” He grabs it instinctually the moment she says the word. Foot on the gas, she twists around to the back seat, and lobs something out the window. She breaks, shifts again, whips the wheel out of Frank's grasp, and peels out onto the road. The rearview is obscured by a cloud of smoke spewing out of a canister.
“...Is that one of mine ?!”
“Yeah,” Karen is too focused on the road to look at him. “It’s still light out – didn't want anyone to see my plates. Only had time to pull the front one off,” she sounds almost defensive.
His silence is concerning, so she glances his way. Incredulous doesn't even begin to describe his expression.
“What?” She asks.
“Holy fuckin’ hell, Karen. Are you outta your goddamn mind?”
She clenches her jaw. “That seems like the status quo these days.”
He doesn’t know what to say. He’s furious, but his heart is racing too. He doesn’t know what to do with that, never has. Then he notices; “You wearin’ my jacket?”
“...It, uh, looked like it might be bulletproof. Or at least better than nothing. Y’know…just in case.”
“Just in case,” he repeats after a short, wry chuckle. “Just in case, she says. Unbelievable.”
Her brow begins to pinch into a scowl as she prepares to argue with him, but thankfully he falls quiet again. She takes the opportunity to turn up the AVTF walkie so they can better hear the chatter. It sounds like nobody saw her car, but… that feels too easy.
“We… we being followed at all?” She asks eventually.
“Nah, you just keep driving, lemme worry about that.”
She glances into the rearview mirror but nods. “Okay. Your gun is in the back seat, in the white box. If you need it.”
They exchange glances. Karen's eyes return to the road and Frank's go to the back seat. He glances between her and the box once more before twisting around in his seat. When he sees all of his things she gathered, his heart very nearly flutters.
“Christ. What a woman,” he murmurs so low Karen can scarcely hear. He’s furious that she raided his supplies and raced into danger, alone, in broad daylight. For him. He wants to be, anyway. He should be. Instead, somewhere inside stirs a memory from what feels like a lifetime ago. A tent in the desert, opening mail, a birthday card, Springsteen tickets – the circumstances are so impossibly different now, but the emotion is the same.
He fights to ignore the sting in his nostrils, busying himself with the act of loading his gun and tucking it into his borrowed vest. Then he settles back into place, his focus split between the rearview and side mirrors.
“You alright over there? Not bleeding all over my seats, I hope.”
Frank laughs in the form of a sharp nasal exhale. She’s trying to be lighthearted, but he knows it bothers her to see him battered; “Yeah, I’m alright. Kept my distance mostly, nothin’ new to patch up.”
“Good.” They fall into silence again after that.
Several minutes later, while focused on making sure they aren't followed, his weary heart leaps into his throat when he feels something brush his left hand. Karen’s pale fingers flutter hesitantly for a moment before gently grasping his scarred, calloused ones. Frank knows it would be a mistake to clasp her hand back, so naturally he does just that. She rubs his knuckles with her thumb. He gives her hand a little squeeze. They remain that way, wordlessly, for nearly the rest of their drive.
“Turn left off the bridge, s’a parking lot on Madison. My side, blink and you miss it.”
She releases his hand to turn off the police radio and follows his instructions easily enough.
Once she parks, Frank starts to lay out the plan he's been cooking up. “Now listen, we're gonna take my shit in, I’ll get changed, and then I will drive you wherever you wanna stay for the night. But you can't go back to your apartment – they're lookin’ for you. You should get rid of this car, too. I can take it somewhere if you w–”
“Whoa, whoa, Frank, slow down. First of all, you don't just get to tell me what to do. Second of all, you're not dropping me off anywhere, the streets are about to be crawling with Taskforce–”
“So that’s all the more reason to get you the hell outta here.”
“Listen to me, you don't understand. Fisk implemented a curfew.” Encouraged by his confused expression, she continues, “You're not gonna make it from Chinatown to Hell's Kitchen then back again in… 35 minutes.”
“Eight o’ fuckin’ clock? That’s the honest-to-god dumbest crock of shit I ever heard, eight o’clock,” he runs a hand down his face. ”Alright, c’mon, let’s go. I can get back on my own, don’t worry about it.” He opens his door, goes around the hood, and opens the driver side door; he notices she isn’t budging, so he leans down to speak again. “Karen, whaddaya doin’, come on.”
“No.” She crosses her arms.
“Karen–”
“No, Frank. You don’t get to make decisions for me anymore, okay? I am 42 goddamn years old, I am a grown woman, and I just came to help you . Now I know I won’t talk you out of trying to ‘protect’ me, so do what you need to, but you’re not gonna tell me what to do. You will not . I have pulled my gun on men for less.”
Her eyes are steel and vast oceans all at once, and it’s like they can peer straight into his soul. He knows that tone, too – it wavers slightly with emotion, but it’s strong. He knows when she’s laying down the law, he knows the sound of thin ice. Frank holds her gaze in silence for a moment, then two, and finally concedes. “Okay.”
“Okay.” She keeps eye contact as she grabs her purse, turns the car off, and stands up. Frank steps back to give her the space to get out. His gaze shifts to the street. She shrugs off his borrowed coat and pushes it into his arms. “You’ll wanna cover that vest up, Mr. uh… Petruccio.”
Frank scoffs, squinting at her and licking his lips. “Classy,” he says quietly and slips on the jacket. He forces himself not to think about how it’s already warm from her body heat, or how he can smell her perfume on the collar.
“I made myself a go bag, or whatever you prepper types call it.” Karen pops the trunk and slings a rather stuffed-looking duffel bag over her shoulder. Frank nods, resigning to roll with the punches. He supposes it’s the least he deserves. He takes this as a cue to grab his bin from the back seat, and the AVTF walkie too. Then he sidles up beside Karen, who is already walking toward the exit, and wordlessly offers to take her duffel. Ever the gentleman, even during an argument. She shifts it his way, all too happy to be rid of the unwieldy thing.
When they round the corner she stops abruptly, pondering the storefront now beside them. Takeout. “Mind the door, would ya? I’m gonna buy us dinner.”
Frank sighs, trigger finger twitching. He wants to argue. Instead he tells her, “Pay in cash.”
“I know,” she smiles at him far more sincerely than he's prepared to handle right now, then walks inside.
Leaning against the windows, he closes his eyes for a second and sighs. This is a disaster. He throws his mental efforts into monitoring street and sidewalk traffic nearby, hypervigilant, desperate for a distraction. It’s almost meditative, but somehow the waiting still manages to stay torturous too.
Karen exits the restaurant after fifteen minutes, or one minute, or a year, or ten. Time stops when she's not around, or maybe the more accurate description is that it fast forwards. All Frank knows is that to be away from her is a slow suffocation, and he can finally breathe again.
“S’a lotta food,” he remarks.
“It sure is. I haven't had an actual meal since before I called you. Plus I figured you didn't eat anything in, uh… that place. And I really wasn't in the mood for Spam and a protein shake, sorry.” Her response elicits a little smirk he can't quite suppress. They walk the rest of the block in silence.
It isn't obvious from the outside, but Karen knows his head is on a swivel. Frank is masterful at disguising surveillance as casual mannerisms, but in truth he is constantly monitoring their surroundings. When they reach the lawn outside of his building, he encourages her to walk ahead. She understands and goes along, entering the building alone but staying right by the door when it closes. He takes just a couple of minutes to survey the area, pretending to catch his breath and tie his boot. Once he's satisfied they weren't tailed, he heads in as well.
“All good?” Karen speaks quietly.
“Yeah.”
Once inside the nearby elevator, she takes the crate she'd filled with his things and stands in the corner against the buttons. Hands now free, Frank withdraws his gun and stands close to the door. It opens. He beckons her to keep close, which is a little awkward with the duffel on his back and the bin in her arms. She does her best. The precautions only start to feel a little silly after they make it back to his gloomy lair without incident.
He doesn't waste any time tidying up, stopping only to pop a couple painkillers. As soon as they get in he's putting away the things Karen had moved around. She rolls her eyes and suppresses a laugh at how absurd it all feels.
“Frank, you should go get cleaned up, you look like hell. Go on, I’ll clean my own mess.” She offers him an encouraging smile.
Thankfully he acquiesces without pushback and retreats to his bathroom. As her first order of business, Karen dumps the days-old coffee from the percolator and puts a fresh batch on the burner. She cleans out the two mugs previously abandoned by Frank and Matt as well. Near the cot setup, she pulls out an air mattress from her duffel, which she then plugs up to begin inflating. And at last, she starts to tidy up the mess she’d made in her mad dash to Frank’s rescue.
When he emerges from the restroom with damp hair and fresh clothes, she's just about done. “Hey,” she breathes, pausing in her steps to finally get a good look at him. He's covered in bruises and his left eye is still a little swollen. One would think she'd have gotten used to it, but seeing him this way still makes her chest tighten.
“Hey.” Frank stands there, suddenly feeling completely exposed. His eyes flick away briefly but come back to hers. They always do. Despite his age, there's something charmingly boyish about the gesture.
“Tell me about what happened.” She's still giving instructions rather than asking, but her tone is not unkind. In fact, she pours him a cup of coffee and hands him the mug right after speaking. His expression softens.
“I used that radio to find ‘em. Lotta guys were waitin’ for me.”
“You walked into an ambush?” She sounds a bit incredulous.
He shrugs half-heartedly, walking toward one of the tables. “Happens.”
This makes Karen purse her lips. “So, what, either they goaded you, or you wanted to get caught? What’d they say?”
“Maybe it was both.”
She notes his dodging of the question as he clears off the table. Then she remembers, earlier in the parking lot he was telling her she wasn't safe.
“Was it me?”
He doesn't answer. Bingo.
She quietly brings their takeout bag over and starts setting out the containers. She also pretends her heart isn't fluttering.
“They talked like they were lookin’ for you. ‘Murdock and the blonde ’. Figured I’d give ‘em somethin’ else to look for…used the opportunity to do a little reconnaissance.” He explains while fetching utensils.
Karen smiles a little to herself, though he spots it. “Good to know Frank is still in there somewhere,” she says as she takes a seat.
“Yeah, well, when they caught me they offered me a job. Wanted me to do what I do with them, said they admired me. Can you believe that shit? Like they know me, like they know–nah, buncha pricks. These are real fuckin’ assholes Karen, okay, these people? They're demented, and they are bad news.” He starts to tell her to be careful, to stay away from them, to not fuck with them. But he remembers he's on thin ice, and warnings like that don't stick for Karen Page anyway.
Her expression seems troubled, but she doesn't say anything right away. Frank takes the opportunity to pivot hard.
“Hey, let's just eat, alright? I’m starving. I’m really fuckin’ hungry, we should eat.”
“Smartest thing you've said all night,” Karen smiles as he seats himself, not fighting the change in topic. She sits too, and starts opening containers. “Do you want General Tso’s, or lo mein? It's all chicken.”
“The noodles.”
She slides the container to him. “They came with egg rolls. I also got cheese wontons and soup dumplings to share.”
“So much for watchin’ my girlish figure.”
This actually makes her laugh. He physically can't stop himself from grinning in response. When their eyes meet it's like the rest of the world has melted away - just him and her. No Fisk, no Taskforce, no war.
Karen Page and Frank Castle eat dinner together, and it almost feels normal.