Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Pure pain encompasses your head. This is the migraine of all migraines. A huff escapes your mouth as you attempt to turn over. Something is digging into your wrists. Taunt shoulder muscles ache with radiating cramps. Your attempts to get comfortable seem to be futile. Did you fall asleep in the living room chair again? Groaning, you open your eyes.

A bloody man sits across from you, cleaning a gun. He stares at you and begins to reassemble it. This is the most vivid dream you’ve ever had, and you want to wake up right fucking now. Clenching your eyes shut, stars appear and dance in your view. You’re still here, and he’s looking at you. This nightmare man is The Punisher. You should start turning the TV off before bed.

He clears his throat. “Mornin’ Sunshine. How’d you sleep?" His rough voice echoes off stark warehouse walls. Shifting, you try to move your arms. Holy shit, you’re tied up, and The Punisher is ten feet away. His brows furrow even further, upset with your lack of answer.

“You really gonna play that game?” You’ve never had a night terror like this. How the fuck do you wake up? Decked in his classic Punisher vest, the white skull saunters towards you.

Anxiety creeps up your spine. It’s getting harder to breathe. You whisper, “This isn’t real.”

“You betch’er ass it is.” The Punisher falls into an intimidating stance. He brings his hands upwards and lazily clutches the collar of his vest. You’ve seen cops in this position. Trying to show they’re completely at ease. And he is apathetic.

“Oh God.” falls from your mouth. His mouth quirks up.

“What’d you slip him? Hmm?”

“What?”

He pulls his large hand down his face and sighs. His body faces yours. “I don’t wanna play this game, ‘specially with a lady, but I’m not fuckin' around.”

Each heartbeat pounds in your ears. It feels like it’s going to explode in your chest. The Punisher is mad at you. God, you’re going to die today. Tears quickly start flowing. They run down your face and slide against your bobbing throat.

“I don’t know what’s going on. I didn’t do anything.”

He scoffs. “Oh, you didn’t do anything?”

You nod with fervor. “I didn’t do anything. I don’t know what’s happening!" Hysteria leaks through your words.

He clicks his tongue. “See, that right there, I don’t believe that.”

You’re breathless. “What?”

He mumbles, “Thought this was gonna be easy. Why you gotta make this so damn difficult?” A sharp click resounds as the magazine clips into place.

“No, no, no, please.”

“You try screamin’ for help, and I will shoot you in the kneecap. You understand?” Your entire body is shaking, but you give a stiff nod. “Let’s try this again.” He slips the gun on the table off to the side. Quiet swishes fly through the air as he spins his ka-bar between his fingers. “What did you slip him? And where did you get it?"

Whispers feel so small and yet amplified between you two. “I-I-I’m sorry, I’m confus-sed.” Gasping, you continue, “What–” The Punisher cuts you off.

“I watched you give him something. I saw it. You tellin’ me I’m wrong?”

You keep crying because there’s no right answer.

“Please, please, just let me go. What are you talking about?”

He stalks towards you. Calloused hands pull your head up so you’re looking into his eyes.

“At 1300 hours, A guy comes up to you outside of the Riverfront apartment complex. ” Oh God, how long has he been watching you? “You go through your purse and pawn something off. You are going to tell me what that was and where you got it. Now."

Complete shock rolls over you. He punches the metallic table at his side.

“ANSWER THE DAMN QUESTION!”

With a chattering jaw, you answer, “I gav-v-e him a granola bar a-and some m-money.”

That was the wrong thing to say. He crouches in front of you, hands on his knees, and stares into your eyes. “Don’t make me do it.”

Your crying manages to increase. “Please don’t. please." A sudden smack flies across your cheek, and you gasp. “I don’t know what the right answer is! Let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I promise!” Metal glints as he slides his knife into its sheath.

“Oh, you promise?”

“Yes! Yes, yes, I swear I won’t tell anyone! Just let me go.”

He purses his lips and shakes his head. With a disgusted face, he says, “Nah. Nah, I’m not gonna do that.” His head continues to shake like he’s barely holding back his disappointment.

A litany of ‘pleases’ spills from your mouth.

“You know how this is gonna go, yeah?”

An anguished set of nods moves your whole head. Despite a tight throat a “yes” bubbles out.

“So. What’s gonna happen is you’re gonna tell me the god-damn truth, and then I’ll put you out of your misery, you understand me?”

Maybe you should just scream for help, but you know damn well he will shoot you. Grinding teeth and heartbeats pound in your head. Whimpering, you tuck your head towards your chest.

The ka-bar makes a resounding noise once it slips from the thigh holster. The Punisher stabs it into the wooden chair, right between your knees. You gasp and feel yourself begin to hyperventilate. He mutters, “Christ’s sake.” Yelling bellows echo outside, growing louder as they approach.

“STOP! STOP!” The gun makes a reappearance, and The Punisher points it at the main door. Metallic clanking is beating outside. The man readjusts his grip. You’re taking a huge risk here.

“HELP!”

He quickly changes his stance and points his weapon directly at you. “You shittin’ me right now?!”

Daredevil busts through the door, leaving a giant indent where his body and club beat against the door open. He sprints at The Punisher. The gun is twisted out of his hand and smacked to the floor; Daredevil hits the back of his opponent’s knees. He screams, “Frank, STOP! STOP!” Daredevil tries to hold him down, but both parties are furious with each other.

The Punisher barks, “Get the fuck off me!”

“It’s not her! Knock it off!” Squeezing your eyes shut you still hear them fight. Everything is falling on you. “STOP IT! It wasn’t her!”

Frank keeps fighting him, but a little fire leaves his eyes. “Nah. Nah, Red. I saw it. I watched her give him the drive.”

“If you kept watching him, you would have seen someone drop the flash drive on the sidewalk about a mile later. Frank, she didn’t do anything. It was a whistleblower, Frank.”

All the color drains from Frank’s face, and his body goes completely lax.

“The whistleblower was their loose end.” Daredevil is panting and still holds Frank to the ground. “She didn’t do anything.”

As if your mind was protecting itself, you feel your consciousness begin to retreat inward. The room is glassy and blurred. Daredevil continues to pant but looks over at you. A shot of adrenaline shoots through you. He tilts his head, and you watch his nose twitch. Your heart rate and breathing pattern quicken.

He whispers, “What did the man tell you on Clinton Street?”

You stare at the vigilante with a pinched face, then at the knife stabbed between your two knees. Everything hurts. Your skull is pounding.

“He asked if I had any f-food. I gave him a granola bar and s-s-some money.” Your jaw is chattering so wildly you fear your teeth might break. The Devil looks down and shakes his head. You fly into panic mode again, suddenly awake once more.

“I did! I did! That’s–”

He throws his hands up in a placating gesture. He nods. “Hey, no, I know. You gave him cash and food. I believe you.” He hangs his head again, and his gloved hands clutch his mask. “I’m just…sorry this happened. I believe you. I’m... I'm sorry.”

Something inside snaps. Absolute disbelief bubbles over, and you let out an anguished scream. Daredevil’s face contorts in shame. He looks at you, but Frank stares into the ceiling, motionless on the floor, and void of all fight.

“You believe me! Jesus Christ, what the fuck?!" Your chest aches as you heave, attempting to get all the air you can. Laughs of disbelief keep falling. Your face hangs, and your body keeps shifting. You keep twisting your neck and shaking your head. “What the fuck?” The chuckles are slowing down, and your entire body feels heavy. Despite the still dangerous situation, your body and brain begin to slow down. Numbness slips through your veins and under your spine. Blinks become slower, and your face slides down. All of your small twists and turns feel lethargic. You want out.

Daredevil holds his hands up and slowly walks forward, but you don’t care at all. He stands about two feet away.

“I’m gonna get you out of those restraints, okay?” A slow nod is all you can muster. He pauses for a couple of beats but eventually inches forward. He reaches down, removes the knife from the chair, and slips it through the zip ties on your wrists and legs.

“I gotcha. You’re okay.” You keep your arms behind the chair in case this is some weird trick. But Daredevil grabs each of your wrists and slowly sets them in your lap. You wanna go home.

“Hey. Hey, you still with me?”

Your see your disheveled reflection in the eyes of his mask.

“Am I dead?”

His mouth is pinched. The Devil licks his lips and shakes his head. “No. No, you’re alive. You’re okay.”

All you can do is blink and gaze at the bloody bootprints painted on the concrete in front of you.

Chapter Text

Your mood has oscillated between lethargy and hyper-vigilance these past two days. It’s hard to get up this morning, so you don’t have time to hide the blossoming bruise on your face. The office is always cold, so a sweater and nice boots hide the unsavory lacerations. You really don't want to be here.

Coworkers ask what happened, and for once, you’re thankful that New York can be pretty damn sketchy. An excuse comes easily; a mugger wanted your bag, and you were stupid enough to try to fight. What else could you have said? I was kidnapped and beaten by the Punisher? Then rescued by Daredevil? No, I didn't report it to police. Oh, and I'm terrified that Frank Castle is going to find me and shoot me in my kneecaps. Yeah, not great.

Plopping envelopes onto your coworker's desk, you're lost in thought. There has been a definite learning curve to working at The Bulletin over the past two months. It’s always buzzing. Something must be done, people must be talked to, and articles must be printed. However, it beats being bored out of your mind while doing finances in a sad cubicle.

Thankfully, the busyness makes the day go faster. A reception desk is perched close to the elevator. Desks and offices are behind you, against your very vulnerable back. Ellison used to joke that you’re the first line of defense, but after the disaster at work, those jokes trickled out. Honestly, you still think it’s kinda funny and miss the playful jabs. You think he’s just glad you didn’t quit after the most recent shit-show.

A quiet hum indicates an incoming guest; Karen exits. You look back down at Ellison’s schedule for next week. He double-booked himself. Again. You sigh. “Morning, Ms. Page.” She’s always been sweet to you. You’ve read her stories and admire her seemingly unending determination, bravery, and eloquence. You also know she’s a danger magnet. Everyone knows that. He mumbles, “Thought this was gonna be easy. Why you gotta make this so damn difficult?” A sharp click resounds as the magazine clips into place.

There’s a quiet gasp; you roll your eyes. “What happened?”

It's hard making eye contact. He crouches in front of you, hands on his knees, and stares into your eyes. “Don’t make me do it.” All interactions have felt like pulling teeth this morning. You swear it's like everyone is closer than normal, that new corners have been created. That potential predators linger just out of sight. Feigning innocence, you flip through your boss’s schedule for two weeks out, and mutter, “Mugger. New York stuff.”

She ‘tsks’. “They get away?” You nod at the schedule. “Well, if you need legal help, I know some people.” Karen's offer is genuine, but she also has an undeniable sympathy for the man who kidnapped you, hit you, and threatened you with multiple weapons. So you don’t exactly trust her judgement.

God, you really wish you had more PTO available. “I’ll let you know, thanks, Karen.” She taps the top of your desk, and you listen to the click of her heels peter out.

You’ll never be able to escape the dreaded Excel sheets. Colors and numbers flick and flutter across two monitors, your head moving back and forth as if watching a tennis match. The previous receptionist was shit with his organization, so you’re left here picking up an insane amount of slack. You shoot up at a loud high pitched squeal. Metal punches metal. The elevator doors closed. His vest was so bloody it looked pink. He punches the metal table. "Answer the damn question!" A man in a suit steps and taps a cane back and forth. Shaking yourself out of your head, its's time for the spiel.

Steadying yourself you ask, “Good morning, how can I help?”

He looks a bit confused at first, but his steps to the desk are confident. You freeze and squint; he looks familiar? A charming smile throws you off guard. “Hi. I’m here for Karen Page.” And the voice sounds even more familiar. You know you're insane, but he sounds just like Daredevil. Nausea rolls up, but you breathe it back down as you click to Karen's schedule, desperate to calm down. I'm loosing it.

You click on her Outlook tab and see she blocked out all of this morning. She attracts a lot of wackos; some strangers have no problem walking in and asking to see her. Maybe even crazy vigilantes. Sometimes being the “first line of defense” feels surprisingly accurate. You clear your throat and ask, “Did you have an appointment this morning?"

His smile shifts to a grimace. “No, sorry. I’m her friend, Matt Murdock.” He smooths his tie down.

“I’m gonna get you out of those restraints, okay?”

You eye him. “Gotcha. Let me go see if she’s in her office.” On the short walk down the hall, you think of Matt’s face. He looks familiar, but there's no way Daredevil would walk into your place of work. You scold yourself. You don't know this man. He's probably just a friend of Karen's. It's fine. Regardless, his voice makes you uncomfortable. Inside, you inch towards fight or flight. It makes no sense, but it's hard to ignore the churning in your gut.

You knock on the doorpost, and Karen looks up from her computer. “Hey, there’s a guy named Matt here to see you.” You fumble just a tad. “Meet you. Said he’s a friend?”

“Nice suit?” You hum in agreement. “Cane?” You nod. “He knows the way, send him back.”

Matt is still standing near the desk, and you let him know he can head back. He gives you a tense smile and moves down the hallway. The old padding on your chair isn’t comfortable, but what can you do? Your attempts to get comfortable seem to be futile. You're tied up and the Punisher is ten feet away. You are all too aware of your breathing while you flag, forward, and respond to emails. Eventually, work swallows you up.

You're gonna lose your shit. Snapping the side door of the copier closed, it still displays “REMOVE JAM”. You've checked all seven spots the stupid piece of paper could hide, and you can't find shit. In an attempt to calm down, you loosen your jaw and take a deep breath. You’ve turned it on and off, but the message remains. Groaning, you search again. A panic attack nips at your heels. You try to stop your chest from heaving. Your heart feels like it might just bust out of your chest. BA-BOOM. BA-BOOM. Tears slip down your face, but your sleeve swipes them away. Pain radiates from your cheek. He smacked you. You roll your neck and blow out a large breath.

Heels click behind your back, but you still jump and spin around. Seeing Karen, you push a hand to your chest and breathe out, “Scared me.”

Her furrowed brows slowly erode. “Sorry, just need to copy some stuff.”  You give her a once-over. Something seems wrong, but you don't know her well enough to pry. Huffing, you look back at the copier.

Even with a tight throat you manage to say, “Trying to find the jam, gimme a minute…After that, I need to fax something. Can I go first? Misty said she wanted it out right away.”

“Go for it.” Karen fidgets with her pen, flicking it back and forth. Her fussing is innocent, but it increases your anxiety anyway.

Frustration rises, but there's no way you can explode right now, and over a machine no less. Finally, you yank the sheet out. You smile, but it hurts. It was hiding in the bottom drawer, all of it trapped behind metal. You feel a little less insane.

Looking back, you hope Karen would share the joy, but she’s lost in thought. Satisfying beeps sound with every button you press. Unable to leave it be, you ask, “You okay?” Documents load through the feeder. Karen gives a low, “Mhmm.” You look up into the reflection of the window in front of you. Her reflection studies your back. Clearing your throat, you drum your fingers against the copier, impatience and anxiety running through you. Peeking over your shoulder, you ask, “Who's the visitor?”

She jabs her thumb over her shoulder. “That's Matt. He's a lawyer in Hell's Kitchen with Foggy Nelson. Told ‘ya I knew something people.” Your palm flies to your forehead. The bruise on your cheek gets hotter as you blush with embarrassment.

"Oh!" God, it’s been driving you crazy. He was the Punisher’s lawyer. Good. Good. You nod to yourself. Frank Castle's lawyer is here. When you bite your tongue, you clench your jaw to keep it from wavering. Obviously, you're unsettled with the new revelation, but your gut is still unsatisfied. There's something else. You mumble, more to yourself than to her, "Swear I've seen him somewhere else." You’ll steer clear and hide in the copy room when you see him head to the elevators. A paper finally spits out, and your chest loosens. You walk away muttering, “Ready for Monday to be over.”

Karen makes her way to the machine and starts the simple process. "Aren’t we all?” 

Chapter Text

The door barely clicks behind him before Matt questions, “Who’s the new receptionist?”

Eyebrow raised, Karen responds. “That’s Y/N. She’s a hell of a lot better than the last one. Why do you ask?”

He doesn’t say anything, but begins to pace back and forth.

Karen throws her head back and swivels in her chair. “Ugh, Matt, please don’t be weird. She’s good at her job and we need to keep her. I’ve never seen Ellison so on top of stuff.

“Frank kidnapped and threatened her.”

Karen subconsciously shoves to the end of her seat, her head shoots out as if needing to hear him better. “Excuse me?!” She thinks about the purplish bruise on your face. Faint yellow hues are hiding underneath, so it must have been a couple of days since it happened. She swallows. You are an absolute outlier to Frank’s ‘type’. Beating men, even the morally gray ones, isn’t a problem. He wouldn't do that, especially not to you. Slowly, Karen twists the chair back and forth.

“Didn't know she was your receptionist until about two minutes ago, but we didn't exactly discuss our day jobs on Friday.”

She’s so lost. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Frank and I have been chasing after the same group. He's trying to do it his way, and I'm trying to do mine.” Karen sighs and slumps in her seat. These boys are killing her. “Last Friday, we… crossed paths, but I was so focused on my shit, then I was stuck in the Kitchen, and I should have gotten there faster–” Matt groans and cranes his head to the ceiling.

“Someone was ‘leaking’ bad intel on purpose. It was throwing everything off. I was following one of the guys involved, trying to trace it back to whoever was supplying the information.”

He stops and clutches the back of a chair sitting in front of her desk. Matt shakes his head. “Frank thought the best way to fix that was to knock out, kidnap, and interrogate the falsifier. Hence–” Matt gestures to the closed door. You sit just a hallway away, completely unaware of the conversation.

Karen is aghast. Her mouth hangs open. “And she's involved in this shit?”

“No! No, he thought she slipped our guy a flash drive, but it was a setup. Asked her for some spare change.” Matt puts his hands on his head, and exhaustion weighs him down. “It was wrong place, wrong time.”

Karen stands up and walks around her office, attempting to make sense of it. Towering gray buildings surround them from all sides.  She oscillates back to Matt, with a hand on her chin. “Then why would he rough her up like that? We both know he’ll jump into shit without a plan, but this makes no sense; she doesn’t fit his pattern.” Karen leans against the armrests of the sofa, tucked into the corner. The room is silent as they’re stuck deep in thought. Matt shuffles and sits on the edge of her desk. He sounds weary. Apologetic even.

“He’s so far gone. I mean…Karen.” Matt puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head. “I don’t know what happened, what snapped, but he just doesn’t care anymore.”

She doesn’t fully believe him. Karen heaves a sigh, runs her fingers through her hair, and props the right side of her head up with a fist. “And what do you want me to do about this, Matt? I'm sure he's already beating himself up.”

“‘Beating himself up'? Karen, she’s a civilian. I mean, she gave the guy food and money for Christ’s sake.” Matt hisses. “And your fucking guard dog kidnapped and threatened her!”

A quiet click pops from her clenched jaw, and she attempts to think of what to say. She questions him through clenched teeth, “One, not my guard dog. Two, what do you want me to do about it, Matt?! You think I control what he does?” Worrying her lips, doubts conjure in her mind. “I’m not trying to be difficult, but are you sure? Frank wouldn’t do something like this. That’s not–”

“Goddamn it, Karen, I helped get her out. He tied her up and…” The tension clings on even when he rolls his neck. He shakes his head with frustration and ire. “He's managing to be even more reckless than usual.” Staring up at the ceiling, Matt is dejected to confess, “Frank listens to you; I tried to talk with him about it, but he was completely checked out. Fully despondent.”

Matt finally sits in one of the chairs. Both of their bodies are hunched over, minds swirling over the situation at hand. Confusion and curiosity lap over Karen's mind. Matt’s elbows are propped on his knees; his face parallel to the ground. He whispers to the floor, "Something's going on. And now I’m afraid she’s going to be stuck in a mess that she had nothing to do with.” Karen sets a hand on his shoulder, passes by, and perches at the edge of her seat.

“I’ll reach out. See if I can get anything out of him.”

He nods. “Thank you, Karen.”