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Karen Page trudged through a foot of snow, eyes squinted to try and block out some of the thick flakes from falling into her eyes, and scowled at the grey and foreboding sky. For the first time in many years, Karen regreted that her Christmas tradition necessitates leaving her apartment. It would be a lot easier to be on her couch, drinking coffee with a generous pour of Bailey’s and watching It’s A Wonderful Life— rather than struggling her way across a snowed-in city to try and get to a soup kitchen on Christmas Day.
Karen was always cagey about how she spent her holidays.
She was a private person by habit. Her estrangement from her father and lack of any other family to speak of wasn’t something she liked to broadcast, so she was always vague about what she actually did over Christmas. When she’d worked at the Bulletin, it had been easy enough to work through the festive period—the news never stops, after all, and Ellison knew enough about her family situation that he didn’t feel bad about assigning her more column space over the holidays so her colleagues could take a few days off. But now that she was at Nelson, Murdock and Page, it was slightly trickier. Karen didn’t want them to know she had nowhere to go and no one to spend the holidays with— Foggy would have invited her to spend them with his family in a heartbeat, but she didn’t want his pity or to have to explain her estrangement to his well-meaning but nosy and opinionated relatives. Matt spent some of his time with the Nelson clan, but Karen knew from Foggy’s blow-by-blow stories of their outrageous holiday shenanigans that Matt also disappeared at some point to do his own thing.
She’d asked him (casually) about it, about where he went, and he’d told her that he usually went to church and then volunteered at a soup kitchen. Because of course he did.
Karen had thought about her lonely Christmas Day plans, and thought that spending the day helping others would be an excellent way to get out of the house and out of her head. No self-pity for her that year, no sir!
It had gone surprisingly well. She’d contacted a local shelter and they’d put her in touch with the volunteer crew. She signed up to bring some things and to cook some raw ingredients provided by larger charity networks, and spent her Christmas Day in the industrial kitchen of a homeless shelter, cooking an obscene amount of vegetables, mashing a truly alarming number of potatoes, meeting new people and serving out plates of Christmas turkey to those down on their luck. It had been fun, rewarding and exhausting — the perfect combination.
So Karen signed up again the next year.
And the next.
And the year after.
It had become her little holiday tradition, a weapon against anyone asking too many questions, another way to keep herself apart. Her holiday plans? “We volunteer at a soup kitchen,” and if Karen doesn’t explain the “we” doesn’t mean her family but just means her fellow volunteers, well, that’s her business.
It’s on Christmas in the Hell’s Kitchen shelter that she’d met Stephen.
Stephen was tall, standing at at least 6’5”, with dirty blond hair and lanky limbs. He wasn’t the most conventionally attractive person Karen had ever met, but he was so funny she’d had no doubt he was pretty successful on the dating scene. It hadn’t surprised her when he’d asked her out after their volunteering day finished, but she’d surprised herself by saying yes. And she’d kept surprising herself by saying yes, to another date, to spending the night at his, to going on a weekend away, to meeting his friends.
Karen knew she shouldn’t have let it go on as long as she did. If she were honest with herself, she knew she wasn’t in love with him. She was very fond of Stephen–he was funny, he was kind under his sarcasm, he held her hand in public and never, never used her as bait to lure gangsters into diners so he could kick the shit out of them for information. But he wasn’t part of her world, and she didn’t want him to be.
He’d thought her job as PI was cool, at first. But the long and odd hours started to get to him. When he’d seen her with a black eye, courtesy of an extremely disgruntled spouse, he had been absolutely freaked. He didn’t understand her drive, her need to uncover the truth, even at the expense of her own safety.
They’d struggled on after that for a bit, but they’d both seen the writing on the wall. Karen selfishly didn’t want to be the one to end it, and Stephen had gallantly done what she hadn’t had the courage to do.
“Kare, you know I love you,” he’d said sadly, “but I can’t be with someone who won’t let me in.”
“I let you in,” she protested, knowing full well she hadn’t. How could she? Karen couldn’t show her full, ugly self to this sweet, kind, funny man. She couldn’t tell him she carried a loaded gun in her purse and kept another one duct taped behind her headboard. She couldn’t explain why she had no family without lying or fudging the truth.
Most of all, she couldn’t tell him that she’d once stood in an elevator with New York’s most infamous mass murderer, ears ringing, faces bloodied, swaying together as though dancing. Couldn’t confess that she’d once walked through a hospital without her shoes, pulling fire alarms as she went, and she’d felt her heart break with a clear, snapping sound, like the noise from when she’d broken icicles off the roof as a child.
And she couldn’t tell him that her heart had never recovered from it– not really.
Their split had ended up being mostly graceful and dignified, but Karen still hadn’t wanted to see Stephen on her Christmas volunteering day. She’d asked Martha, the volunteer organiser, to find her somewhere else to work this year, and Martha had informed her cheerfully that there was a Veteran’s Association in Queens that definitely needed volunteers, if she could make it out there?
Of course Karen had said yes— but she hadn’t checked where exactly the VA was located before agreeing.
Which was how she found herself trudging through a foot of snow with more coming down, at 10am on December 25th, struggling to carry a 15 pound turkey and enough loose Brussels sprouts to disgust every vegetable-averse child in the greater New York area. The VA was located in a neighborhood she’d never even heard of that required 2 subways and 2 buses to get there from her apartment, and just her luck—it turned out the second bus she needed wasn’t running due to the snow. Not for the first time, Karen wished that she’d been able to save Ben’s old car from going to the Great Junkyard in the Sky, after it had been t-boned by—
Nope.
Karen physically shook her head to try and avoid even thinking his name. Her heart gave a pathetic little squeeze anyway.
To distract herself, Karen plonked the massive box containing the turkey down onto a handy garden wall and checked her phone for directions. She was going the right way, but the temperature had taken a big drop in the last five minutes and her hands were freezing, even in her big fleece gloves, and her toes were starting to go a bit numb. Her nose was red from the cold and it was running like a faucet. She re-wrapped her scarf so it covered the entire lower half of her face and yanked her hat down to cover her eyebrows. Reaching into her pocket, she grabbed a pair of ski goggles and jammed them over her head, snapping them on to cover her eyes, and pulling her parka’s hood up. With two massive bags of sprouts on each shoulder and her turkey box, she probably looked ridiculous, Karen thought wryly, but at least she wouldn’t freeze.
Karen hefted up the turkey box and continued her trudge.
———-
Curtis Hoyle taps his pen impatiently against his clipboard. The volunteers had begun to trickle in via the main entrance, stomping their feet on the rubber mats to knock the snow off their boots, exclaiming at the cold. They’ve got a lot of work to do, and Curtis is impatient to get started. A lot of hungry people are relying on them today, and he doesn’t want to let anyone down.
In the back of his mind, Curt’s also a little anxious about who might turn up.
When his phone had rung ten months ago, BLOCKED NUMBER flashing up on his screen, he honestly hadn’t even thought Frank Castle’s name. It had been what… five, six years since that mess with Billy Russo and the Schultzes? Curt had made his stance on Frank’s way of doing things pretty clear, and it hurt like hell but he’d had to turn his back on his friend, for Curtis’ own sake. He didn’t want to follow Frank’s path, and the two had parted ways.
Until ten months ago.
They’d met for coffee, hesitantly, each sizing the other up. Curt had seen his old friend and his heart had broken— the years as the Punisher hadn’t exactly been kind, and Frank looked… haunted. Haggard. Older.
Sad.
And damn him, but Curtis had gotten sucked right back in to trying to save Frank Fucking Castle from himself.
Much as he imagined one would treat a feral animal, Curtis had slowly tried to bring Frank back from the darkness where he’d been hiding. Gently, no sudden movements or loud noises, just being there for him, feeding him coffee and food that didn’t come out of a can, offering some warmth and camaraderie. It hadn’t been easy, and they’d had some setbacks, but Curtis feels pretty good about Frank’s trajectory. He’d managed to get the man talking, and while Curt’s not a professional shrink, he thinks he’s doing okay. Frank definitely doesn’t look as bad as he did, and he’s even smiled a few times in the past couple months.
Baby steps.
Curt knows that Christmas is a loaded time of year for anyone who’s lost family, and Frank is no exception. Which is why he’s suggested Frank come help out at the VA— being surrounded by people, but with a job to do, might be just the thing Frank needs to keep himself from spiralling.
Also, Curt really doesn’t want to have to leave his volunteers alone if he needs to go patch Frank up after his dumb ass gets shot on Christmas.
Frank said he’d think about it.
Curtis isn’t holding out much hope— the idea of the Punisher helping out in a soup kitchen on Christmas is almost laughable— but the man has surprised him in recent months with his willingness to try, so it’s not beyond the realm of possibility.
The volunteers have mostly all made it inside and have dropped their coats in the staff room, lugging their donations into the kitchen, and Curt claps his hands to get their attention.
He can worry about Frank later. Right now, he has work to do.
——
“Fucking—Queens—bullshit—” Karen pants, dragging her boots through the high, thick snow. Her legs are aching, her arms are leaden, and she’s both sweaty and freezing. Do people in Queens not believe in salting their sidewalks? she thinks grumpily. She knows that’s a bit unfair of her—it’s Christmas morning, so most people were probably either in bed or watching their kids open presents— but still.
Karen sees her destination coming up and almost cries with relief. The turkey feels like it weighs a hundred pounds and her traps are aching, the straps of the bags digging into her shoulders painfully. She kept having to stop to dump snow off the top of the box containing the turkey, and the cardboard is now sodden and heavier than ever. Karen speeds up as much as she can manage.
There’s a man outside the door to the VA– probably a vet or a someone in service, she thinks. Something about the stance is saying military to her. Even with the firm set of his legs, he looks somehow hesitant– like he’s not sure if this is the right place, or maybe he’s waiting for someone. The stranger’s silhouette causes a pang somewhere in her chest, and Karen has a sudden flash of sad brown eyes that won’t meet her gaze. She shakes her head to clear it. If she lets every military man she sees give her flashbacks, it’s going to be a long day.
Karen’s situational awareness takes this all in quickly as she approaches the door, and he looks up at her with a start. His face is covered by a black balaclava and he’s wearing sunglasses— presumably to help keep snow out of his eyes— but she slows slightly, wary of a stranger with his face completely covered.
The man sees that she’s clearly struggling with the box and the bags, because he immediately reaches over and opens the door for Karen, gesturing for her to go inside. The freezing gust of wind that blows down the street makes Karen’s mind up for her– it is too cold to worry about this stranger’s intentions. If he’s got nefarious plans for her, she can find out indoors. Where it's warm.
Karen’s muffled “thanks” is drowned out by another gust of wind. She ducks inside, letting out a relieved sigh when she feels the warmth of the building settle around her. She hears the man step in behind her and shuts the door against the cold.
Karen hears the man behind her begin to stomp his feet to knock snow off his boots, and her wariness lessens a bit. An assassin wouldn’t worry about tracking snow in, she thinks. It’s freezing out, this is just a fellow volunteer. No need to be so paranoid.
First things first—Karen begins to knock her boots against the rubber mat, getting the snow off the soles. Her arms are beginning to tremble with the weight of the turkey, but before she can do anything the man is suddenly in front of her, reaching for the turkey box with a muffled and hoarse “let me get that for you, ma’am.”
Karen frowns at the voice. It couldn’t be.
The man takes her silence as an affirmative and Karen feels the weight of the box lessen as he lifts it from her arms. She looks up at him, but she still can’t make out any of his features— he hasn’t removed any of his winter gear.
But that voice. And the set of those shoulders, the hesitancy of his stance– it reminds her too much of a day in her apartment, years ago, when her help had been requested with the halting uncertainty of someone not used to asking for anything. Her heart begins to hammer away in her chest.
Karen realises that the man is just waiting for her, holding a 15 pound turkey, and he can’t see the look on her face as she stares at him because of her layers and her ski goggles. She clears her throat.
“Make sure you use two hands,” Karen finally manages, and she sees the man’s shoulders stiffen slightly, and that’s when she knows. It’s him.
“…Frank?”
———-
Frank hovers outside the door to the VA. He’s not sure this is a good idea. It’s been a long time since he’s had to make small talk, and his social skills are badly rusted. Curt’s assured him that a lot of the other volunteers are vets, so they’ll understand, and that all he has to do is follow directions, but still. Fuck. He’s nervous.
It’s been a long time coming, but Frank is tired. He’s been digging himself into a hole for so goddamn long, and he hadn’t even realized that’s what he was doing, and now he’s exhausted and stuck down there, and the list of people he trusts is pathetically short. But Frank wants to come home from the war, and he’s doing his best. Curt is a godsend. The man is more patient than Frank deserves, especially after all the shit Frank has tracked to his door, and Frank is almost pathetically grateful. He’s trying to work out how he goes forward, now. Tries, hesitantly, to picture a future.
Frank tries not to think about a pair of blue eyes when he does, but he can’t help it. Every time he tries to conjure up what he wants his “after” to look like, those eyes are there. Smiling, narrowed and angry, wide in surprise, full of tears– Frank knows he has absolutely no right to want this, to want her, but it’s a truth that has wormed his way into his heart when he wasn’t looking. She’s probably moved on by now, probably has a nice boyfriend, maybe even a husband, and Frank knows it would absolutely kill him to find that out right now, so he’s waiting. Waiting until he’s stronger in himself, until his head isn’t so messed up, waiting for a time when finding out he’s missed his window won’t send him crumbling into dust.
As he’s hesitating outside the VA entrance, Frank sees the bundled up figure of a woman advancing towards him, a fluffy faux-fur lined hood pulled up, ski goggles and a scarf concealing her face. He tenses slightly, an automatic reaction to a masked stranger, before forcing himself to relax. He’s been doing better, trying not to see threats around every corner, but it’s difficult— old habits die hard, as they say.
The woman is struggling with a massive carboard box with no lid that has a truly impressive turkey sticking out of the top, and she’s got saddlebags of Brussels sprouts hanging from each of her shoulders. Looks like she’s going to the same place he is, and that decides it for him. Frank opens the door for her and hears a muffled “thanks” as the wind suddenly and aggressively begins whipping down the street. The woman hastily steps inside and Frank follows, pulling the door closed behind him.
She begins stamping her boots on the mat to rid them of snow and he follows suit, noticing idly that she’s quite tall and that her arms are clearly struggling with that turkey. Frank steps over to stand in front of her and with his best Polite Marine voice says “let me get that for you, ma’am,” as he takes the heavy turkey from her.
The woman’s head moves to look at him; and Frank is a bit nervous. He still can’t see her face but she’s not saying anything. Does she think that was rude? Shit, he hasn’t talked to a stranger in a long time and her silence is unnerving. He’s about to ask her where she wants him to take the turkey when she clears her throat and says “Make sure you use two hands.”
Frank feels an electric shock run through his body when he hears her voice. But it couldn’t be her. That’s ridiculous. What the hell is she doing out at a VA in Queens on Christmas Day? It’s just another tall woman who sounds a bit like her. And… the two hands thing… it’s just a heavy turkey. That’s all. His heart is racing a mile a minute and his brain is scrambling to try and find something to say so he’s not just standing there holding a stranger’s turkey like an idiot, when—
“Frank?” The woman says, in that breathy, amazed voice.
Oh shit.
It is her.
———
What the hell is going on? Karen thinks dizzily to herself.
How are she and Frank Castle standing here in the entrance of a soup kitchen on Christmas Day, both bundled up so much as to be unrecognizable by the other?
Frank hasn’t moved, hasn’t responded to her, but the more she looks the surer she is. Those shoulders, that stance, and the echo of that raspy voice in her head — how could she have missed it?
Karen yanks her fleece gloves off and pushes her hood back, and in one motion pulls off her ski goggles and her hat. Her long blonde hair spills out from under the beanie, falling down her back, and the man in front of her (Frank, her body sings, it's Frank) sucks in a breath.
He still doesn’t move.
Karen steps towards him, hesitantly, closing the gap between them. She sees his hands grip the box tighter, but he stays as still as a statue. She places all her shed winter gear into the box on top of the turkey, silently praising Theo Nelson for wrapping it in plastic for the journey. Reaching up with one hand, she reaches for his sunglasses, going slowly enough that he could back away if he wanted. But he just stays frozen. She can see his chest expanding and contracting, even under the bulk of his parka. Her heart feels like it’s about to beat itself right out of her ribcage and onto the floor.
Hesitantly, Karen grips one of the arms of the sunglasses and gently pulls them away from his face.
When their eyes meet, Karen feels every nerve in her body light up.
His eyes are the same. There are some more crows feet in the corners, but those sad coffee irises stare back into hers, and she feels his presence settle into her bones, their connection snapping back into place with an almost audible click.
Karen drops his sunglasses into the turkey box along with her gear, and with trembling hands reaches up to gently tug at the black balaclava covering his lower face. Frank still doesn’t move, so she slowly pulls it off, over his head, and drops it into the box.
Frank looks… well, it’s not important how he looks.
To Karen Page, in that moment, he looks like everything.
——-
Frank hasn’t frozen like this since he was a kid. His brain is misfiring, and he can’t think of a single thing to say or do.
Karen yanks her gloves off, pushes her hood back and with one movement, reaches up and pulls the ski goggles and beanie from her head. Her long silky blonde hair falls out from where she’s tucked it under the hat, and Frank has to gasp at the stab of emotion that hits him like a punch to the solar plexus when he sees her face. It’s been so long, and he’d thought that maybe the feelings she stirred up in him would have been dulled by time and distance–but as his heart begins to pound in his throat, he knows he was kidding himself.
Karen reaches up hesitantly, and he can feel his breathing ratchet up a few notches as she slowly reaches for his sunglasses and pulls them off. She’s reaching for the glasses with her left hand, and he can’t help but notice she’s not wearing any rings. He feels a pathetic stab of gratitude.
Her blue eyes pin him down. Damn if Karen Page hadn’t always spun his head around and left him wondering which way was up.
Frank is still absolutely frozen when Karen reaches up, grips his balaclava and pulls it off his head. His hair’s a bit longer than he’d like it, and his beard isn’t quite wild woodsman level yet, but it’s getting there, and Frank is surprised at how suddenly self-conscious he is about his appearance.
Looks like she’s ok with it, because Karen’s eyes are shining at him with wonder, like he’s the best thing she’s ever seen. Frank ducks his head in embarrassment, breaking eye contact and shuffling his feet.
“Hey Karen,” he finally manages.
Frank looks back up and meets her eyes, and his heart breaks a little bit because her face has closed off, become guarded. He can tell she’s feeling years between them, wonders if she still thinks of the lie he told her, back at Sacred Saints. Thinks she probably does.
“What, uh… what are you doing here?” Frank asks, because he needs to fill this silence. He can’t keep having her stare at him with that look of betrayal, the naked hurt displayed in every line of her face.
Karen rolls her eyes like she can’t believe his audacity.
“I’m here to help the needy, Frank,” she says flatly, crossing her arms over her chest. The bags of brussels sprouts shift on her shoulders and rub against each other, but she ignores them. “What are you doing here?” Frank shuffles slightly.
“The same,” he manages to get out. She arches an eyebrow at him in disbelief, narrowed eyes meeting his, but then she sighs and looks away.
“Well, we better get to it. We’re late.” Karen moves to take the turkey box back from him. He doesn’t let it go.
“Hey, c’mon, Karen,” he protests weakly as she tries to pull it from his hands. “I’ll take it, it’s fine.”
“I don’t need your help, Frank,” Karen hisses, her anger flaring, and she yanks at the turkey box. The jerky movement of her arms, however, prove to be too much for the flimsy bags that contain the several pounds of brussels sprouts she’s carrying, and the plastic on two of the bags rips, sending tiny balls of sprouts bouncing to the floor and rolling everywhere.
“Karen, please, just let me–” Frank growls, annoyed now. He tries to keep hold of it, but Karen gives it another tug and steps backwards, away from him– but she must step on a sprout, because suddenly she lets out a yelp and her foot slides out from under her and she’s going down– and because of Frank’s grip on her stupid turkey, before he knows what’s happening he’s yanked off his feet and tumbling down with her.
Frank’s reflexes aren’t entirely shit. He manages to grip Karen’s waist with one arm and spin the two of them around, so he lands on the floor on his back. She lands with a thump on top of him, and they’ve now both let go of the turkey and it’s skidded across the floor and come to rest by the doorway.
Karen’s face is very close to his, he realizes dimly. They’re back to silently looking at one another, eyes flickering over each other’s faces. Her blonde tresses come down around her face like a golden curtain, and her hands, which she’d put up to break her fall, have come to rest on his shoulders. Somehow Frank’s other hand has come up to Karen’s hip, and his other arm is still wrapped around her waist, holding her close to him.
Before he really knows what he’s doing, the hand on her hip reaches up to tuck some of that cornsilk hair behind her ear. Karen’s breathing has picked up, and Frank can feel his pulse pounding away as he gently cups her face in his hand, his thumb gently caressing the side of her cheek. God, he missed her. He missed everything about her. He swallows hard and opens his mouth to try and apologize, to explain, anything.
“Karen, I–”
“What the hell is going on in here?” Curtis demands from the doorway.
Frank and Karen’s heads both snap up to look at the man standing over them, his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.
Karen bites her lip, and then bursts out laughing.
Frank looks down at her and he begins to chuckle too. They’re lying on the floor, surrounded by brussels sprouts (he’s pretty sure he’s got a few smushed against his back) and a few feet away the box has tipped over and the turkey has rolled out, scattering all their winter gear on the floor as well. They’re both still wearing their outdoor parkas so he imagines they look like two Michelin men who’ve topped over while trying to do their Christmas dinner shopping.
Curt rubs his hand over his face.
“Never mind. I do not want to know,” he groans. “F…Pete, would you like to introduce me to your… friend?”
“Uh, sure,” Frank gets out between chuckles. Karen just laughs harder. “Curtis, this is Karen. Karen, this is my friend Curt.”
“Nice to meet you,” Karen gasps out between bouts of giggles. “Any friend of Fr– Pete’s, and all.” Curt is fighting back a smile, and he limps over to the two of them.
“Let me help you up, Karen,” he says, offering her a hand. Karen takes it and allows Curtis to assist her to her feet, as she tries to stifle the giggles that keep welling up. Frank gets to his feet too, but that sets Karen off again when she sees the brussels sprouts smashed into the back of his parka. Frank can tell he’s staring, and that he’s grinning like an idiot at her, and he can also tell that Curt is looking at him with an oh-so-this-is-Karen expression on his face, but he can’t really bring himself to care about any of these things.
“So, Karen,” Curt says conversationally, “I know Pete can be an infuriating ass, but was tackling him into a bed of sprouts really necessary?” Karen is finally calming down, and she wipes tears of laughter (Frank hopes they’re of laughter) from her eyes.
“I think it was a pretty mild reaction, actually,” she responds, an eyebrow arching at Frank, and he just grins happily back at her. She rolls her eyes but can’t quite disguise the affection on her face. “He only forgot to call for six years.”
Frank’s about to protest at this gross slight on his character, but Curt interrupts him before he can even begin.
“That sounds about right,” Curt agrees. He looks at his clipboard with exaggerated thought. “You know, I think I have enough volunteers for today,” he says offhandedly. “Too many cooks spoil the broth, and all. If you two wanted a chance to go, ah, catch up.”
Frank looks over at Karen, ducking his head a little nervously. He knows he’s not out of the woods with her yet– she’s got a lot of his shit left to call him out on– but he hopes she might be ready to talk. Karen’s looking back at him, a bit hesitant, and Frank thinks about some of the stuff that Curt’s said, about relationships and friendships being a two-way street and putting yourself out ther. Time to make it clear where he stands, put the ball in her court.
“I’d like that,” Frank manages to say. “If… if you want to?”
Karen’s smile is answer enough.
—---
Frank and Karen head off into the snow to find a diner that’s open on Christmas. They end up at a noisy Chinese restaurant, tucked into a corner booth, where they order dim sum and duke out some of the shit that’s built up between them.
Frank almost causes an incident when he learns about the Bulletin getting blown up, and Karen only manages to stop his mounting rage by grabbing an ice cube from her glass of water and sticking it down the front of his shirt.
He behaves after that.
When Frank tells her how Billy Russo died, Karen looks him in the eye and says “Good.” It causes a little thrill to run down Frank’s spine.
They’ve gotten through most of the catch-up shit, and Karen is still unhappy. She can’t figure out why he was so determined that he couldn’t have a normal life– a light at the end of the tunnel– and what had changed.
“Billy Russo was dead. You’d fixed everything with the Shultzes and Billy Pilgrim. Everyone who’d been responsible for your family’s death was gone. Amy was safe. So why, Frank?” she asked, those blue eyes pinning him down, and Frank had ordered a Tsingtao and fessed up about Beth.
“I tried, Karen,” he said, rolling the beer bottle between his palms. “She was a good woman. Had a kid, was just trying to make it in a tough world. I thought I could… I dunno, be someone to her. Thought she could be someone to me.” He takes a sip, risking a look at Karen’s face. It’s carefully blank, but he can see the hurt in her eyes. “I just… thought, y’know, start over. Completely fresh. And it took less than a day for it to all go to shit. She ended up shot, because of me. I almost made that little boy an orphan.” Frank chokes on the words and swigs from the beer bottle again. Karen is looking at him with sympathy, but also with that look, the one that means she thinks he’s come to an idiotic conclusion.
“Frank,” she says slowly. “Let me just get this right. Amy would have been at that bar whether you were there or not, right?”
“Yeah, but it was because of me that all that shit kicked off,” Frank tries to argue, but Karen’s shaking her head.
“First of all, you don’t know that. Amy could have started something. Someone else might have intervened. You’re not the one who went into a bar hunting a teenager, Frank, so stop giving yourself so much credit.” Frank huffs a little.
“Second of all,” Karen says softly, “maybe… Beth wasn’t the right one for you.” Frank looks up at her, and there it is, this thing between them, hanging delicately in the air, never acknowledged outright but glimmering in the corners of their vision, like it would disappear if they looked directly at it.
“I mean no disrespect to bartenders, or waitresses, or anyone in the service industry,” Karen continues, “but a single mom who tends bar isn’t exactly going to be in the best position to handle herself. When it comes to, uh…” –she gestures at Frank with her free hand– “you.”
Frank frowns, but the side of his mouth twitches up. Just a little.
“Think about it this way– would you take a civilian on a mission with you?” Karen asks. “Of course you wouldn’t. They’re not trained, which means they’re going to get hurt. I think–” she cuts off, biting her lip, then seems to resolve herself and looks back at Frank more firmly. “You were trying to…to find the kind of life you had before you lost your family. And I just… I don’t think that’s the man you are anymore, Frank. Doesn’t mean you can’t have a life, just that it might look different.” She looks away. Her face trembles a bit, but she squares her jaw minutely, meets Frank’s eyes.
“The woman might look different.”
Frank swallows. He can’t think of anything to say. To be honest, he’s had these thoughts himself. Curt’s said some similar things. And now, to hear Karen echo the same arguments, he thinks maybe he can start to believe them, at least.
“Yeah,” he says hoarsely.
“Yeah?” Karen raises her eyebrow at him, and he chuckles a bit.
“Yeah.”
They sit in silence for a while. Karen orders a Tsingtao and they get some more spring rolls, allowing the weight of their conversation to settle as the noise of the restaurant around them ebbs and flows.
The buzz of Karen’s cell phone makes her start, and she fishes it out of her pocket and thumbs open the message. It’s from Stephen.
Karen makes a face without meaning to, and Frank clocks her unease immediately.
“Trouble?” he asks, eyes narrowed. Karen looks up, startled.
“God no, nothing like that. “ She swipes the message away and puts her phone back in her pocket. Frank is looking at her like he doesn’t quite believe her, so she sighs and picks up a spring roll. “Just my ex,” she says quickly, stuffing the food into her mouth so she’ll be given a few moments of chewing before she has to say anything else. Frank frowns again.
“Thought you were working with Murdock, now?” he asks, clearly confused. Why’s she pulling a face if they’re good enough buddies to be partners in the same firm? Karen swallows the spring roll and gives him a look.
“Not Matt, Frank,” she says, almost gently.
Oh.
Well. It’s been six years. He’s copped to trying to find some peace with someone other than Karen, but damn if he wasn’t anticipating the way this would sting. Frank coughs to try and hide his discomfort, but he knows she can see it anyway.
“He, uh, he bugging you or somethin’?” Frank tries sounding casual, and Karen gives a little amused huff.
“Not really. Think he’s just surprised I wasn’t at the soup kitchen today. It’s where we met, a few years ago. Didn’t really feel like dealing with all that, which is why I’m out here.”
Frank doesn’t really want to know any more about it, but he asks anyway. “It, uh, it end badly with you two?”
Karen looks at him, considering, before answering. “No. And yes.” She shakes her head. “I, ah, I let it go on too long. Should never have let it get that far.” She peels the label from her bottle of beer, graceful fingers pulling at the shiny paper. “It was nice. But it was never… It was just never going to work out. He ended up pulling the plug, once he figured that out.”
He pushes, just a little further. “Why was it never gonna work out?”
And there it is again, that unspoken thing. That shimmering connection, that tenuous thread that originates somewhere within his ribcage and spools out into hers.
Karen’s ocean blue eyes meet his, and she almost whispers her answer.
“Come on, Frank. You know why.”
And yeah. He guesses he does.
Frank reaches out over the table corner and cups Karen’s cheek in his palm. Her hand comes up to press against his, and her eyes flutter shut for an instant as she savors the rough feeling of his palm against the smoothness of her face. When she opens them again, Frank’s looking at her with an intensity she’s only seen once before– lifetimes ago, in the liminal space and time of a stopped elevator.
Sometimes Karen thinks she’s never really left that elevator.
His thumb strokes across her cheekbone, before gently swiping across her bottom lip, and she feels the rough tug of his skin ignite every sensitive nerve that he touches. Frank slides along the booth until he’s sitting next to her, and he rests his forehead against hers.
“I know,” he chokes out, his voice a hoarse rasp. “I know. I’m sorry. I know.”
And then, so quiet that she can barely hear it, “I won’t let go again.”
—------
They sit like that for a while, until a waiter loudly begins clearing their table before unceremoniously dropping the check.
“Think they want us out of their hair.” Karen gestures to the line forming outside the restaurant. Frank scowls and drops some bills on the little plastic tray, waving off Karen’s attempt to go for her purse.
Outside, the snow is now falling lighly, and the wind has died down. The city’s snowplows have finally cleared the streets and Frank gestures to the (somewhat) free-flowing traffic.
“Drive you home?” he asks. “Or…” he hesitates, then plunges ahead. “Wanna go somewhere else?”
Karen smiles. “Okay.”
They pull themselves through the tramped-down snow on the sidewalk, back towards where Frank is parked. After a moment’s indecision, Frank links Karen’s arm into his, and he’s rewarded with a blushing smile that makes his heart ache.
They head for Manhattan, Frank driving easily with one hand on the wheel, the other constantly fiddling with the heat, trying to make sure Karen’s warm enough. Karen’s pulled her phone out and is trying to give him directions, which he stubbornly ignores, insisting he knows better.
“Been driving my entire life in this city, Karen,” he playfully grumbles at her. “I don’t need a computer to tell me how to get to the Grand Central Parkway.” She rolls her eyes at him and keeps it open, just in case.
The appearance of her phone seems to remind Frank of the text Karen had received earlier. He frowns.
“You said you met your ex at the soup kitchen?”
“Hmm?” Karen looks confused.
“The soup kitchen. The one you normally go to, by your apartment. Your ex is there.”
“Yes,” Karen replies, unsure as to where he’s going with this.
Frank scrunches his nose in distate. “So I got your ex-boyfriend to thank for us runnin’ into each other?”
Karen laughs. “Um. Kinda?”
Frank snorts. “Well, remind me to send him a fruit basket.”
It takes about three quarters of an hour, but they make it into Manhattan and end up parking on Riverside Drive (Frank pulls some sort of wizard-level parking maneuvers to fit into an impossibly small space), and before they know it, they’re strolling along Riverside Park, boots crunching in the snow. The sun has made an appearance, and it reflects off the Hudson river, too weak to dazzle but strong enough to glitter. A group of kids are sledding on makeshift sleds (Karen spies a baking tray, a flattened cardboard box, and a milk crate), whooping and screaming as they fly down the slope. They pass by families of all sorts, walking dogs, or just taking in the crisp winter air.
Karen’s linked her arm with Frank’s again, and after they’ve been walking for a few minutes, Frank removes the glove on his right hand and gently tugs her left one off, linking their fingers in the frigid air. Karen’s cheeks, already flushed from the winter cold, burn even redder as Frank puts their joined hands into the pocket of his coat, keeping them warm.
They walk along the river, talking idly, turning around once they start to feel the cold. The sun is gone, setting early, and the sky is grey and heavy with more snow clouds. But the Christmas lights have started to wink on, and they’re suddenly walking along a tree-lined avenue with bright golden strands lining every trunk and branch. When they come to a huge evergreen tree wrapped in rainbow Christmas lights, Karen stops to admire it, craning her neck back to try and see the star at the top of the tree.
“What’re you smilin’ at?” Frank rumbles by her side, and Karen just smiles wider.
“Merry Christmas, Frank,” she simply says, squeezing his hand. She turns to look at him and finds his gaze is already on her, and he’s looking at her with something in his eyes that makes her stomach thrum with anticipation. Frank’s taken his other glove off and he cups her cold jaw in his warm hand, slowly leaning towards her.
When Frank’s lips touch hers, it’s a gentle meeting, but Karen feels it like a kick in the ribs. Like maybe her heart has been lying dormant in her chest, and that kiss has shocked it into beating again. He pulls away slightly, as if to asses how she’s feeling, and then comes back, firmer and surer, dragging his lips over hers, gently moving her jaw to slot their mouths together, and it’s as though this is the hundredth time they’ve done this as well as the first, they fit together so well.
They break apart after a few moments, resting their foreheads against each other, smiling a bit bashfully.
“Merry Christmas, Karen,” Frank says, and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Karen smiles at him.
“Take me home?” she asks, and Frank squeezes her hand.
“Yes ma’am.”