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Apologies don't come easy to Frank Castle.
It's got nothing to do with some old hat perception of masculinity - for fuck's sake, he's been in enough hot water to know that ain't worth shit - but he remembers resting. In their old bed. The double bed. God knows why Maria wouldn't just let him buy her a damn king size - (her lips graze the shell of his ear, giggling, as she entangles her body in his - 'I like to be close to you.') - no. He does know-he just-
Anyway.
It was hard. To look at a family he loved fit to burst- just-
They were these fragile human beings. Only in the physical definition, mind you - Maria'd have his head if he ever called her
fragile
but dammit if he didn't think about how easily she could come apart. A bullet, just one. That would do it. Fuck, any mugger worth his salt on the street had a gun and more often than not they were triggy-happy idiots. First timers - more common then than ever before - they wouldn't even know what it'd do, didn't have any experience to know how a bullet could rip through flesh and bone-
-shit, if they had the right gun, they could blow a hole clean through-
He would start to slip. It was when he came back to her for the first time that he realised that he'd taken the war back with him. It was too noticeable. Just how mundane and open her life was. He knew that it was a good thing. For her, and Lisa and then Frank Junior. It was good for him too. Home was open. The difference - it was bracing. Helped him cut his life into two sectors, and over time he learned how to minimise the spills.
It was good. Too good, for him to have these people in his life who let him feel human, let his heart be something other than just a target for shrapnel or burning steel, so he knew somewhere, somehow that it would end. And maybe he and Maria would fight, a big blowout and the kids - goddamnit, they’d stare from their hiding place behind the stair bannister and his eyes would just catch on them and tear - but the fights, the explosive anger they shared for good or for worse, they would all die down. He’d find himself swaying in the aftermath, Maria’s hair tickling at his chin as they danced together on the porch and he’d never feel more solid than the way he did then, with his feet slipping over the cracked boards and his eyes catching on the way their bum porch light would flicker over her cheeks, her lips, her eyelashes that fluttered when he pressed his lips to hers. And he’d catch himself sighing into her shoulder, his palm smoothing over the wrinkles in her spring dress and she’d whisper in his ear that she loved him, Frank, that she was in for the long haul.
A fight was never how it would’ve ended. He knew that. Because Maria was a parachute, a gentle press of fingers to his cheek, a strong yank to keep him from smashing things to pieces. No, the end came because of him, because he-
-Lisa's face is just
meat
, and in the gaps of muscle he can see bone and he's shaking, he can't see anything but the muscle and sinew and it
breathes
at him-
-he had to leave.
At the end of the day, he always did.
The apologies. The fucking line up of 'sorry', 'the last one, I promise', all of it - he was a fucking addict, no better than the junkies half dead on the street. At least their poison would kill 'em slower.
And Maria took it. She knew the first time he went back - 'They need me, Maria.' - and she would get those eyes… those sad eyes and he knew- goddamnit, he
knew
- that only one thing would make her happy and there he was saying sorry like that meant shit to the bombs, the bullets, the screams-
Somehow, living it was better than fearing it.
He apologised every time. Didn't make a difference in the end.
--
Frank's van rolls to a halt, clipping the curb on the way down. Nothing's changed since he left.
The courtyard's soil is matted down with footprints, marks soften by dustings of kicked up earth. The warehouse’s corrugated tin walls still have the same bronze rust clawing up in rivulets. Only thing that's different is the tarp covering the middle window (a muddy green rather than the normal grey) but he recognizes it as a backup sheet. Makes sense to swap it out.
Frank scrubs at his eyes. Licks his lips. Any way you slice it, this isn't going to be easy.
In one smooth motion, he jams a cap down over his eyes and swings himself out of the driver's seat. A cursory glance confirms that the block's deserted - the only other things gracing the cracked footpath are dumpsters and various arrays of trash. Frank side-steps a broken syringe on his way to the chain link fence.
The gate is locked. He rattles it for good measure, and glances at the crack in the grating where he knows there's a camera hidden.
Silence.
Goddammit.
Frank's about to start scaling the damn thing when there's a signature buzz and click, and the gate screeches open.
He gives the camera a nod. The gate locks behind him.
He still remembers the trail through the yard to avoid the planted sensors. It's pretentious - this place isn't the fucking Louvre - but Frank respects it for what it is. He remembers his third tour, the steady stream of smoke and dirt that spilled into their makeshift roads, how the rain would mix with the shit and muck and make a paste, a thick sludge that could shield any mine, any planted bomb-
-the scouts, sure they had the scouts but who was he kidding? They were bait, a fucking preemptive measure to lessen the losses that
mattered
and the mud, the mud swallowed up what remained of them too-
Took them weeks to get up that road. It was a testament to something.
Frank kicks dirt over an edge that protrudes from a windswept corner. Ah. He's put in new ones.
A foot away from the grimey doors, the dirt under his boot shifts, a whirr and click -
In the span of a second, Frank is on his stomach, his legs shoving him away just as the patch of earth explodes under gunfire.
No. Not gunfire. Frank squints at the thin rods protruding from the earth, eyes widening as realisation strikes.
Micro's voice crackles through a speaker on his right, faint and tinny. 'Long time no see,
Pete
.'
--
'The fuck, Lieberman?' Frank stomps into the main room, hurling his handful of darts to the floor. The clatter barely disturbs the man who sits behind the glass cage, fitted snugly against his desk. 'Tranquilizers?'
Micro doesn't even bother to look, his fingers tapping away incessantly at his keyboard.
'Nice to see you too, asshole.' His dusty curls bob when he speaks - Micro can't help from tilting his head in a mocking nod. 'And after eight months of radio silence, that's the least you deserve.'
That stops him short.
'Listen, you-' he stops. Mutters a stifled curse under his breath. 'I was in the south.'
Micro scoffs.
'They're rednecks, not cavemen. They have phones.'
'David-'
'Also don't think I didn't know you came back months ago.'
Frank pinches his brow and sighs.
'Yeah.' Micro continues. 'Running around in full Punisher gear in the middle of the day? What happened to keeping a low profile?'
Frank's head shoots up to stare at him, incredulous.
'You really giving me shit for that?' he growls. 'For going after-'
'-Billy Russo. I know.' Finally, he swivels around. His expression is flat and unimpressed. 'Madani filled me in.'
'What.'
'Yeah,' Micro stabs a finger at him accusingly. 'She kept in contact and you didn't. What's that say about you, huh, Frank?'
Christ
. Madani really got tunnel vision back then. His voice is gruff, defensive, when he responds.
'Says that I'm keeping you out of my shit.'
In an instant, Micro's irritation sharpens into fury - he's up and out of his seat in the span of a second, stomping up to Frank before he has time to properly react.
'No, it says you're a fucking asshole who couldn't even send a goddamn postcard to let me know if you were still alive!' Micro hisses, spittle flying from his mouth. Frank doesn't flinch but his scowl deepens.
'Fuck's sake.' Frank jerks away, a hand brushing through his hair in frustration as he begins to pace. 'Why can't you just be happy being normal, Lieberman?'
Micro laughs mirthlessly, almost hysterical.
'By the time you walked in, 'normal' was already dead in a fucking ditch!' He's beginning to shout and he throws his arms out in mocking exaggeration. 'Passed that point a while ago. And as much as I want to, I can't go back to normal!'
Frank stares at him, all wide eyes and disbelief. Curtis'd have a field day with him.
'So, just spare me the white knight bullshit you…' Micro fumbles with the tail end of the sentence, his face scrunching up with irritation. 'I mean- and you give shit to Daredevil for having a hero complex!'
'The hell do you want me to say, David?' It's a shouting match now. Frank's voice is a roar. 'You n' me both know that sorry doesn’t mean shi-!'
Micro drowns him out with a loud, obnoxious groan, turning away as he throws his hands up in the air in a mock surrender. 'God! You are such an asshole!'
For fuck's
sake
. Frank's mouth is set in a hard line, anger hardening his features.
'Then stop running your mouth and do something about it,' he growls, thunderous.
The hacker peers back at him. 'The hell are you talking about?'
Frank points at his ugly mug. Takes a step forward. 'Just settle it. I'll let you get a hit in.'
Micro stares.
'I'm not going to punch you, Frank.'
'C'mon, don't be such a fucking pussy-'
Micro's fist lands square on his jaw, hard and fast. They explode away from each other with the force of it, Frank's head jerking back and Micro recoiling, stumbling away with a hissed out curse.
'Fuck!' He cradles his fist, rubbing furiously at his reddened knuckles. Frank massages his chin wordlessly. 'What is your face made of?'
Frank swipes a thumb over his lip. It comes away bloody.
Huh.
From across the room, Micro looks up, his gaze snagging on Frank's bloody lip.
'You okay?' His tone borders on apologetic.
'Yeah, yeah, don't give yourself too much credit.'
It comes out more bitter than Frank wants it to. In response, David rolls his eyes, mouth opening before he thinks better of it.
'You really can't give me anything huh? Not even that?' he manages as he slumps back in his chair. 'You're nothing if not consistent, Frank.'
'Yeah yeah, quit bitching.' He sinks into a couch that’s been made soft with age. The material of it is fraying at its edges, as is the worn rug sitting by his feet. He eyes them, pensive.
'You've redecorated.'
'Sarah's idea.' Micro's provides. He's somehow produced a frozen bag of chickpeas which is now draped over his knuckles.
Frank watches him wordlessly and sighs. He's being an asshole. What is wrong with him? Unbidden, a memory springs up in his mind's eye.
'Then make it mean something.'
Frank rolls the phrase over in his head. He focuses on his hands. His trigger finger bounces on his knee, setting an erratic beat. He's fucking it up again, isn't he? With a roll of his shoulders and a sharp grunt-damn his fucking shoulder - he props himself up with his elbows on his knees.
'Oi.' His voice seems too loud, suddenly. 'David.'
David looks up from where he's been tugging at his bathrobe sleeve. Frank swallows.
'I'm only gonna say this once so you better listen.'
Frank clears his throat.
'You're in the right here,' he mutters. David blinks. He wasn't expecting that. 'But none of the shit that could come out of my mouth would fix anything.'
The hacker gives him a long, unreadable look. He hates those looks. Shit, he can be right as rain under gunfire but put him in a room with someone he cares about who has that expression on? Frank rubs the back of his neck awkwardly even as the sound of David shifting has his eyes darting to his side.
'You know, Frank-' David speaks slowly, choosing his words carefully. '-you were one of the best goddamn things that ever happened to me.'
The statement hangs in the air. Frank tries to school his features back into place.
'You got my life back.'
The scoff escapes Frank's mouth before he can think better of it. 'I wanted to give you a chance to actually live it.'
'I am.'
Frank makes a show of inspecting his surroundings. 'Really? This your version of sleeping on the couch?'
Against all odds, Micro snorts, before he immediately stifles it. 'Kids are at camp. Sarah's visiting her sister.'
Frank gives him a look. Micro shuffles his feet reluctantly.
'Can't stay in the house on my own, Frank.' His eyes shift guiltily. 'This place is better.'
Frank's gaze wanders. There's still a brown stain on the cement floor, peeking out from under a rug. Blood never gets out that easy.
Frank sighs and lets his head drop against the couch.
'Normal's dead in a ditch.'
Cynical mirth softens Micro's features. His lips twist into a wry smile. 'Now you're catching on.'
They fall into silence. It's…comfortable. Frank stares up at the ceiling, eyes tracing the lines of the rafters and the hanging lampshades. The glare of the lightbulbs twist and warp under his gaze.
He remembers the view.
Seems like a long time ago. Probably is, to some people. He's never been good with time.
Frank licks his lips, thinks back to when the taste of blood in his mouth was a lot more suffocating. When black spots dotted his vision with the blinding glare. And when he woke up, even when he'd never planned to.
'M'sorry, David.'
It's mumbled and gravelly - he clears his throat in the quiet that follows. The quiet is heavy. Palpable. Frank shifts up, hiding his nervousness as he works out a crick in his shoulder joint. David stares at him, eyes wide like a goldfish.
'Thought you said that sorry didn't fix anything.'
Frank pulls a face.
'Doesn't. It's what you do next that does.'
There's a moment where the only sound is David, tapping away at the arms of his chair with an index finger. Finally, after a deliberating second, he shrugs.
'Well, I'd say that it's a start.'
He pushes himself to his feet, strolls up to where Frank is already rising to meet him. Frank quirks an eyebrow.
'You gonna get another hit in?'
'We both know that punch hurt me more than it hurt you.' Without another word, David drags him into a tight hug, his hands digging into the plane of Frank's shoulders. For a second, Frank is at a loss, a statue. Then he relaxes, pats David awkwardly on his back and huffs out a laugh. When the brunette pulls away, he's grinning. 'I'm glad you're alive, asshole.'
Within two strides, he's back in his chair, bundling his ragged bathrobe around him as he scoots his way closer. Frank can't help his lips from twisting into a begrudging smile at the sight of it.
'So Frank. Why are you here?'
The couch beckons. Frank collapses into it again. Shit, if it ain't comfortable as hell.
'I need information.'
Micro shrugs. 'I can do that for you. Who is it this time?'
Frank loses the smile. 'The Molotovs.'
'Really? The flashy Russian brothers?' David pauses to give him a searching look. 'They're not that big in NYC. Thought they wouldn't be on your radar yet.'
Frank crosses his arms.
'I've got a list.'
David whistles appreciatively.
'That's new.' He swivels around to face his desk, his back to Frank. 'Good to know that even you're learning to keep up with the news.'
'What?'
'Oh, come on.' David laughs, painfully smug. 'The article in the Times? Big shootout at one of their clubs? Karen Page listed as on of the first responders? Don't take a genius to guess why a woman like her was there.'
He knowingly waggles his eyebrows at Frank over his shoulder.
'She isn't part of this,' he responds, adamant.
'You and your girlfriend going through a rough patch?' David continues, undeterred. 'My advice is communication. Open and honest - that's the best policy.'
The tic in Frank's jaw twitches.
'Can you find them or not?'
David gives him a patronizing look. 'Yeah.' he says. 'I can.'
He directs his attention back to his computer, fingers already moving across the keyboard in a blur. Franks gaze flicks over the blinking lights of his various devices in a muted curiosity. He'll never understand this stuff. It's only as Frank finds himself fiddling with a keychain hanging from a desk lamp that something occurs to him.
'The NSA cool with you doing this stuff?'
The hacker doesn't look away from the screen but he scoffs. 'It's a bit late to ask me that.' He provides. 'But I resigned months ago anyway.'
At Frank's questioning stare, he elaborates. 'Distrust from previous transgressions. You know how it is. I'm freelancing now.'
'They're definitely still watching you.'
'You think I don't know that?' David gives him a cheeky grin.
'So then. Freelancing keeping you interested?' He can't keep the amusement out of his tone. This time David laughs.
'After you, Frank?' Frank can hear the smile in his words. 'I might as well have taken up knitting.'
--
The place is obnoxious.
Frank stands on the rooftop of a dingy apartment complex that spreads into the turn of the street, squinting against the flashing strobe of the nightclub's sign. 'Firecracker' is spelled out with with sharp neon letters that adorn the entrance like an epilepsy-inducing crown. The glow of it pulses like a staccato heartbeat, throwing backlist shadows of the long queue of waiting partygoers whose vague murmur adds to the cacophony. The music from inside is so loud it thrums into the soles of his boots, and every time the bouncer jerks the door open, the blast of bass boosted techno shit slams into him like a truck.
Frank screws his earbuds in tighter as his eyes follow a haphazard stream of teenagers covered in fluorescent body paint into the club.
Maybe he's just old.
Micro's modified voice crackles through the earpiece just as Frank hefts his duffel bag over his shoulder.
'Well,' he says. 'It's definitely the noisiest front to a criminal empire I've ever seen.'
Frank rolls his eyes. He's not the one standing in it.
'By the way, on your right.'
His eyes dart around, quickly identifying the signature glint of a security camera tucked away in a nearby brownstone.
'That you?'
'For now, yeah.' The clatter of Micro's keyboard comes through the speaker. 'I'll try to be out before they do another sweep. Don’t need their security to trace this back.' He mutters something under his breath. He's anxious. 'C'mon. Where are the big fish?'
As if on cue, a gleaming black Maybach purrs into view, slowing to a languid stop outside the gigantic doors. The endless line of waiting patrons explodes into life, whooping and pulling at the matte black barriers even as one - no, two suit-clad muscleheads emerge from the vehicle. Not a second after they exchange a quick nod with the bouncer, a figure more oil slick than man clambers out of the car.
David whistles.
'Say what you will about him. Dimitri knows how to make an entrance.'
Frank is silent. The guy is either stupid or arrogant to be flaunting his position like that. He seems to revel in the crowd's applause, blowing kisses even as he disappears behind the black doors. Frank squints. Just before the door closes, the guy seems to shake the bouncer's hand - a quick, practised motion - and a flash-
'You catch that?' he barks. Micro hums back affirmatively.
'Uh huh. So the time stamp's set. Others should be showing up soon.'
Frank leans back against the stairwell entrance, cloaking himself further in a shadow that hides him from view. The bag on his shoulder shifts awkwardly. Lots of backups. Turk came through.
'Enjoying the view?' Micro sounds amused. Frank rolls his eyes.
'Yeah, it's a real sight to see.'
From the corner of his eye, he spots black SUVS pulling up to an adjacent alley from the next street. A number of men tumble out, and they stride confidently into the cover of the nightclub's shadow before they disappear into a side door.
'Get out, Nemo. Sharks are here.'
'Will do. Make your way down.' Frank is already beyond the door, clicking it shut behind him as he makes his way down the staircase. 'I'll stay with you until I can cut the feed and then you're on your own.'
There's a pause. 'Also, please don't ruin that movie for me. Leo loves it.'
A grin tugs at Frank's lips. 'You got it, Marlin.'
'Fuck's sake,' Micro's mutterings come out garbled through the speaker but he gets the gist of it. 'You're such an asshole.'
'Yeah, yeah.' He's already near the ground floor. 'Just tell me where to go.'
'Back entrance and take a right.'
Frank is nudging the back door open, about to tell Micro he's much more likeable as a GPS, when a body crashes into him with a muffled squeal. He freezes up - first instinct is to attack but the sound-
A slender woman with a sleek black bob of a haircut is already backing away, cursing. Black tank top, ripped leggings, thigh-high boots that are studded with plastic spikes. His eyes catch on the fluorescent pink body paint that streaks her arms.
Ah.
The woman, apparently recovered from her run in, finally looks up. Frank shifts. He must cut a suspicious figure, hoodie over a baseball cap and all. Shit, he's even in a dark alley, alone with a woman. He tries to brush past, muttering an apology, when she catches on the sleeve of his hoodie.
'Hey! You're Dimitri's coke guy right?'
He blinks at her for a half-second, took off guard, until his eyes follow her line of sight to his suspiciously full duffel bag. It takes the remaining half second for him to adjust himself before he turns back to her, an awkward grin plastered on his features.
'Uh yeah, I'm kind of…' he gestures to himself. '…new to this. Last guy got caught scraping a bit off the top so now I'm filling in.'
The woman groans, patting him on the shoulders good naturedly. 'God, I knew it. Mickey always seemed like a slippery bastard.' She pulls out a cigarette and lights it in one fluid motion. 'Mouthy,' she elaborates in a thick Brooklyn accent. 'He'd pull out a bag that'd be more air than coke and tell us to pay up. Like what is this? You ain't selling us fucking chips. No need to 'oxygenate' that shit.'
As if it just occurred to her, the woman offers him a cigarette too. When he refuses, she gives him a once over and smacks her lips disapprovingly.
'Also,' she continues. 'Next time, don't look so fucking obvious. You're dressed like you're in a cheesy chick flick. We all know what a drug dealer looks like, yeah?'
There's a pause.
'You've got a nice face, though.' She tilts her head to the side, thoughtful, before a wide grin spreads over her features. 'Hey, afterwards, you wanna party? I swear I can show you a good time.'
From the other side of his earpiece, Micro makes a strangled noise that sounds suspiciously like laughter.
'Ah, no, ma'am, thank you.' Frank pulls his hat over his eyes, feigning shyness as he sneaks a peek at his watch. Shit. He's got to move. The woman snorts, mirth making her dark eyes glitter.
'Ma'am? Do I look like a ma'am to you?' she says. Before he can respond, however, she's already waving whatever answer he could provide away, and instead snatches up his hand. 'Ah well, I can respect a guy who knows how to do his job.' She pulls out a marker from her back pocket and pops the cap off with her teeth before she scrawls a series of numbers on his hand. 'If you ever change your mind, call me.'
Without another word, she gives him back ownership of his hand, blows him a kiss, and skips her way down to where the alley meets the side of the Firecracker.
Jesus Christ.
A burst of laughter erupts from his earpiece. Jesus. Fucking.
Christ.
'That was the best moment of my life,' Micro wheezes.
'We nearly got made, shithead,' he hisses, ever mindful of prying ears. 'Thanks for the warning by the way.'
'You're in a blind spot. Not my fault.'
'Yeah, yeah, whatever.'
'Oi!'
Frank freezes. Shit, she's back. The woman comes racing back from where she came, slowing to a meandering swagger when she comes within speaking distance.
'What do I call you?' she manages between breaths. 'I like to keep a healthy rapport with all the coke boys.'
'Pete.' The name rolls smoothly off his tongue and she nods, approving.
'Okay, Pete, well. The boys like to do this hazing bullshit for all the new kids where they send you all over the mighty establishment, but-!' She holds up an adamant finger. '-I have had too shit of a day to delay getting that stuff inside me. So!'
The woman drags Frank near the mouth of the alley and points at the club. 'Over there, you see that side door? You go there and give Dimitri the bag, alright? No stops!'
'Dimitri's in there?' He feigns innocence. 'Shouldn't he be-'
'Yeah, yeah, he's got a meeting but it's whatever.' The woman pats him roughly on his back. 'Just get it to him quick and maybe he'll give you a tip.'
With that, she disappears into the building, waving gaily before she leaves his line of sight. Frank sighs. Finally.
'I think I'm in love,' Micro says dreamily.
'Wonder what Sarah would think about that.' Frank growls out.
'You planning on snitching to my wife? That really what you're saying right now?'
'Stop joking around, David,' he hisses out. 'She got a good look at me. This is bad.'
'Number one. It's night time. Number two. Strobe lighting. Trust me. She did
not
get a good look at you.' The clack of his keyboard resumes. 'Besides. Fake name. You're not actually a drug runner. You're fine.'
There's a sharp click and a satisfying beep. 'Now start walking.'
--
The path Micro sends him on takes him all the way around the club. It means he gets to sidestep dealing with the bouncers and the line of witnesses queuing up at the door, but it takes him dangerously close to the pitch black SUVS parked menacingly at the mouth of the alley. At the sight of them, Frank slows and smoothly ducks into an abandoned building a few feet away.
'You could take them,' Micro pipes up in his ear, mildly disapproving.
'Gunshots. It'll give the big fish more time to escape.' Frank responds, half listening as he makes his way up the stairs. His head is already quieting, a thin expectant calm settling in. 'They're just guards. Not worth it.'
'So now what's the plan?'
Frank's eyes barely glance over the rusting sign. Third floor. Seems about right. Making sure that he isn't visible to the burly guards still surveying the alley, Frank peers around over a windowsill, and catches the edge of the fire escape.
'Fire escape?'
'Broken window.' Frank sets his bag down on the grate steps of the fire escape and unzips it, drawing out a rifle the size of his arm. 'Can you see me right now?'
'Not clearly.'
'Good.'
'You want to elaborate on 'broken window' or?'
'Break a window. Big sound. Disperse the guards,' he mutters as he packs ammunition into guns and stuffs the weapons into the lining of his hoodie. A knife goes into the back of his boot. Another slides into the sheaf at his wrist. They're all small enough to remain relatively concealed. He eyes the rifle sitting by his side warily and promptly empties the barrel. 'Smaller groups are easier to deal with.'
'So it's like Metal Gear Solid.'
Frank lets his silence do the work for him. Micro coughs, awkward.
'Whatever, I get the strategy.' Micro's voice goes vaguely faint; he's pulled away from the mic and the tapping of his keyboard rattles through the earpiece. 'Tell me when and I'll cut the security feeds.'
Frank swings himself back onto the third floor, wielding his rifle as a club, and makes a beeline to the window on the opposite side of the building. The view through it is grimey at best but it's still surprisingly solid. Breaking it will be loud.
'Reminder!' Micro chimes in quickly as if he had just remembered something. 'The earpiece will still work. Things go south, I'll call Mahoney.'
He barely holds back a scoff. As if he'd ever want to cash that chip in. In any case he grunts in affirmation before he lifts the butt of the rifle up.
Go on. Deep breath. He stills.
The whispers at the fringes leave.
Frank brings the rifle down hard and the glass shatters underneath it like paper. He's already turning away before the shards crash to the pavement, the muffled shouts from nearby confirmation enough that it's worked. In one swift movement, he swings himself out onto the fire escape and makes his escape down the steps, throwing his supply bag into a nearby dumpster on the way.
The moment his boots hit the earth of the back yard, he hisses into his earpiece.
'Cut it.'
'You got it.' Micro responds immediately. 'Blackout in three…'
He jumps the fence with ease, darting into the shadow of the nearest building as soon as he lands.
'…two…'
There are yells emanating from next door- he knows enough russian to decipher the gist of it. Another guard - one of the remaining three that stand by the side door - hisses an irritated response. Frank eyes the almost-invisible bud wedged in his ear and the gun at his side.
He can work with it.
'…one.'
There's an unsophisticated squawk from inside the building and the guard's head shoots up in confusion. The second of shock - it's enough.
Frank leaps from his hiding place, capturing the guard's neck into a deadlock. Before he has time to scream, he slashes a knife across his neck, barely flinching at the spray of blood and gurgled shriek. His two friends, shouting in panic, unload their guns at him but he uses the fresh corpse as a shield, and rips the gun out of his holster to shoot once. Twice. They're all down in a matter of seconds.
But the shouts from next door are getting louder. Fuck it.
One of the guards has a shotgun. Still loaded - didn't have time to use it. The blast of it blows the lock clean off the door and Frank barges in, instinctively dodging the bullet that whizzes clean past.
The security guard.
The flick of the trigger comes quick and heavy. One to the kneecap to down him and another to the head to finish it off.
Frank checks the gun as he steps over the body. Two more bullets. His finger twitches.
To his right, a door suddenly slams into him and he's shoved against the wall. Instinct, that's what it is - the trigger finger flicks twice and the guy is screaming, blood pouring out of his stomach. The empty barrel clicks dully - useless, fucking
useless.
He bashes it against the guy's face, lifts him up by his neck and smashes his skull into the drywall with a sickening crunch.
He’s small fry.
Nothing.
The memory still burns -the photo in the paper didn't do her justice, nothing but the real deal ever does - but he
saw
her, the gunpowder stains still dusting her skin, the graze of a bullet there on her shoulder, red - blooming out into her shirt, a stain she'd never get out and her
eyes
-
Frank huffs, snarls like he's a wild animal, the sound ripping from his throat unbidden as red begins to tinge everything he sees. Instinct - it's living, it's all he is -
There’s a surge of bodies. The tang of blood on his mouth sharpens.
He snatches the blade from his wrist and buries it in a skull - gurgle, rip, swing - the brain matter's still clinging to it when he thrusts it into thick veiny neck again and again and again-
The piece of shit smears blood all the way down the wall. Dead weight. Keep moving. Eyes forward.
Frank breathes and roars.
Dimitri.
--
The haze is thick and heady but there are things that can break through.
Like the burn of his nose - the pain will come later, but for now it just burns - from when one of them got a hit in. The blood dripping down his face...not all of it is his but there’s enough of his own there that his eyes feel tight in his skull, like he’s not blinking, like all his body is now is a series of reactions.
The piece of shit bites into his forearm with a crunch, the one that’s pressing down hard and pointed at the throat, and there’s a moment of wide, bulging eyes before he rips his jaw open and smashes him face-first into the coffee table, bloody teeth skittering over the shards of wood and glass-
It’s not enough. The skin of his hands prickle. His own breathing is too loud in his ears.
‘Dimitri!’
Frank’s head whips to the source of the noise and there’s Dimitri, scurrying out of a side door with a makeshift entourage all bloody and bruised. The shout - who’s helping him? - there he is, a fucking henchman bleeding out by the garage door, pointing desperately at a car that’s come skidding around cross the corner-
-no, he won’t make this easy for him, the fury is taking him back now and all he can see is Dimitri, that fucking rat, sprinting his way to safety.
Frank wrenches a gun from the holster of a nearby corpse and empties the barrel - three for the car, two in the tires and one for the driver who slumps over the wheel and the car alarm
blares
, and the rest for Dimitri’s gang who drop like flies. Dimitri stares at their bodies for too many seconds, shock making him twitch and shake. The sound of Frank’s footfalls, heavy and loud in a building that used to be busy, makes his head shoot up and there we go, he’s got a gun, a heavy one too but it’s about as deadly as a water pistol in his hands.
One - two bullets whizz past his head, barely grazing the scar on the side of his face before one finally catches him in the shoulder but all it is is a muted impact - he’s got no time for pain - and the look on Dimitri’s face when it doesn’t even slow him down-
Frank snatches at Dimitri’s fore-arm, snaps it back with a satisfying crunch and in the scream, he wrenches the gun out and sends it skidding across the floor.
‘Please...please, don’t hurt me!’ he all but sobs.
He’s whimpering, the piece of shit that he is. As if he’s all fun and games but Frank’s danced this dance before and he drags the idiot up by his bullet torn blazer, shoves him up against the side of the car, wants to make him memorise the look of his driver’s brain all over the dashboard when he goes down.
‘No, no please!’ Dimitri is a coward. A fucking bitch of a leader, running away with his damn tail between his legs when the going gets tough -
-Frank wrenches his other arm around his back hard and he’s about to pull when there’s a blade tearing through the air and Dimitri’s ducking under his arm in the second of recoil. Frank snarls. He’s getting soft.
It only takes a second for Frank to catch up to him and he grabs the reedy man by his shoulders, smashes him into a table, sending sprawling notes and folders flying to the floor and that’s when he sees it-
A flash of blonde hair, a candid smile softening her features - it’s her. It’s her, alright but why is it here? What is he-
Frank glances down at the rabidly cursing man spitting Russian at him from where he’s struggling, and the glass-like suspension of time crumbles. In one fluid movement, he yanks Dimitri up by his collar like the dog he is and slams him against the brick wall before he shoves the faded photograph into his line of sight.
‘What the hell is this?’
Dimitri’s eyes dart between the photo and Frank’s expression as he tried to catch his breath.
‘I’ve got no fucking clue, you cocksucker,’ he hisses, sneering. ‘Go ask your mother.’
Frank’s fist crunches into his jaw so hard his head whips back with a crack.
‘Try again,’ he snaps. Dimitri stares at him, his eyes hard with hatred as he pops his jaw back into place with a groan.
‘She’s an investigator, shithead,’ he huffs out. ‘Name’s Karen Page. New to the scene?’
The press of Frank’s fingers hard against his windpipe chokes out the end of his sentence. Dimitri squawks, clawing at Frank’s fingers in panic, his face purpling as his legs kick out from underneath him.
‘Don’t you fucking
dare
say her name again,’ Frank’s voice is murderously quiet, and only after Dimitri gives him a rapid, desperate nod does he let him drop the floor. ‘Why do you have her photo.’
‘We were hired,’ Dimitri gasps, wheezing, his hands massaging at the angry burns at his neck.
‘We?’
‘Me n’ my brother! Alexei!” Dimitri scrambles to his feet, bravado forgotten as he sweeps his hands out in an attempt to be placating. ‘All this, this shady bullshit is all him. He’s the real one you want! I’m just a distraction!’
Sure.
Frank doesn’t falter.
‘Why. Were. You. Hired.’ With each word, Frank steps closer until he’s crowding Dimitri under a flickering ceiling light. He doesn’t miss the way Dimitri’s hand inches towards the paperweight on the table and he snatches it up, flipping it over in his hand menacingly. Dimitri just stares for a minute before the words come spilling out of his mouth like a broken dam.
‘Someone wants her dead.’
‘Who.’
‘It came a few months ago from this shady guy. It was all Alexei’s idea, you’ve got to believe me!’
A ‘shady guy’. For fuck’s sake. This shit can never be open n’ shut, can it.
‘Who else picked up the contract?’
‘It’s just us!’ Dimitri’s voice is getting higher with hysteria with each response. ‘We were the only fucks out there dumb enough to agree to it!’
‘So who ordered it? Who wants her dead?’
For the first time in a while, the response isn’t immediate. Dimitri’s mouth snaps shut like a fish and he swallows. He’s beginning to shake.
‘I can’t tell you.’
Frank pulls away, expression stony. Immediately, Dimitri backtracks, a babbling stream of words spilling out. ‘No, please, please, you don’t understand!’
Frank roughly kicks the blade still in his boot up into his waiting grip, almost casual in his stance.
‘Please, he’ll kill me if I say his name!’
In an instant, Frank hurls Dimitri against the table and runs the knife straight through his hand. There’s the crunch of bone, a spurt of blood, and Dimitri is shrieking but Frank doesn’t stop pushing until he feels the blade pierce wood. The russian’s remaining hand scrabbles uselessly at Frank’s shoulders, his legs flailing out in pain amid his sobbing.
‘Tell me.’ Frank’s expression is nothing short of thunderous. Dimitri blubbers, uncomprehending, his eyes only meeting Frank’s when the other man takes the hilt of the knife and
twists.
‘Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Fine!’ he screeches, tears and snot alike running down his cheeks. He looks up at Frank, his eyes exhausted and broken. ‘It’s Fisk. Wilson Fisk wants her dead.’
In an instant, his blood turn to ice. Wilson Fisk.
That fat-ass piece of shit.
‘Why?’ he asks, mechanically.
‘I don’t know. Please!’ He adds as soon as he sees Frank reach for the hilt again. ‘Please, you’ve got to believe me. That’s all I know! I’m just a front-please, please, please,
please
believe me.’
Frank gets to his feet as Dimitri continues to plead, useless and pathetic, a butterfly pinned to a board. In an almost business-like manner, he pads over to pick up a discarded gun and turns it over in his hand.
‘Don’t worry,’ he murmurs as he aims the barrel of the gun at the back of Dimitri’s head. The man’s shoulders are still trembling with tears. ‘I do.’
He pulls the trigger.
--
David lets loose a low whistle as he closes the last file as gingerly as he would handle a bomb.
‘Jesus, Frank. Wilson Fisk…’ He pauses to scrub at his beard in troubled thought. ‘Just...
god
.’
Exactly.
Frank launches himself off the edge of the couch seat and begins to pace, fury making him restless and twitchy. The buzz of adrenaline still lingers in his blood and it makes everything sharper, more dizzying and infuriating. The weight of her photo in his hand is painfully thin.
‘S’just his way of taking out the trash,’ he hisses, murderous. ‘Cleaning up stains on his record.’
In a fit of rage, he lashes out and kicks a folded chair halfway across the room with a crash.
‘Fuck’s sake!’
Ever the thinker of the operation, David settles back in his desk chair, steepling his fingers as he exhales roughly through his nose.
‘I think you need to try see more of the big picture here, Frank.’
‘What?’ Frank peers at him, his chest heaving with breathless irritation.
‘Just think about it!’ David sweeps his hands out in a wide gesture. ‘He’s in max security, out in bumfuck nowhere. Everything he does is monitored. Why would he risk so much just for one woman?’
‘The big pi-?’ Frank sputters for a moment, incredulous. ‘She helped put him in a hellhole! Twice! What more of a reason do you want?’
‘Well, it’s just like you said! Why not go after Daredevil?’
‘It’s Red,’ he grumbles. David gives him a long look.
‘It’s
personal
.’
‘They’ve never even had a fucking conversation,’ Frank hisses and David pulls a face as he swings around to his monitor.
‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong.’ With a few taps of his mouse and a clatter of fingertips over his keyboard, David pulls up a window on the screen and Franks gaze gravitates towards the flash of blond hair that bobs into view.
‘You’re monitoring her?’ He’s at David’s side in an instant and the hacker instinctively makes the video full screen, leaning back slightly so Frank has a better view.
‘Yeah, I’ve got a whole Google Alert set up and everything.’ He meets Frank’s sharp look with a roll of his eyes. ‘No, Frank, it’s just that- ‘ David sighs like a world weary soldier and he drags his fingers idly through his curls. On the screen, Karen strides down a pale hallway, confidence and determination in heels. ‘- you weren’t around and she just got in a bunch of shit and I wanted to keep an eye on her for you or something.’
He fumbles with the tail end of the sentence but Frank gets the gist and he swallows, pats David on his shoulder in an awkward gesture of appreciation. To David’s merit, he doesn’t comment on it, opting to simply switch to a security feed with a better view. In strained silence, Frank tracks Karen to the end of the hallway where she has an animated conversation with two guards. His gaze snags on the way she smiles, thin and cold, and he swallows as she disappears into the door behind them.
‘Couldn’t find a way to pull the audio but…’ David mutters, apologetic in more than one way. ‘ I feel like the visuals do the job.’
The feed David switches to makes Frank’s heart jump into his throat. Karen sits at a table that doesn’t put nearly as much distance as it should between her and that fucking monster of a man and he can’t see her face from this angle but Fisk’s shit-eating expression is clear to see. The time stamp at the bottom of the recording speeds by and gradually he sees the way his features contort, flattening into a noncommittal interest, as his beady eyes spend too long taking her in and he wants to wrap his hand around that pudgy neck and squeeze. And then she leans forward, bridging that fragile distance between them - (the back of David’s chair creaks under the strain of his grip) - and a note of confusion appears on his ugly mug before it morphs into a quiet fury, a war that goes on behind the eyes. The strain in Fisk’s body is palpable, a live wire. He sees the moment he snaps. When he shoots up out of his seat, Fisk is a hulking mass of power and rage, his mouth wrenched open into a silent roar and Frank recoils from it.
‘
Jesus
, Karen.’ He turns away, even as he sees the aftermath in his peripheral vision, a surge of bodies through the door and a flash of her blonde hair, her snarl and wince as she’s guided out of view. David sighs.
‘Yeah. Close call.’ He leans forward to press a key that minimizes the window, his expression grim. ‘I’ll bet whatever she said to him there - that’s why this is happening.’
Frank steadies himself on the arm of the couch, fuming.
‘How the fuck did this even happen?’
David sucks at his teeth in thought. ‘Well, it was in the middle of the whole Pointdexter-FBI-takeover-debacle so I-’
‘Whoa, whoa, whoa.’ Frank cuts him off with a shake of his head. ‘Slow down. What the hell are you saying?’
‘The Pointdexter massacre? The whole Daredevil controversy?’ At the sight of Frank’s blank stare, David sits himself up, incredulity beginning to creep across his features. ‘Do you really not know what I’m talking about right now?’
Frank cocks his head. ‘Like I said. I was in the south.’
‘They have TVs!’
‘They’re still playing reruns of the presidential debates.’
‘
Frank
.’ David takes a second to bring his steepled fingers to his mouth in thought. ‘You didn’t ever wonder what was up with Daredevil’s costume change?’
‘He goes through phases. I don’t keep up.’
‘Oh my god!’ David buries his head in his hands with a groan. From across the room, Frank throws his hands up in the air, irritation evident.
‘Quit giving me shit and just tell me what happened, David!’ he snaps. ‘What the fuck happened while I was gone? How the hell did it get so bad that that happened?’
David eyes him for a moment before his gaze drops to the floor, uneasy.
‘I’m not really...equipped to-’ He stops himself mid-sentence, collecting himself. ‘Short version: Karen Page lived through a lifetime’s worth of shit. Long version:...’ David trails off, fiddling with the hem of his bathrobe for a second before he gets to his feet and brushes past. ‘I’ll tell you on the way. We’re pressed for time anyway right?’
‘You can’t just give me some article to read?’
‘You wouldn’t get the big picture from any of them,’ David stops in the middle of shrugging on his coat and taps at his forehead. ‘Remember? Google alerts.’
Frank sighs as he steps past the curly-haired man and into their makeshift garage. ‘Fine. We’re going to have to make a stop first.’
David looks up at him as Frank clambers into the driver’s seat. ‘Weapons?’
Frank doesn’t meet his eyes as he slams the door behind him.
‘Florist.’
--
It’s barely one in the afternoon and she’s already back at her apartment building.
Karen Page fiddles with her keys uselessly at the front door, simmering fury making her clumsy. Damn Foggy and his stupid, caring heart.The bullet barely grazed her and what with Matt taking a greater interest in his more recreational duties now that there’s no need to hide, they can’t afford to only have one person in the office, especially not for some completely unnecessary reason like ‘mental health leave’. Her lips twist into a scowl. She escapes a shooting with barely a scratch and now she’s exiled to her damn apartment like a goddamn child while others are still hurting, bleeding out and she’s just
useless
-
The key finally turns and she shoves the bum door open but she doesn’t get her things through fast enough and the edge of the door clips her arm.
Fuck.
A stinging bolt of pain shoots up her arm and she cringes, slumping against the wall as she awkwardly tries to shift her bag strap away from her shoulder without dropping her haphazard cluster of files. They were all she could convince Foggy to part with and they’re dud cases. Working on them would barely be better than just stewing in fury, but they
are
better. And it's a distraction, to take her mind off everything and anything Molotov and right now - a week after the shooting-
As she pulls away from the wall, her shoulder gives another twinge and she grits her teeth.
Damn that gunman. Damn him to hell and back.
No, scratch that. Damn that god-forsaken lighting in that club that was so sporadic, so blinding and epilepsy-inducing that even a camera with a high-speed shutter couldn’t get a single discernable shot of the guy before he started shooting and all hell broke loose.
Karen walks across the lobby to the grid of mailboxes, her heels clacking loud against the tile flooring. She’s back far earlier than usual today and the lobby monitor looks up from his newspaper to give her an unimpressed look.
She returns it, unflinching, and the guy returns to his paper with a roll of his eyes. The judgement isn’t needed or appreciated, not when she can still hear Matt’s lecture echoing in her ears.
Karen flips open her mailbox and retrieves the wad of paper awkwardly stuffed into the slot. She just doesn’t understand how Matt can go and get the shit beat out of him every night, to the point that he shows up to work with bruises still purpling on his face, and then thinks he can turn around and give shit to her for trying to investigate a case solo.
She’s a grown woman damnit. Just someone trying to do her job and he’s in his thirties and spends half his time as a fucking ninja.
An annoyed cough brings her back to reality. As she looks up, the lobby monitor points gruffly at the worn sign hanging in front of the elevator she’d just tried to call down.
‘It’s out of service, lady,’ he says, curt, and she manages to muster up a forced smile before she turns on her heel and starts her way up the staircase.
Of course it’s out of service. That’s just what she needed. Wow, maybe her dad will call to tell her Kevin’s grave has been desecrated, just to put the cherry on top of a shitty, shitty day.
Jesus. And it’s only 1:15 in the afternoon.
Karen thumbs through her pile of mail as she climbs, hoping to find anything to distract her from the growing strain at her shoulder. Junk mail, junk mail, a flyer for scientology (no thanks), a booklet promoting a local church group (an even bigger no thanks), and-
She stops short at the sight of a get well card, all glitter and cute kittens with glittering eyes and too-big paws. Her eyes scan over the message written on the back.
This was $4.30. I expect full reimbursement.
From,
Lorraine.
Fucking Olsen. Karen stuffs it into her bag without a second glance. Who said therapists don’t have a sense of humour?
As soon as she steps onto the landing of her floor, Karen sighs in relief. Her dusty, cracked apartment door has never looked more inviting. From across the hall, the heady smell of fresh cooking and the background buzz of a talk show creeps under her neighbour’s door. It’s loud, and domestic and somehow, the murmur of it seeps exhaustion into her bones.
Something like envy, wispy and light, forms a lump at her throat. Karen thumbs at the keys in her pocket and and the bite of the ridges against her skin helps her stamp it down.
She’s loitering.
The lock turns on the third try and she stumbles backwards into her apartment, using her uninjured arm to hold the door open (she’s learning) before she looks up and freezes.
A sprawling bouquet of white roses sits on top of her thin hallway table, held up by baby-blue tissue paper and twine. A tiny card sits next to it, with a familiar chicken scratch scrawled onto the surface and for a moment she just stares.
She knows what this means. And it scares her, that rush of relief that flooded through her at the sight of it, that irrational goddamn joy at the sight of flowers, of all things-
There’s a note of irritation there too, that nagging voice in her head that demands an explanation, that demands something other than this crusader behind closed doors schtick that’s worn her down over time. When did he have time to do this? Did he know she would be out today? Did he time it just so that they wouldn’t have to look at each other, eye to eye?
And here she thought that was the least he could do for her.
Karen reaches out to touch the roses before she falters, pulls back only to pick up the small card, eyes tracing the words quickly as if they might disappear the instant she looks away.
Karen,
Just ahead,
Pete.
She blinks. It barely takes a second for that flicker of confusion to be replaced by disbelief, and then incredulity and then she’s toeing her heels off and stepping forward and there he is, sitting strangely vigilant on her couch, a sheepish look gracing his features as they simply stare at each other from across the landing.
‘Hey.’
The rumble of his voice is inexplicably gentle. Something at her chest tightens.
A rush of emotion comes and goes in the span of a second and she shuts her eyes against it, willing it away, swallows it down. The ache at her shoulder sharpens.
Stop it.
When Karen opens her eyes, she doesn’t let herself look at him. Her hand slides down the door frame as she she pushes herself off it, and she pads her way into the kitchen.
She has no idea what expression she’s wearing.
‘Hey.’
It’s more of a sigh than a response and from the corner of her eye she can see Franks face twist, his jaw dropping to his shoulder as he gets to his feet. She’s suddenly glad that she didn’t have time to tie up her hair this morning as she drags her hand through it silently, grounding herself in a place where she should only ever be solid.
She sets her things down on the kitchen island and her eyes follow the way the files scatter, all the way up to the empty vase that sits next to her chopping board. Her chest heaves.
She can’t keep doing this anymore.
Maybe she’ll think differently after he’s gone but here he is in the middle of her damn living room and all she can think about is that it’s been
four months
. Four months since she last saw him in the hospital, a broken man rebuilding, and she’s finally sanded down the edges of that memory into something she can accept and now-
Almost subconsciously, Karen’s fingers close around the neck of a bottle of scotch (an apology gift from Ellison after that disastrous dinner party that seemed so long ago now) and she produces a glass from a side drawer.
‘Do you want a drink?’
She can feel the weight of his eyes, burning into her back. At that very moment, she can’t think of anything harder than turning around to face him.
‘No, thank you, ma’am.’
‘Well, I do.’
She fills her glass to the brim and downs half in a single gulp.
‘You could’ve called ahead.’ She hopes to hide the rasp in her voice under the burn of the scotch. ‘I’d have left the window open.’
The sentiment falls flat. She can tell it does by the way Frank moves in response, an uncertain half-step forward like he might try to cross the landing but instead he stops, pausing to peer between the blinds at her window. He doesn’t comment on the bare space at the windowsill. Knowing him, he never will.
‘Don’t have your number.’
She pretends to busy herself with her files, quietly rearranging them so that they’re all aligned in a symmetrical, manageable pile.
‘Daredevil’s still around.’
He makes a vague grunt. ‘Red don’t seem like the type to pass notes in class.’
‘You’d be surprised. Apparently he was a real problem child.’
There’s a beat of silence where Karen stops short. Did she cross a line? Bringing in Matt’s past, his private life - that must be some type of vigilante faux pas. And then Frank makes this noncommittal sound from the back of his throat, as if he was just told a fun fact about redwoods, and of course he doesn’t care about Matt’s past, why would he? And Karen is just kicking herself because why are they talking about Matt, of all people? It’s like she’s speaking just for the sake of it, just for the experience of talking and knowing Frank can hear her and it’s
pathetic
.
It’s pathetic that she’s had four fucking months to come up with a plan for this encounter and she’s still so painfully at a loss with Frank. Because all the typed-up speeches and lines rehearsed in the bathroom mirror went flying out the window the moment she saw him sitting on her couch and her mind said
‘finally
.’
She takes a deep breath as she smooths her hair down, tucks a few stray strands behind her ear, and in the corner of her eye she sees the bouquet still lying on her hallway stand, forlorn and abandoned. When Frank moves towards her, she feels it in the way he clears his throat that this is what he came here for.
‘Karen-’
‘I saw what you did to Dimitri Molotov in the news this morning.’ The memory of the lobby monitor’s paper feels burned into her retinas. ‘And I want you to know that I don’t need it.’
She swivels around, smoothing away the imaginary wrinkles on her dress shirt as she pretends not to notice the way his eyes gravitate to her injured arm, the bandage still visible under the white fabric. ‘I don’t need you interfering in my work, okay?’
Frank works his jaw around it, nodding slightly and then he shakes his head and scoffs, mirthless, and Karen feels herself stiffen at the edges.
‘I’m sorry, do you think this is funny?’
‘He was after you, Karen,’ he growls, as if she doesn’t know that already.
‘Which is why I was investigating them!’ she fires back, sharp as a whip. ‘And you might as well have just left it well enough alone. Dimitri being dead accomplishes nothing.’
In face of Frank’s silence, Karen forces herself to continue. ‘Alexei’s always been the substance of their operation. He just used Dimitri as a facade for his assassination ring.That’s the reason why I was at his club that night! One of his operatives was supposed to be coming in for approval!’
Frank finally meets her gaze, his expression steely and pinched. ‘You know all that and you still think you can take ‘em on?’
Karen stares at him, incredulous. All of it today, Matt’s sanctimonious lecture, the look in Foggy’s eyes as he sent her back home and now Frank, of all people, telling her after four months of radio silence that she’s in over her head -
Her expression twists.
‘Well, I sure as hell didn’t get this far by relying on you,’ she mutters.
Frank winces.
‘Karen, listen, I-’ Frank wanders forward until he’s close enough to steady himself on the corner of the kitchen island. She stares him down, wordless, and he heaves a world-weary sigh, scratching at his fuzz of a beard in uncertainty. ‘-you know that I-in the hospital-’
She cuts him off.
‘What makes this case so different Frank? What is it about this one that made you come here? Why-‘ Just in time, Karen bites her lip, stilling the words half formed on her tongue. They’re too raw, too needy, conjured only in the reckless cloud of fury that’s creeping up her throat and she can’t be that person anymore, for both of their sakes. ‘Why are you here?’
He breathes, a guttural, stuttering thing and suddenly the line of his back is harder, more tense, and his fingers are curling into a fist.
‘None of your other cases had Fisk’s money in their pocket.’
A sharp retort dies in her throat.
‘What?’ Her voice is pitched high and faint.
‘He put a hit out on you.’
She stares at him, frozen. The glass in her grip glatters to the counter and the sharp sound of it - she startles, and it seems to force out a hysterical laugh.
‘He’s in a maximum security prison,’ she snaps, desperate to deny it, but a growing part of her knows this was always coming, that this is all to stave off the inevitable. ‘His assets were frozen.’
Frank growls low and whisper-quiet as if even he can’t stand what he’s saying.
‘Piece of shit’s got a fixer somewhere international. Lieberman’s working on it. Chances are he’s still got cash overseas and the fixer’s mediating.’
Reality rushes back to her like a steep drop and its dizzying. She shakes her head, as if it would help clear away the dawning panic. ‘W-when? How did he-’
‘The contract came in a few months ago. Molotovs picked it up recently.’ A tic in his jaw twitches as his fingers begin to drum an erratic beat on the counter top. ‘They’re onto you.’
Karen stumbles away, drink forgotten, as her hands drift up to cover her mouth, a broken attempt to quiet the harsh ring of her own breathing in her ears.
‘God, of course they did,’ she hisses, half talking to herself. ‘I’m investigating them, just got a killer witness. Killing me would be a win-win for-’
A stray thought stops her cold.
‘The gunman that night,’ she whispers mechanically. ‘He was there for me. They were going to hide my death in a mass shooting.’
Behind her, Frank stares.
‘
Jesus,
Karen.’
There’s a beat of silence. A minute in, Karen realises she’s forgotten to breathe.
‘I’ve got to leave town.’
There’s a bag in her closet, already packed, always has been ever since Poindexter, ever since this all started-
‘No! Karen, you-’ Frank’s head shoots up and suddenly he’s close, his fingers digging into the wood of the counter so hard she can see that it splinters. ‘Karen, you leave and this all goes to hell.’
‘It already has.’ Karen brushes past, all previous hesitation being replaced by coarse panic, but he catches her elbow before she gets far and he swings her around, forcing her to meet his gaze.
‘You’ll be out in the open. They will come after you, you hear me? And you’ll be a fish in a damn barrel-’
‘Frank, you’ve got to let me go-’ She wrenches her arm out of his grip and it stings but she
needs to leave
-
‘-and Wilson Fisk will win, all the way in his max security prison that doesn’t mean shit!’ He heaves out a shuddering breath, his jaw working around the silence he’s met with. His hand twitches in place and it’s almost apologetic in the way it rises to smooth down her arm.
‘But if you’re here-’ he rasps, and his expression is split with sincerity, ‘-here, I’m armed. I’ve got friends who can help us.’
He pauses for a moment, his eyes frozen on the place where his thumb whispers over the skin at her wrist and all Karen can see is the way his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and pulls away.
‘You’ve got me in your corner,’ he mutters, all gravel and pleading eyes. ‘For as long as this goes, I will be there. And I won’t let them touch you. I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.’
Karen glances at him from underneath her eyelashes and she knows that she’s trembling but she’s not running for her suitcase anymore. She licks her lips, scrunches her eyes tight. Gently, so softly that for a moment she thinks she’s imagining it, Frank’s thumb brushes at her cheek.
‘You don’t run, Karen,’ he says and her mind is made. ‘Not for this.’
A shuddering exhale slips through her lips as she meets his gaze once more and god, she’s missed him.
‘Okay.’
Frank nods, mirroring her in comfort. ‘Okay.’
‘What do i need to do?’
He blinks at her for a moment then shakes his head, like he’s clearing his mind, and, for an irrational, exhausted moment, she wants to take him by the jaw and kiss him. But the moment passes and Karen folds herself against her bookcase, unsteady.
‘Moving isn’t going to work,’ comes his murmur of a response. ‘It’ll spook them. Unpredictable. Better if we can keep them feeling smart.’
‘You already killed Dimitri,’ Karen volunteers offhandedly. ‘I think they’re properly spooked.’.
‘I’m a third party. They don’t know I’m involved yet. They’ll just get faster.’
She bites her bottom lip, shuddering, as the panic lodged heavy in her throat stretches, branches out into thick cloying ropes that wrap around her neck until all she can hear is her own breathing, too-fast and still not enough to disperse the sludge that seems to clog up her lungs.
‘So I’m going to stay here?’ Her breathing is strained. ‘Just wait for them to come?’
Frank swallows, scuffing his boot against the floorboards in a thought.
‘For now,’ he mutters and he grumbles something that she doesn’t quite catch before he’s stepping forward and pressing a scrap of paper into her palm. Her vision swims when she stares at it and the numbers scrawled on top warp until she closes her fist around it with an understanding nod. ‘I’ll be around. Anytime you need me...alright?’
It’s a foreign thing for him, she understands that. But it’s hard for her too. Karen presses the top of her knuckles to her lips in quiet thought, and her eyes fix on something that isn’t there as his voice washes over her. She has to be listening to this, it’s important but all she can think about is the flash of the strobe lights, the blinding buzz of panic and hysteria that ignited - a damn inferno - at the sound of gunshots and the black sheen of blood cloaking the dance floor as she scrabbled towards shelter, the sound of her own blood painfully loud in her ears as she caught glimpses of him in the raging throng of screaming bodies-
-he was there for her.
‘We need to move my witness,’ she blurts out, too loud but her voice is clear and it doesn’t shake. Frank stares at her, taken aback.
‘What?’
‘Chances are they’ll try to take us both out.’ This is secure ground, this bargaining. She can feel her brain making sense of the matter even as her mind trips its way through a bloody haze. ‘Two birds, one stone. We need to move him.’
‘Karen-’
‘Frank, he’s alone.’ Karen’s gaze flicks between the phone number squashed under her fingers and Frank’s eyes, black pools that glitter at her, even as they narrow in thought. ‘And he’s scared.I’m not going to abandon him now that I know the Molotovs are onto me. Just-’ She makes a vague gesture, lets her hand brush over the bandage at her shoulder as it smooths over her elbow. ‘-just take him down to the police precinct. Mahoney owes me. I can- I can do something. Put him in WITSEC. Something.’
He shifts in place, slouching forward in a kind of brash hunch, but he nods, short and curt. ‘Alright. We’ll work out something.’
‘Thank you.’
Frank’s hand rubs at the nape of his neck, awkward and endearing, before he looses a frustrated groan and turns to face her again. This time, his expression is stretched thin and a weight drops at her chest.
‘I…’ He licks his lips anxiously. ‘I’ve gotta go now, alright? Gotta check on Lieberman.’
She nods, silently. The phone number in her fist seems painfully intangible. As if he could read her mind, he takes a step forward and gently guides her hand closer to her chest.
‘Remember, you need me, you call me. I’ll be back in a few hours, we just gotta-gotta secure the place, alright?’
Stupid, irrational, fear comes hurtling up her throat, broken free at the touch of his skin against hers, and in the span of a sharp inhale, she’s pressing forehead to his chest, twisting her fingers in the material of his coat like it’s a damn lifeline. And damn it all, it’s grounding, the way he carries her weight back with him as he rocks back and forth on his heels, the way he places his hand softly against the curve of her neck, steadying her there. A gasp shudders out of her, unbidden and so full of relief that she can’t help but pull away in embarrassment.
‘Hey,’ he whispers hoarsely, dragging her eyes back to him. ‘I’ll take care of it. They won’t touch you, I promise, I - ‘ The hand at her neck stutters, uncertain, before it moves higher to cup her chin tentatively. Karen finds herself leaning into the touch, encouraging. ‘-you know, I can’t lose you.’ he continues, sincerity making his voice rasp. ‘You know, yeah?’
She nods and his hand falls away. ‘Yeah.’
‘Okay.’
There’s a moment of hesitation, where he simply shuffles in place, but then he moves forward, slowly like he’s giving her enough time to pull away, and he presses his lips to her forehead.
‘I’ll see you soon,’ he mutters into her skin and the next thing she knows, he’s gone.
In the silence he leaves behind, Karen sways in place, her fingers pressed gently to her lips as she allows herself a moment, just a moment, before she has to resurface.
She savours that moment, the way a dying man might savour the sight of his last sunset, and when it ends, she breathes.
--
The morgue is a quiet place on a normal day.
Today
, the mortician thinks as he hurriedly disposes of his gloves and apron,
is not a normal day.
A man with a jaw like a brick ushers him none too kindly out of the room even as another shoves an off-puttingly thick wad of cash into his waiting hands.
‘It’s much appreciated, sir,’ the money man says and the smile he volunteers is thin and mirthless as he respectfully closes the door behind him with a click.
On the other side of the door, a lone man in black stands by the corpse draped out on the table, so still that one could veritably think them both dead. The man is tall, and deceptively stoic, with hard features sharpened with experience. He is older too, his face lined with age and scars alike, and his ice-blue eyes as cold as their namesake implies. Today, his eyes gleam with tears and his brows are knitted together in grief - a rare display of emotion for him - as he reaches out to cup the sickly-cold skin of the corpse’s cheek. The corpse’s hands peek out from the lip of the body bag and as the man shifts back to lean on his heel, he traces the raw expanse of torn muscle and shattered bone that mars the otherwise-soft skin of a palm. The wound at the corpse’s forehead, a clean yet daunting hole that splits through the man’s skull, goes unacknowledged.
It was the killing blow and, in Alexei Molotov’s humble opinion, completely and utterly
underwhelming.
A polite knock at the door echoes excruciatingly loud through the room. It is followed by a man’s voice, intentionally kept perfectly toneless.
‘Sir, Ilya is here.’
A flick of Alexei’s forefinger is enough for the gatekeeper and the door swings open, only for a slender woman in black to stride through. She’s disconcertingly nonchalant in the company of a corpse and she makes a beeline for Alexei with barely a moment of hesitation as soon as her cursory glance finds purchase on his stoic form. The woman oozes professionalism, the sleek black of her suit hugging her body like a second skin, and when she promptly shrugs off her coat, there isn’t a trace of blood nor fluorescent pink body paint anywhere on her person.
‘Where were you.’ It’s hardly a question, spoken more like a demand, but Ilya accepts it with a cock of her head.
‘I was finishing a job.’ Her voice is thick with a Russian accent and it comes as natural and smooth as the reloading of a gun.
‘Dimitri is dead-’ Alexei says flatly. ‘-and you decided to finish a job.’
Ilya shrugs, tucking a stray strand of ink-black hair into her perfect bob, before she replies. ‘Grief doesn’t pay. At least-’ she stops to give him a wry smile. ‘-yours doesn’t.’
He says nothing in response and instead draws out a cigarette from his pocket to fit snugly in between his lips. Wordlessly, Ilya flicks out a lighter and ignites the end in a smooth, practised action.
‘You were there.’ Alexei states in a smokey exhale. ‘Did you see?’
‘I would’ve stopped it if I did.’ Ilya produces another cigarette and Alexei holds out the end of his own for her to use as a lighter. ‘But the status check was clean. Nothing out of the ordinary.’
After a pause, she adds, ‘They say it was the Punisher.’
‘Hmm.’
He takes a long drag of his cigarette. As the smoke filters from his parted lips, he absently burns the butt out on the palm of Dimitri’s unharmed hand.
‘We’ll find him, Alexei.’ Ilya’s voice is carefully measured. And we’ll rend him limb from limb.’
‘And feed his spare parts to the dogs,’ Alexei adds, quiet and insidious. A sharp smile creeps over Ilya’s features and when she turns away from the corpse, so does he. Only at the cusp of the doorway does Alexei halt, and take one last look at the body. It lies on the stainless steel table, painfully alone, and Alexei kisses his fingers before he waves at it, expression unreadable.
‘Goodnight, Dimitri,’ he whispers and the door closes behind him with a click.