#gotta keep the heartbreaking holiday season going idc that it's Jan.6th

[lpdwillwrite4coffee]

Breaking Free (I Feel Violent) pt.2

{Post-TPS Kastle fic written for @purelyfueledbycaffeine‘s birthday and Beta’d by @kteague. Don’t let the holiday timeline fool you, there’s plenty of angst to go around.}

{Part 1}

* Thanksgiving came and went, and soon Karen was noticing more and more Christmas lights decorating shop windows. Small plastic trees with tiny ornaments on her co-workers’ desks and in the break room, shiny garland hung around the office, even Ellison had multi-colored lights around his door, and he was Jewish.

“Everyone enjoys twinkle lights, Karen,” he’d told her when she saw him hanging them up. She’d just giggled and walked by to get another cup of coffee.

Things almost felt normal again.

Almost.

She still woke up in the middle of the night to the sounds of exploding doorframes, metal doors being wrenched from their hinges, the feeling of a solid arm and calloused hand gripping her head, her neck, tangling in her hair.

A sandpaper voice asking, “You okay?” through the ringing in her ears.

Karen was back to old habits and she couldn’t muster up the energy to care. Staying late at the office, going home and refusing to sleep until it was necessary to be able to function the next day. She was drinking too much coffee, eating too little, and when she wasn’t overloading her system with caffeine, she was having a glass of wine for dinner. The glass usually turned into a bottle on weekends, if she didn’t have anywhere to be the next day.

It was like looking in on herself from outside a window. She could see herself making the same choices—ones she’d once declared self-destructive after Matt died and tried to give up—but she didn’t have the willpower to stop herself.

At least she knew how to operate in these patterns. She knew this dance. She even knew how to cover up her missteps.

Her work never suffered. In fact, she thrived on the strenuous deadlines, the constant hum of adrenaline in her system. Thrived on it because she could hide in it.

You’re gonna break, you know, that voice warned. You’ll break, and no one will even know why.

Karen swallowed her tepid coffee, imagining that voice drowning in it, and got to work on her next story.

***

The company Christmas party was always on the 23rd, and Ellison demanded Karen take Christmas Eve, Christmas, and the following two days off. She’d been pumping out article after article and he thought giving her time off was a reward. But Karen’s heart started beating double-time, the edges of panic closing in. She didn’t want the time off, she didn’t want to be in her apartment, alone, for 4 full days. Foggy was up to his neck in briefings, and Karen’s fledgling friendship with Trish Walker wasn’t exactly to the level of ‘come distract me from myself over Christmas’ yet, which left Karen precisely in the Party of One category.

She tried, and failed, to convince Ellison she didn’t need the time.

“Nonsense,” he said, shaking his head in that way that could only be described as ‘dad-like’. “Take the vacation. You’ll be getting paid for it anyway, so it’s not like you really have an excuse not to.”

Karen opened her mouth to respond and then quickly snapped it closed. It felt like another trap, a way to get her to slip up and tell him what’s really on her mind.

“Alright,” she said, flashing a quick smile. “You’re the boss.”

“Don’t remind me,” he said, leaving her office to deliver edits to a couple other staff writers.

Karen was surprised she enjoyed the office party as much as she did. As she sipped her punch, spiked with something much stronger than she was used to, she absently thought if she was soaking up as much social interaction as she could, knowing she was about to be thrust into isolation come the morning.

Way to be a Debbie Downer, she thought, snorting at her own joke.

Maybe she should switch to water…

Karen and a few others were the last to leave, sharing a cab instead of marching through the snow and slush.

Warm from her buzz, but still in charge of most of her faculties, she made it up the 4 flights of stairs to her apartment with only a little swaying. Keys jingling in her hand, she took a moment to steady herself before attempting the lock, pressing her forehead to the door.

“Go, go on.”

“…Take care.”

A knot swelled in her throat, choking her.

She’d told him to go. She’d pulled herself away.

Maybe if she’d hung on a little longer, a little tighter… Maybe if…

Karen slid her key into the lock and twisted with such force she thought the key would snap, and was thankful it didn’t. Finding a locksmith two days before Christmas would be nearly impossible.

Flicking on the light, she dropped her purse on the entryway table, and shucked her coat, ready to fling it over the back of the couch. All she could think about were her warm flannel PJ bottoms and her fuzzy socks—a gift from Foggy for her birthday.

She left a trail of clothes and illumination as she moved through the apartment-- shedding her heels by the couch while she turned on the lights of her Christmas tree, her sweater over the back of a chair as she clicked on the lamp, her skirt and tights as she moved into her bedroom and turned on the reading light.

Before redressing, she dug a hair band out of her jewelry box and pulled her hair into a high ponytail. She caught herself humming a Christmas song—Last Christmas, the Wham! version—while she searched for a sweatshirt to go with her sleep pants. Eventually, with only one dramatic tilt to the side as she pulled on her PJs, she was comfortable and warm and ready to crash on her couch with a bad movie playing on the tv.

She made it three steps out of her bedroom when she saw black boots, dark jeans, dark… everything.

Karen gasped, hand flying to her throat.

Lamp light and the reds and greens from her tree gave the figure dimension. And finally, she could make out the face under the dark hat and hood.

She’d know that nose anywhere.

“Frank?” She breathed.

Hands lifted to push back his hood, to remove his hat. A smile started to curve his mouth.

“Merry Christmas, Karen.”

She blinked. She blinked again.

He wasn’t disappearing.

“What… What are you doing here?” She could barely hear herself over the roar of her pulse in her ears.

He twisted his hat in his hands. “You didn’t close your door all the way…”

“How did you know my door was open?”

“…It’s not safe, Karen, you should know—”

“Frank, where have you been?” She snapped, cutting him off. She was suddenly feeling soberer. Shock will do that to a person.

Shifting on his feet, he glanced down, avoiding her stare. “I, uh…”

“I had business, Karen.” She expected to hear the same answer, in the same tone that made her cringe away from the prospect of prying.

Frank looked up at her, going still. “I’ve been around.”

Pinching her lips together tight, Karen inhaled steadily through her nose. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from a reunion with Frank, but this… this wasn’t quite it.

If she was honest, he was ruining her buzz.

“Around, huh?” She asked, fighting the urge not to sneer. Turning, she went into her kitchen for a glass of water. She felt him take a couple steps closer.

“I guess you-- you heard about what happened at the carousel,” he said, voice like gravel swirling around a glass of whiskey.

Karen nodded, chugging the tap water and refilling her cup. “Yup.”

“They, uh… They wiped my prints. My records. Gave me a clean slate… sorta.”

“Heard that too.” Karen said, turning to brace her hip against the counter so she could look at him.

Frank smirked. “You talked to Madani.” It wasn’t a question.

“Sure did.” She knew how she sounded. Knew her voice was cold and unforgiving, but any urge to be compassionate hadn’t quite caught up yet.

The sliver of a grin still on his lips fell, and his brows furrowed. “Karen, hey…”

“You wanna know how that meeting went?” She interrupted again, anger fueled by whatever clear liquor she’d spent most of the night drinking rushing to the surface. “We got to have a special sit down with Madani, got to see the inside of her place—nice apartment, by the way—and she tells us, first about the drugs being smuggled out of Kandahar and Billy Russo’s involvement and then she says you’re alive.”

There was a beat of silence as she gauged his reaction. He was frozen, watching her. Waiting.

Pushing away from the counter, she continued. “Not just alive, but free. You’re not being prosecuted. You’re not going to jail. You’ve been given a new identity and have been out in the world for days.” She set her cup down on the kitchen island, next to the white roses that were wilting from lack of sunlight. “And then she had the nerve to use our… relationship as a veiled threat to stay in our lane and not pursue the Cerberus story or anything about Rawlins. To keep quiet.”

An almost imperceptible wince made the corners of his eyes wrinkle.

Karen locked her gaze on him, refusing to let up. “And you know what my first thought was? How good of friends could we possibly be if I didn’t even know he wasn’t in prison?”

Frank sniffed. “Ghosted on you before,” he said, voice impossibly deeper. “Didn’t seem to bother you much then.”

“Bullshit,” she snapped. “That was before, that was—”

“What? What was it, Karen?”

“That was different!”

“Different, yeah. You tellin’ me I’m dead to you now, that’s what made it different.”

“No, it was—”

“You just like gettin’ to call the shots,” Frank cut in, taking a step forward. “People can fuck off, but only on your terms, is that right?”

Karen’s face heated up, anger spiking her temperature. “That’s not what I’m saying!”

“No? No, then what are you saying?”

She stopped, taking a deep breath. “We were… Things changed, Frank. And I just thought…” She went to drag her fingers through her hair, only to remember she’d put it up. “I thought maybe if someone was worth a phone call, maybe it would’ve been me. But I guess… I guess I was wrong.”

Frank’s gaze softened, and she caught the movement of his lips as he mumbled incoherently under his breath before saying louder, “I wanted to. Thought about it. But…”

Karen braced herself for whatever explanation he was about to give her that would cancel her out of his life. Again.

“I… I wanted to get myself a little more right first.”

Confusion doused her anger and drew her brows together.

Frank looked down at his hat still in his hands. “Been goin’ to Curt’s group… It’s, uh… It helps. I think.” He shrugged one shoulder, glancing up. “Maybe what helps is that I want it to help… so…”

Karen’s lips parted. “I… I’m not sure I understand.”

“I wanted to tell you,” he said, with as soft of a voice as he could manage. “Thought about showing up with pizza and beer or some shit, like a surprise, but…” His head tilted, in that very Frank way of dismissing everything, even himself. “I, uh, I didn’t think… And then you started back at work—”

“How did you—”

“I’m a loyal reader of The New York Bulletin, Miss Page,” he said, tone a little lighter, a little jovial. “I saw you didn’t have any new articles for about a week, and then your name was on a front-page story, so I figured…”

Karen’s anger went from a rolling boil to a low simmer. “Still could’ve called.”

“Oh yeah?” He flashed a lopsided grin. “Wouldn’t’ve hung up on me, huh?”

Despite herself, Karen smiled. “Well, you did save my life. Twice.”

The tension from their argument evaporated, floating out of the room through the air ducts.

“You want something to drink?” She asked, feeling the need to do something with her hands.

“If you’re offerin’.”

“Beer?”

He grunted his agreement and she turned towards her fridge. Frank took to slowly wandering her living room, taking note of her decorations.

“Must’ve been a bitch gettin’ a tree all the way up here,” he said, jerking his chin at her Douglas Fir.

“Foggy helped,” she said, smiling as she brought him his beer.

Taking a swig from the bottle, Frank quirked an eyebrow. “Hm.”

“What?”

He shook his head and Karen could practically read what he wasn’t saying on his face.

She chuckled. “Foggy’s stronger than he looks.”

“For a suit, maybe.”

“He offered to help.”

“At least he’s got manners.”

Karen folded her arms over her stomach, still unsure of what to do with her hands. “You… wanna sit?”

She got to the sofa first, folding herself into the far corner as he took the opposite end, legs open in a wide V, back slouched just a little. She wasn’t used to seeing him in such a relaxed posture. It was… nice.

“The suit help you decorate too?” He asked, sipping his beer.

Karen shook her head, propping her elbow up on the back of the couch. “Nope, that was all me. So keep your criticisms to yourself.”

Frank grinned. “Nah, none of that. It looks great.”

They sat there for God knows how long, with Frank staring at the Christmas tree, and Karen staring at him.

He shifted a little on the cushion, resting the bottle on his knee. “Maria, she… She loved decorating for the holidays. She went all out too. Day after Thanksgiving it was like waking up in the North Pole.”

Karen giggled, and Frank turned his head to look at her.

“You… you got a favorite?” He asked, gesturing to the ornaments shimmering in the multicolored lights.

“Hmm…” Karen thought, looking up at her tree. “Maybe the fuzzy reindeer? Up there, near the top.” She pointed out the worn, handstitched reindeer.

“Yeah?”

She nodded, resting her head on her fist. “My grandma made it for me. She made ornaments for all the grandkids. The reindeer is mine, my brother got a snowman, my cousin got… um, I think she got a Christmas mouse—"

“A what?” Frank asked, bottle halfway to his lips.

“You know, a little Christmas mouse,” she said, trying to pantomime. “It’s a little mouse with a Santa hat.”

He arched a brow, looking at her like she was nuts. “A mouse with a Santa hat? Is that… that a Vermont thing, or…?”

Karen laughed. “It’s a thing, I promise.”

“Alright, guess I’ll take your word for it.”

“Guess you will,” she retorted, feeling warm again, but this time it wasn’t from the alcohol. “Did you have a favorite ornament growing up?”

Frank sipped his beer and thought. “Not an ornament… but my mom, she had this set of nutcrackers. They all were characters from the play, you know? I loved the Toy Soldier one the best.”

Karen laughed softly and Frank chuckled, glancing at her.

“Yeah, I know, some kinda cliché bullshit, right? The Marine loving the solider one the best.” He smiled into his beer. “I always got in trouble for sneaking it up to my room to play with.”

“I used to steal my mother’s best outfits to play dress up in,” Karen admitted, smile still on her lips. “The expensive cocktail dresses she’d have to wear to company functions, her designer shoes, her pearls…”

“Uh oh… Y’didn’t lose those, did you?”

Karen shook her head. “No, no, but I’d hide them under my bed and my mom would get so mad.” She laughed at the memory. “She’d ban me from her closet but the second she was out of the house…”

“Went right back, didn’t you?”

“Oh yeah.” She nodded, grinning at him.

“Seems like you’ve always been a tenacious one, huh?”

Karen lifted her chin with pride. “Since day one.”

“Atta girl.”

They stayed like that, chatting easily long into the night. Karen even got to tease him about how he was letting his hair grow long again, calling him ‘hipster’ a couple of times just to see him smile. Frank held onto his long-empty beer bottle, refusing to get off the couch for another, or to make her get him one. Soon Karen was drifting off mid-sentence (Frank’s or hers) and he started to excuse himself, telling her he shouldn’t have kept her up so late.

“Stay?” She asked without thinking. Her eyelids were half-down, but she would have sworn she saw genuine shock flash across his face. Straightening up a little, she decided to ask again. “Will you stay?”

He regarded her a moment, dark eyes catching the glow from the Christmas tree. “Not still mad at me, are ya?” He asked, tilting his head. “Don’t wanna wake up with my hand in a bowl of warm water or somethin’…”

Karen’s laugh exploded from her and she covered her mouth. “I’d never!” She said, still laughing. “Scouts honor.”

“You were a scout?”

“Um… no…?”

Chuckling, Frank shook his head. “Then that don’t mean much, does it?”

“I promise not to fuck with you in your sleep,” she said, as earnestly as she could. “So… will you?”

He was quiet, staring down at the empty bottle still in his hands. “Okay,” he said, nodding once.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

***

Karen awoke with a start—the sound of metal banging being too similar to the sounds from her nightmares. Blinking rapidly, she glanced around her room, remembering where she was.

She rolled onto her side, stretching as she stared out into the living room. Details from the night before started filtering back, just as another metal bang sound made her jump.

Quickly rolling out of bed, she hurried into the kitchen, bare feet instantly freezing on the cold linoleum.

“Frank?” She called, voice rough from sleep.

Standing up from where he was crouched, Frank turned to face her, holding a frying pan. “Hey, mornin’,” he said. “Didn’t mean to wake you. I was gonna get breakfast going for you and then I knocked over the leaning tower of Pisa you got in that cabinet.” He pointed with the end of the pan.

Karen flashed a tired smile. “Oh, yeah… Been meaning to reorganize.” She finger-combed her hair back from her face. “Coffee?”

“Already made.”

She cast him another look, noticing he’d rid himself of his jacket and hoodie, and was only in a black henly and his jeans and boots. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she got a mug from her cupboard and poured herself a cup of coffee.

“You want some?”

Frank’s answer was to lift his own mug—one she hadn’t noticed—and quietly grunt. It made Karen grin.

“So what’s on the menu this morning?” She asked, leaning against the counter to watch him dice a bell pepper.

“You had a bunch of vegetables that needed to be eaten,” he said, gesturing to the selection next to the cutting board. “What, you go to the store just to buy stuff to let it rot?”

Karen pulled her mug away from her lips. “I’m busy, Frank, I don’t always have time to cook.”

“Hm. Seems to reason you shouldn’t buy food you don’t have time to cook then.”

“Seriously?”

He sniffed. “Just a waste, is all.”

“Someone woke up on the lecture-y side of the bed this morning.”

“Sofa. And… sorry.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I think I’ve been around David too long.”

She sipped her coffee and smirked. “You didn’t happen to pick up any computer smarts did you? ‘Cause my laptop has been a little glitchy.”

Frank shook his head and she caught the corner of a smile. “Nope. You’re on your own.”

“Damn.”

“How’s an omelet with spicy sausage sound?”

Karen nodded, stomach already growling. “Sounds perfect.”

Frank gestured towards the lone barstool by her kitchen island. “Have a seat, it’ll be done shortly.”

“I didn’t know you could cook,” she said, watching him as she sat down.

“I’m a man of many talents, Miss Page,” he told her, graveled voice surprisingly sweeter. “I can also sew.”

“Fabric or flesh?”

“Both.”

Karen chuckled into her coffee.

“You sleep alright?” He asked, scraping the vegetables into the frying pan.

Flattening her lips into a line, Karen hummed a ‘yes’. It was the best she could do to deflect. She wasn’t sure she was ready to tell anyone—let alone Frank—about her nightmares.

“You?” She asked quickly.

“I’ve been sleepin’ on a cot about as thin as a sheet of paper for the last few months. Your couch was a cloud compared to that.”

“I’ll have to leave a review on IKEA’s website then. ‘Better than a basement cot’.”

Frank chuckled, turning the heat up on the pan and adding salt. An amenable silence enveloped the room, with Karen sipping her coffee while Frank cooked. Occasionally they’d catch each other’s eye and duck their heads, almost blushing.

It felt strange having Frank in her space, being so surprisingly domestic with a KBAR still strapped to his belt. But it was a strangeness Karen found herself wanting to get used to. Wanting more of.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” she announced, breaking the silence. “Got any plans?”

She realized how ridiculous that question must have been, as if she expected previously-assumed-dead-Frank-Castle to turn around and tell her he was going to a Christmas party.

“Nope,” Frank said, graciously sparing her a sarcastic glance. “You?”

“Ellison gave me 4 days off from the paper,” she said, distracting herself with one of the shopping mailers she’d gotten with her stack of junk mail. “I was thinking of attempting a real Christmas dinner for myself. I make a mean Thai curry.”

“Thai food?” Frank looked over his shoulder at her, halting his sautéing. “How the hell is Thai food Christmas-y?”

“It can be,” she retorted, hands cupping her warm mug. “If it’s food you eat on Christmas, then it’s Christmas food.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“Oh no?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Ya gotta have the real deal stuff. The… the ham, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, that nasty-ass cranberry jelly from a can—”

“I actually like that stuff.”

“’Course you do,” he said, looking over his shoulder again and smirking. It made Karen’s stomach tremble.

Or maybe that was the 2 cups of coffee on an empty stomach.

“Well I can’t make all that just for me,” she told him primly. “It would be a waste.” She arched an eyebrow at him when he turned to look at her again. Two can play that game.

She wondered if he’d catch her double meaning. She couldn’t make all that food for just her… but if he stayed…

“What about the suit?” Frank asked, cracking a couple eggs into a bowl to scramble.

“Foggy’s working and then spending Christmas day with his girlfriend—”

“Suit’s gotta girl, huh? Good for him.”

“Marci. She’s… Well, Foggy likes her, so…”

Frank chuckled, a sound Karen still wasn’t used to hearing. “Not a fan, I take it.”

“As long as Foggy doesn’t ask me to be her new BFF, we’ll be fine.” Karen hopped up for her third cup of coffee, and found Frank there, a little too close too quickly.

His large hand covered the top of her mug. “Need somethin’ more than just that,” he said, graveled voice even lower. “Here.” He handed her a water glass and nodded to the sink.

Karen flattened her lips in a line. “Didn’t realize I needed a babysitter.”

“Gonna make yourself sick, all the coffee on an empty stomach.”

“Well maybe if someone hurried up with the food…”

Frank pegged her with an unyielding stare. “Indulge me. One glass of water.”

Karen’s shoulders stiffened but she took the water glass. “Fine.”

“Fine.”

She filled it in tense silence and chugged it down. Walking back over to where he stood, she made it a point to turn the glass upside down on the counter next to him before grabbing the handle of the coffee pot and pouring herself more.

Frank shook his head. “More stubborn than a mule,” he muttered, barely audible but Karen still heard it.

“Pot, meet kettle.”

He grunted, flipping the omelet in the pan.

Karen returned to her seat, aimlessly looking over the holiday sale ads as she drank her coffee defiantly.

A plate of food appeared under her chin and she lifted her head.

“Bon Appetite,” Frank said, holding out a fork for her.

“Thanks—Wait, where’s yours?”

“Not hungry,” he said, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

She thought he’d sit with her, but he walked around the kitchen island and into the living room, grabbing his jacket off the back of the couch. Karen watched, her stomach dropping. She’d run him off already, she’d irritated him into leaving, she’d—

“Where… where are you going?” Her voice sounded small, even to her own ears.

“Told you, y’can’t have Thai food for Christmas dinner. Just ain’t right,” Frank called, yanking his jacket on. “Bet if I hurry I can find a decent spread for us, even if it’s all picked over.”

Karen blinked. “You… So you’re…” She swallowed thickly.

“Be back in a little while, yeah?” He held her gaze for a moment before offering a smile. Jerking his chin at the plate, he added, “Better eat before it’s cold.”

Relief flooded her system as she nodded weakly. “Okay.”

“Don’t go anywhere,” he said as he headed for the door. “Hate to have to pick your lock with an arm full of groceries.”

Karen laughed, and he glanced over his shoulder just before closing the door behind him.

***

She heard him come back in as she was getting dressed after her shower. Heavy boots and the rustling of bags, a grunt as he nudged the door closed. She scurried to close her bedroom door, a towel being the only thing covering her. It probably wouldn’t have been in either of their best interests if she accidentally flashed him before noon.

“Be right out,” she called, seeing his silhouette move into the kitchen.

“Take your time.”

Quickly digging out a pair of leggings and an oversized cream-colored sweater, she scrambled to find a pair of underwear that wasn’t terribly lacy… Laundry day was fast approaching if all she could find were her ‘date night’ panties.

She dug through her drawer, suddenly and intensely aware of the man moving around her apartment.

Jesus Karen, get it together, she thought, grabbing her last plain black pair and a bra and pulling them on.

“You got a package,” Frank called, making her jump.

Frowning, Karen looked at the door as she finished dressing. “Huh?”

“Left by your mailbox, so I brought it up.” She listened to him pace across the living room. “Not very big…”

She opened her door, working a comb through her hair. “Does it say who it’s from?”

Frank shook his head, holding the box out for her. His eyes drifted down to where she brushed her damp hair, but his expression was neutral.

“Thanks,” she said, taking it and going to the couch to sit. “So, I see you were able to get more than just a couple cans of beef and bean soup, huh?”

“Yeah, didn’t make out too shabby.” Frank wandered back to the kitchen to continue unloading. “Even found a decent sized ham to bake.”

“Ooh, with brown sugar?”

He grunted a ‘yes’ and she smiled softly, folding her legs under her. Looking down at the box in her lap, she stopped, fingers trailing over the familiar lettering.

“Need scissors?”

She didn’t answer, hardly heard him if she was honest. She was too busy deciding if she even wanted to open it.

“Karen?”

“Hm?”

Frank was a little closer, holding a can of green beans, brow furrowing as he watched her. “What is it?”

“Oh… uh,” she faltered, glancing down at the box. “It’s… nothing.” She set the box aside on her coffee table. “So are you one of those ‘no one is allowed in the kitchen to help’ kinda cooks or is there room for two in there?”

“Why didn’t you open your package?” He asked, completely blowing passed her attempt to change the topic.

Karen bit her lip, shaking her head. “Don’t worry about it.”

Frank’s jaw ticked as he stared at her. He set the can on the counter and strode into the living room, sitting on the arm of her reading chair. He was staring her down, waiting for her to crack under the weight of his dark gaze.

“Really?” She scoffed. “It’s nothing, Frank, just drop it.”

She stood up, about to walk into the kitchen, when Frank grabbed her wrist. It was the first time he’d touched her since… Since the elevator.

Karen’s head whipped around, glare hot. “Frank.”

His only response was to lock eyes with her, thumb over her pulse point.

They stayed like that for what felt like ages until Karen yielded.

“It’s from my dad. And I don’t want to open it right now, nor do I want to talk about it, okay?” She looked to where Frank’s hand was still wrapped around her wrist. “Is that answer satisfactory enough for you?”

Frank’s jaw ticked again but his gaze was softer. After a beat, he released her, and her skin was troublingly cold from the lack of touch. Karen didn’t waste any time walking away from him, but Frank didn’t move from his perch on the chair.

She got herself a glass of water just to busy herself, and stood at the sink to drink it.

“You… you can, y’know…” Frank said, voice deep and raspy. “Talk about it, I mean. If… if you want.”

Karen swallowed the last of her water and smacked her lips. “Nope.”

Sighing, Frank nodded once before standing up. “Alright.” It was barely loud enough to hear over the clink of her glass in the sink.

He went around the kitchen island, picking the can of green beans up. “Ya got any objections to slivered almonds?”

Karen turned, frowning at him. “Huh?”

“On the green beans,” he said, rolling the can in his palm. “Only way I really know how to make ‘em.”

The knot that was tightening in her chest loosened enough for Karen to breathe. The topic of her father was dropped… for now.

“No, not at all.” She shook her head. “You want some help?”

“Nah, I got it,” he said, pulling out all her pots and pans from her cabinets. “How about you play bartender though.”

Karen arched a brow, smirk playing at her lips. “Do what now?”

“Can’t have Christmas Eve dinner without a little holiday cheer,” he said, tone lighter. “Check that bag over there.” He nodded to the paper bag he hadn’t unpacked.

Karen grinned as she pulled out two bottles of wine—one red, one white—and a fifth of top shelf whiskey.

Lining them up on the counter, she said, “Merry Christmas indeed.”

***

Frank Castle was a fucking lightweight.

One glass of wine had him pink at the tips of his ears and apples of his cheeks. Two and he was smiling a lot easier, laughing a fraction louder, fine motor function not nearly as finessed.

Karen covered her mouth, suppressing a giggle as she watched him cook.

“That’s some strong shit,” he muttered, looking into his glass after another sip.

“You sure you don’t wanna eat something?”

“We’re gonna eat soon.”

“You gonna make it to ‘soon’?”

“I can hold my liquor, Karen.”

Smirking, she sipped her wine. “If you say so…”

She decided not to comment when she saw him nibble on the carrots he was cooking on the stove.

It was only three o’clock in the afternoon and they were both buzzed. Now this was a Christmas tradition Karen could get behind.

“We need some different music,” she said, jumping up from her bar stool to go pick a new Spotify station. She changed it from non-descript Christmas classics to a Rock Christmas station, in need of something with more pep.

“Y’really listen to this?” Frank asked, scrunching his nose as he tasted the sauce for the ham.

“Sure,” she said, turning. “And you don’t?”

“Can’t say I’ve listened to much of anything the last few months.”

The comment made her sad for reasons she wasn’t sober enough to really put together.

They chatted a little as he checked on the multiple dishes he had in the oven and as Frank drained his wine glass. She’d never thought she’d ever see Frank get tipsy… But then again, she never thought she’d be friends with the Punisher, of all people. Or having him cook her Christmas dinner. It was a holiday full of surprises.

The opening bars of Bruce Springsteen’s “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” filtered through her computer speakers and Karen smiled. It was one of her favorites. She glanced up to see Frank bobbing his head a little as he stirred the carrots.

“Fan of the Boss, huh?” She asked, grinning.

“Who isn’t?”

She saw the shift immediately. Frank’s shoulders going rigid, his back straightening, hand gripping the wooden spoon like a vice.

Incoherent mumbling got a little louder. “Can… can you turn that off?”

“What?”

“Turn it—turn it off? Or change… Just change the station?”

Karen frowned. “I thought—”

“Ple-please, Karen?” He didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to for her to know the tormented look in his eyes.

As quick as her inebriated fingers would allow, she turned the volume down and changed it back to some jazzy Christmas station. She stood there, leaning on the table, running her fingers through her hair as she exhaled slowly. Her heart was racing, like she’d just kicked a grenade away from them.

Maybe she had…

She waited until she could breathe normally before going back to her seat at the island, clutching her wine glass by the stem.

“My… my wife…” Frank faltered, clearing his throat. “Maria, she… For my birthday, she got us Springsteen tickets.”

Karen didn’t dare move an inch or make a sound.

“’Sposed to go the week after I got back,” he murmured, keeping his back to Karen. “We, uh… That didn’t…” He shook his head.

He didn’t need to finish. Karen knew.

She knew too well.

“I’m sorry, Frank,” she whispered.

He nodded jerkily, stirring the pot.

They listened to the new station—a little too much Michael Buble for Karen’s taste—in relative quiet.

Finally, Frank turned to face her. “I have a confession to make.”

Karen’s eyes widened.

“I can’t bake worth a damn,” Frank said. “So I bought the pie.”

Karen had to bite the inside of her cheek so she wouldn’t laugh. “I think I can forgive that.”

“Alright then.” The corner of his mouth twitched, and she felt a swell of relief in her chest.

Some memories of Maria Frank welcomed, and some tore him asunder, bringing his very being to a screeching halt. Karen understood that implicitly. And she was more than willing to bear witness to both-- to listen or to change the station.

It was the least she could do, Karen felt.

***

“You didn’t!”

“All over the house,” Karen laughed, fork bumping her plate. “I thought my mother was going to have a heart attack.”

“Who was watching you?” Frank leaned on his forearm, eyes sparkling. “Was anyone watching you?”

“The babysitter was trying to get my brother to stop coloring on the walls.”

“You were terrors, both of you,” Frank told her, shaking his head and grinning.

“I thought it would be funny!”

“Cutting a hole in the flour bag and tying it to the dog is not funny, trust me.”

“It was a little funny,” Karen giggled, sipping her wine. “Besides I was 5!”

Frank took a bite of ham and shook his head again. “Poor Sparky…”

“I think he was more upset he had to have 2 baths just to get all the flour out of his fur.” Karen speared a carrot and gestured to Frank with it. “Alright, your turn. Worst childhood antic.”

“Oh man…” He chuckled, setting his utensils down and rubbing his right hand over his left fist. “Uh… Let’s see…” Tilting his head, he considered her a moment before nodding. “Alright. The time I filled the washer with bubble bath instead of laundry detergent.”

Karen nearly choked on her food. “Oh god!”

“I was trying to help,” he said, grin splitting his face apart. “I didn’t know they were different. Soap is soap, right?”

“No, no they’re not,” Karen shook her head and giggled.

“Yeah, well, I figured that out pretty damn quick.” He hid his face a little with his hands. “The laundry room is filling with bubbles and I’m, shit, I’m freakin’ out, right? I’m 8, standing there in wet socks and slippery from all the soap, and I’m about 3 seconds from losin’ my shit, and that’s when my mom comes in the house.”

“Uh oh…”

Frank shook his head, leaning back in his chair. “Ma… She walks in, hears the machine going berserk, calls for me, and when she comes around the corner and sees the gigantic mess I’ve made she…” He chuckles, hands falling to the tops of his thighs. “She just bursts out laughing.”

“What?”

“She’s doubled over, she’s cracking up so hard. And I’m standing there—probably with bubbles comin’ outta my ears—and I just…” He ducks his head, still grinning but obviously a little embarrassed. “I just start wailing.”

Karen covered her mouth, her ‘aww’ still very much audible.

“I… I guess I was just so overwhelmed, I just had a meltdown. And Ma, she just laughed even harder.”

“You poor thing.”

“She said I looked like the angriest bubble monster,” Frank commented, picking up his wine. “Looking back… I don’t—I can’t even remember half of it, or how we got it all cleaned up. But I swear, to this day, I remember the feeling of wet socks and soap bubbles up to my little bare arms.”

“Your mom wasn’t angry?”

Frank shook his head, swallowing the last of the wine in his glass. “Nah, she was… She took things in stride, ya know? A little bubble bath in the machine wasn’t gonna upend her.”

“And you were trying to help…” Karen added, smiling over her glass.

Mumbling in agreement, Frank tucked his chin. “I didn’t touch that washer again until high school.”

Karen laughed, enjoying how easy it was to laugh now. Sure, the wine helped, but it was more than that. It felt important to laugh with Frank. To embrace the goodness, the levity, because they both knew that things could change in an instant. And that they most likely would.

“You liked the yams?” Frank asked, nodding to Karen’s plate.

She looked down to the clearly vacant section. “They were amazing.”

“There’s more,” he murmured.

“We have to have left overs for tomorrow,” she countered.

“Ah, right,” Frank said, lifting his head. “You save room for pie?”

“There’s always room for pie.”

“Atta girl.”

Their knees bumped as he got up from the table to fetch the store-bought pumpkin pie, and at the same time the legs of his chair scraped sharply on the linoleum. She tried to hide it, but Karen flinched. Hard.

Frank hesitated at her shoulder, holding both of their empty plates, but Karen couldn’t bring herself to look up at him. She tilted her face away, pretending to stare at the Christmas tree, until he huffed and walked into the kitchen.

The plates clattered in the sink and she jumped again, but that time she was pretty sure he didn’t see.

Her skin crawled, sensing the impending questions about to pour from Frank’s mouth, and she dodged with all the agility of a scared rabbit.

“You want coffee with your pie?” She asked, already standing and making her way to the coffee maker.

Frank turned from where he was cutting a thick slice and watched her a moment before humming in agreement. As he finished serving, she made them a pot and leaned against the counter, listening to the gurgling noises.

“We should watch a movie or something,” she told him as he handed her a dessert plate. “You got a favorite?”

Frank shook his head, fork already diving into the hunk of orange. “Pick whatever you want,” he mumbled around the food in his mouth.

Biting her lip, Karen wandered into her living room, grabbing the remote from the coffee table and turning the tv on. She channel-surfed for a minute before finding A Christmas Story on a cable channel, already about 10 minutes in.

“This okay?” She asked without looking at him.

Frank grunted what sounded close to a ‘yes’, and plopped himself down on the end of the sofa. Going back for coffee for the two of them, Karen came back and handed out a mug to Frank.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, taking it from her.

Karen laughed softly at the title. “No need to be formal, Frank,” she said, curling up on her end of the couch. “You’ve seen me in my PJs now. We’re beyond ‘ma’am’.”

“Dunno about that,” he said, smirking as he took another bite. “Decaf?”

She shook her head, watching the television. “Regular.”

Frank’s silence felt heavy, but she didn’t react, didn’t comment. She stared so hard at Ralphie’s face on her screen she was certain she’d memorize every freckle the kid had. She would not budge.

Karen finished her pie and took their plates to the kitchen and refilled her coffee. She offered to do the same for Frank, but he declined.

“You plannin’ on stayin’ up to see Santa?” He asked after her second cup.

She pulled her mug away from her lips. “Huh?”

“Gonna be up all night drinkin’ that,” he commented, nodding to her coffee.

“Says the guy who lived on the stuff.”

His response was a quiet hum followed by turning to stare at the tv once more, dropping the topic. They watched the movie, chuckling lightly and steadily relaxing back into the way they’d been during dinner.

When Karen shivered slightly, Frank pulled the throw off the back of the sofa and unfolded it, tossing it over her knees without a word. She whispered a thank-you, tugging it higher around her waist and leaning back against the cushions.

A Christmas Story ended, and Karen found them another to watch—Frank vetoed Miracle on 34th Street so she put it on Elf.

“Never seen this one,” Frank commented, threading his fingers together behind his head, spreading his elbows wide.

“What? You’ve never seen Elf?”

“I was a little busy, Karen,” he retorted, rolling his eyes. “Didn’t have time to see every bad movie—”

“Okay well that’s your first mistake there,” she cut in. “Elf is not bad. It’s a classic.”

“That right?”

“Mm-hm,” she nodded, propping her head up on a pillow. “Just watch, you’ll see.”

Despite chugging nearly a full pot of coffee, Karen’s eyelids drooped and she caught herself drifting off to sleep during several scenes. She blinked, glancing over at Frank, but he didn’t seem to notice. Either that or he was purposefully keeping his comments to himself.

Just before Buddy saved Santa’s sleigh, Karen fell asleep with her head at an awkward angle and the throw blanket bunched around her.

In those few moments though, the noise came back—screeching, exploding metal. People yelling. The taste of blood in her mouth.

Different memories, different events, all patchworking together.

She jerked awake, bolting up from the pillow and ramming her foot into the coffee table.

“Shit,” she cursed, bending to rub the soreness.

Frank was next to her again, too close, too suddenly. His hand was on the middle of her back, the heat and weight of it grounding her.

“Hey, hey, you alright?” His voice was soft, a little smoother like cigar smoke.

She nodded, wincing. “Fine. Just… clumsy.”

“You want some ice?”

“No, no, I’m okay,” she told him. “Promise.”

She caught his slight nod from the corner of her eye and offered him a smile. “See? All better,” she said, leaning back.

He grunted, but didn’t say much else, and they continued to watch the end of the movie. The next one up was A Charlie Brown Christmas, and even Frank nodded off during that one a couple of times. He blamed the music—too mellow.

Karen glanced over at the clock and sighed. 2am.

“Guess Santa skipped us this year,” she joked.

“I’m shocked,” Frank murmured, voice rough from exhaustion. “I’ve been a very good boy.”

Karen laughed, and he tilted his head to look at her, grinning slightly.

Reluctantly, she withdrew from the blanket and stood up. “I guess I’ll let you get some sleep,” she told him, dropping the throw back on the cushions.

“Karen…”

“G’night Frank,” she said, avoiding the topic once again.

His voice was quiet as he said, “Merry Christmas, Karen,” just before she closed her bedroom door.

***

Karen rolled onto her side, staring at the sliver of dawn outside her bedroom window.

She slept—she was sure she had—but given how her whole body ached, how unbelievably exhausted she still felt, she didn’t think it was very good sleep.

The nightmares still plagued her. They were a constant now, just something to accept. Taxes and death and all that.

She watched as the faint blue light turned pink, then orange, then yellow.

“Merry Christmas,” she whispered to herself, hugging a pillow to her chest.

Through her door she heard the shower turn on and the clinking from the rod as the curtain moved. She thought about going out, asking Frank if he needed anything, getting him a couple towels and a wash cloth, but she realized he’d probably found all of that already if he was turning on the water.

She opted for 5 more minutes in bed followed by getting up to make coffee strong enough to strip paint. She didn’t think Frank would complain.

Karen was on her second cup when Frank came out of the bathroom, redressed and toweling his hair dry.

“Mornin’,” he said as soon as he saw her. “Hope you don’t mind, I—”

“No, no, not at all,” she told him. “I should have offered. You’re welcome to anything here.”

The small smile threatening to curve his lips made Karen blush and duck her head.

“Do you… need any extra clothes or anything?” She asked. “Not that I have a lot of men’s clothing lying around… And I don’t think yoga pants are really your style.”

Frank’s chuckle was deep, a little rough still from sleep. “I had a change of clothes in my pack.”

“Sure, right.” She nodded, lifting her mug. “I, uh, I made coffee.”

He glanced passed her to the coffee maker. “Smells strong.”

“It is.” She smiled but even to her it felt sharp.

Folding the towel in his hands, Frank wandered over to pour a cup. Something was different between them… Her stomach had taken to trembling when he looked at her. He was smiling more frequently. Her hands shook slightly when he was close. His gaze was warmer, softer. She didn’t quite feel comfortable in her own body, like she was a teenager again.

Inhaling deeply, she gulped her coffee and forced herself to remain still and calm, and to get a grip.

“Breakfast?”

His voice brought her head around. “Hm—uh, yeah.” She nodded so fast her neck popped. “Whatever you want.”

“Want me to do something with these left overs?”

“Those are for later,” she told him, reaching to playfully swat him away from the Tupperware containers. Frank chuckled and tilted his head.

“Alright, alright, eggs it is,” he said, pulling the carton from the shelf.

They fell into their familiar routine—Frank acting as chef while Karen sat on one of her stools, flipping through the paper and drinking coffee.

“You sure are giving my stove a work out,” Karen commented, reading the last bit of an article. “It hasn’t been used this much since I moved in.”

“That’s just depressing.”

Karen snorted. “You eat MREs and cold cuts, you can’t judge me.”

“I had an excuse,” Frank said, glancing over his shoulder. “But you?”

Looking up, she pegged him with a stare and rolled her eyes. That got him to laugh, which was worth the antagonizing.

“Merry Christmas, by the way,” he told her as he flipped the eggs in the pan.

She smiled. “Merry Christmas.”

“Did… d’ya sleep alright?” He asked, poking the food with the spatula.

Karen took a sip of coffee and hummed. “Fine. You?”

“Oh yeah, dreamt of sugar plums and all that shit.”

Her laugh caught her by surprise. Covering her mouth, she muffled herself.

Frank turned, carrying a plate of fried eggs and toast. “Don’t on my account.”

“Huh?”

“Been in a basement with a neurotic spook for months,” he started. “Hearing someone’s… Hearing you laugh is… it’s nice.” He faltered as he handed her the food. “Feels nice. Normal.”

The confession slammed between her ribs, nestling in tight.

“Oh,” was all she could say before he turned away to get his own food.

They were quiet for a long while, eating and drinking their coffee, occasionally turning to look at the Christmas tree or skim sections of the paper.

“I forgot this part,” Frank murmured from behind his mug. “Christmas morning…”

Karen’s chest ached as images of what Frank’s old life must have been like, how Christmas must have been for him, with Lisa and Frank Jr, flooded her mind.

“I… I didn’t get a lot of them… With the kids. Y’know?” He sniffed, nose scrunching before he took another sip of coffee. “Deployments. Training. Lisa’s first Christmas… I was in a tent in the desert. Got pictures though. Lots of pictures. When… when Frankie was, God, 4? 5? We, uh… We did it up right. Full blown Hallmark Christmas. Big tree, family came over. We… There was tons of food, and…” He chuckled to himself. “So much fuckin’ wrapping paper you couldn’t see the carpet underneath.”

Karen had gotten accustomed to his reminiscences tumbling out, a little broken, a little messy, stalled in parts, faded and unsure in others, but still very Frank. Each word curled up in her lap, held there to be cherished by someone else who understood.

“Did… did you have a favorite Christmas tradition?” She asked softly, not wanting to push. His memory was like fractured glass—if you pressed the wrong spot, it all came crashing down.

Frank glanced into his mug. “I was hopin’ you’d indulge me a little,” he said quietly. “Tell me somethin’ about yours? You have a favorite?”

“As a kid?”

He shrugged, muscled shoulders shifting under black fabric. “Sure.”

Karen leaned forward on her elbows. “Well… We’d usually go to my Grandmother’s,” she started. “She lived outside of Burlington, so we’d all pile in the car and drive down to see her. And my mom would always fight with the radio to get a good Christmas music station, even though we had CDs.” She smiled, moving her hands as she talked. “We’d get there, and it was just like out of a Thomas Kinkade painting, you know? Wintry and the windows all lit up, wreaths on the doors, and you could see the tree from the street.”

She glanced at him and laughed to herself. “Probably sounds cliché, right?”

Frank shook his head. “Nah, it sounds nice.”

“It was,” she agreed, nodding. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she continued. “There were presents all over the living room, but we had to wait until after we ate to open them. It was torture.”

“D’you do the Santa thing? Opening gifts in your PJs?”

“We always had Santa and stockings at our house,” she said. “Mom would make waffles while we tore into our new toys.”

Frank nodded, seeming to enjoy her story. But he watched her like he was waiting for something, searching for something between her words.

Karen kept talking-- describing her family Christmases, her cousins running around making a mess, building snowmen while the adults finished cooking, taking their Santa-delivered toys out to play…

“Who’s ‘we’?” Frank asked, cutting in on her last sentence.

“Oh, uh, me and my cousins, and my brother.” She punctuated it with a long swallow of coffee.

“Did your dad cook?” Frank asked, catching her off guard. “He in the kitchen or was someone out there watchin’ you?”

Karen struggled to laugh through her bewilderment. “We were old enough to play by ourselves,” she said, getting up for more coffee. “It was Vermont. Unless there was a moose nearby, we were safe.”

Frank grunted, clearly feeling the urge to judge. Overprotective to a fault. Karen smiled as she brought the coffee pot over and topped him off.

“It was a nice way to spend Christmas. I… I miss it sometimes,” she told him. “But I love holidays here too.”

“Amid the garbage and the slush, huh?” Frank arched an eyebrow, teasing her.

“It’s not all bad.” Karen sat down, facing him fully. “There’s Rockefeller center—”

“Tourist trap.”

“And Central Park—”

“Crowded.”

“And all the stores and their window displays.”

He hummed. “Yeah, alright. Those are kinda nice.”

“So you agree.”

The curve of his lip over his coffee cup made Karen want to giggle. She felt buzzed and she was stone cold sober.

After a moment, Frank’s gaze darted over her shoulder to the Christmas tree. “Y’gunna open your gifts?”

“Don’t have any.”

“Says who?”

Karen frowned at him. “What are you…?” She twisted, looking behind her. She couldn’t see anything from where she sat, so she stood up, wandering over to the living room. Under the tree was a lone wrapped present—green paper and red ribbon shining under the twinkle lights. Karen blinked.

“Frank…” she whispered, emotion building in her throat.

“It’s not much,” he said. “Just something to… to say thanks.”

“Thanks? For… what?”

He was silent as he watched her pick up the gift. She shook the box gently, hearing the contents rattle.

“I didn’t get you anything,” she said it a little teasingly, but the beginnings of guilt churned in her stomach.

Frank shook his head. “Nah, don’t need anything. Shit, you kept me from sleepin’ in a rathole apartment for a few nights. That’s gift enough.”

Glancing down at the tag— her name written in his tight, neat script—she took a breath.

“Go on,” he urged. “Open it.”

Sitting on the edge of the couch, she balanced the box on her knees, pulling the ribbon off and tearing at the paper. She read part of the label printed on the cardboard and her brows shot up in delighted surprise.

“You got me bullets?” She laughed, looking up.

Standing, Frank started towards her. “Figured you’ve been going to the range a lot—your aim is too good to say you don’t practice.”

“I practice,” she confirmed with pride.

“Thought maybe I’d get you something to help practice with.”

Smiling, she finished unwrapping the box and opened the lid, finger running over the shells. “No one else would ever think to get me ammunition for Christmas.”

“Glad I’m not someone else then,” he told her, tucking his hand in his pocket and sipping his coffee.

“Me too.” She said it quickly, earnestly, and with enough warmth to heat up her own cheeks.

Frank took a few more steps into the living room, hovering near the end of the sofa. “You… you gonna open your other one?”

“You got me something else?”

He shook his head. “Meant the one from yesterday.” He paused, waiting for her to catch on. “Said it was from your dad…”

Karen’s face fell. “Oh. No, I’m not.”

“Karen…”

“I don’t want to open it, Frank.” She stood up, placing the box of bullets on her coffee table and going to brush passed him.

“Why?” Frank tracked her. “Hey, hey, talk to me. Why--?”

“Because I already know what it is,” she snapped, pegging him with a hard stare. “I already know, and I don’t want to be upset on Christmas, so…” Pushing her hair out of her face, she turned to walk away.

“What’s the deal with your dad, huh?” He asked, tilting his head, eyeing her. “Does he… Is he bothering you? Did… Karen, did he do something to you?”

So much was implied in the question, she didn’t know where to start, and her frustration came out as a bitter barking laugh.

“Depends on what you mean.”

Frank was eerily quiet, watching her. The violent urges always simmering under Frank’s surface began to bleed into his features, the rims of his irises, morphing him into The Punisher right in front of her.

“No, Frank. He didn’t do something to me… not like you’re thinking.” She fully exhaled with relief as his darkness faded, Frank coming back little by little.

“Then what? What’s the deal?” He asked, jaw working.

She planted her hands on her hips. “Why are you so concerned about this, Frank?”

“Because…” He mumbled incoherently for a moment before clearing his throat and saying louder, “I don’t… I don’t like seeing you upset.”

She didn’t mean to scoff, but the harsh sound erupted from her anyway. “Since when?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know what, this has nothing to do with me being upset.” She gestured to him, emphasizing her words. “You just don’t like not knowing something—It’s driving you nuts that I’m keeping something from you, so you’re trying every tactic you can to get me to spill my guts.” She shook her head, anger beginning to boil. “This isn’t empathy, it’s an interrogation.”

“Hey, that’s not—Look, I am concerned, okay? Don’t tell me I’m not—”

“Then why does it have to be on your schedule, Frank? Why can’t you just accept I’m not ready to talk about it?”

He set his mug down on the coffee table next to her box of bullets. “’Cause it has nothin’ to do with being ready—”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“C’mon, Karen, you really want me to say it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Karen,” he said her name almost like he was chastising her. “C’mon… You— I mean, I’m not an expert but—”

She scowled at him. “Spit it out, Frank.”

“You… You’re not doing well, Karen.”

The laugh that erupted from her was like ice shattering on concrete.

“Oh, that’s fucking rich,” she snapped. “You’re lecturing me now, is that it?”

“’Course not,” Frank said, shaking his head. “You know I’m not, I’m—Look, this shit with your dad, whatever it is, it’s just one part, okay? What you went through… The hotel with Lewis… losing Murdock—”

“Don’t,” she warned sharply.

He didn’t even blink. “All the other shit you’ve gone through. You don’t have to carry all that alone.”

“Wow, a month of therapy and you’re Dr. Castle now, huh?”

She regretted it the moment she said it. Frank needed therapy, needed to connect with other people, needed to talk about his trauma. She was proud of him. But he had his calloused, unclean fingers pressed against a vein she was barely able to keep closed on a good day, and that pain had to go somewhere.

Frank’s lip curled, a little too vicious to be a sneer. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what, Frank?”

“This, this backbiting bullshit. This ain’t you.”

“Oh yeah?” She snapped. “And what if it is?”

He shook his head, starting to wave her off, when she grabbed him by the bicep, yanking him back.

“What if it is, Frank?” Wide blue eyes locked on his nearly obsidian gaze. “What if this is me now?”

“So you—You wanna spend your life runnin’ on coffee and no sleep, diggin’ that hole deeper for yourself?”

“Stop! Stop presuming to know me, Frank! You weren’t here, you don’t—”

“I watched you every night through that goddamn window, you think I didn’t see you??”

His admission brought Karen’s thoughts to a halt. “You… what?” She breathed.

Frank started to shake his head, looking to the floor. “I… nothing, I just…”

“Goddamn it Frank, for once just—”

“Alright, yeah,” he interrupted. “Yeah, okay, I watched you. I didn’t… It wasn’t like that. I just… I’d walk by every night, wait to see you in the widow, see that you were okay. For a while, you were… I dunno, it looked like you were okay. But then… That light stayed on longer. I’d see you still movin’ around. Sometimes you’d be up at 4am—”

Karen gaped, unsure if she should be horrified.

“You were putting out a story in every issue of the Bulletin. You were doing interviews. But you weren’t even fuckin’ sleeping,” he said, sandpapery voice an octave lower. “Then, I’m staying here, and I’m seeing… I mean, Jesus, the last 2 nights… all fuckin’ night you’re tossing and turning—”

“What?”

“You talk in your sleep, Karen, y’think I wouldn’t hear you? You’re 5 feet away.”

“I didn’t…” She released him, backing up half a step. “I didn’t know I…” Her hand went to her mouth, fingers trembling against her chin.

Frank took half a step forward. “Look, I’m… I’m not…” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Just… Who’s Kevin?”

Karen’s breath caught in her throat so painfully tears welled in her eyes.

“Y-you kept saying his name, over and over, you were crying it…” Frank’s voice cracked. “Is he… He important to you?”

Hand clutching her mouth, she tried to suck down air and couldn’t. She stepped around Frank, trying to get some space, some footing, something.

“Hey, Karen… hey…”

She waved him off, still battling the sobs lodged in her windpipe.

“I can’t…” She mumbled finally, shaking her head. “I can’t talk about this right now.”

She spun, marching into her bedroom. Finding her sturdy boots and thick socks, she yanked them on before grabbing her winter coat off the hook near her door. When she emerged, Frank was standing there, looking at her with concerned bewilderment.

“Hey, hey, wait, hold on,” he started, trailing after her as she searched for her purse.

“I’m going for a walk.”

“Karen—”

“Stop it,” she nearly screamed. Two tears streamed down her face as she blinked up at him. “Leave me alone, Frank!”

“I… Just—Please, Karen…"

She shook her head. “I gotta go.”

She could hear him call her name again, but the slamming of her apartment door cut off the rest of his sentence entirely.

. . .