#kastle prompts

[kastlenetwork]

hello, kastle fam! i hope that you're doing well 😊 after eight thousand years of me being lazy, i present to you the next #kastleweek! (lol).

this next event will run from monday, september 2nd through friday, september 6th!

every medium of work is welcome. you can write fic. you can make edits, gifs, or art. if you'd like to make playlists of curating the vibes of karen and frank in each prompt, we'll be thrilled to listen! there's absolutely no pressure to create something for every day of the week -- there's a months' time to work, so feel free to pick and choose whatever it is you want to participate in 💕💕

monday, sept. 2 | we meet again | the day of yearning frank and karen reunions. whether that be months, years, or anything below or in-between. tuesday, sept. 3 | rom com aus | the day of fluff some actual summer fun for these two dramatic, angsty losers. (coffee shop aus, college aus, beach aus, ect.) picture bright and colorful cartoon book covers. wednesday, sept. 4 | through new eyes | the day of observations outsider, 3rd party, perspectives of frank and karen's relationship. no matter where it stands. thursday, sept. 5 | forced proximity | the day of honesty frank and karen being brought together in various situations where they can't just walk away, and are forced to confront their feelings. friday, sept. 6 | plot? what plot? | the day of desire frank and karen smut day. we know this fandom. let's be for real lol. (thank you, @goddamnitkastle, bless)

okie dokie, i hope at least one of these inspires something in you! (when we get closer to the date, i'll create a collection on ao3, for anyone who choses to write fic.)

i look forward to seeing what everyone creates!

💕, chey/ @kastlenetwork

[starkholme]

"Have you got any bright ideas?" she questions.

"I'm thinking, I'm thinking..." he's rambling, the eyes focused on the crowd circling them.

"You better think of something fast, because if he turns me into a mummy, you're the first one I'm coming after." Karen declared with her voice trembling, she turned her head to look at Frank for what it could be her last time ever looking at him.

Karen Page, a librarian and aspiring Egyptologist, and Foggy Nelson, her best friend and an excellent lawyer, usually have drinks together in one of the best — according to Foggy himself — bars in town: Josie's Place. On a friday night, the two friends found themselves in the middle of a bar fight and after hiding behind one the tables, Karen is quick to realize an intricate box fell from the pocket of one of the fighters and takes it for herself before even thinking twice.

She only got a glimpse of his face, yet she remembers him too well.

When she finds the map of Hamunaptra inside the box, Karen convinces Foggy to go along with her to find the mysterious man. They find ex-military Frank Castle in a local prison and Karen makes a deal with him to lead them to the City of the Dead if she gets him released, he agrees.

It wasn't in Frank's plan go back to Hamunaptra, although a certain blonde Egyptologist makes it hard to not go back to the place he once served alongside The French Foreign Legion. So when Karen accidentally wakes up a 3000 year old mummy who begins to wreak havoc in searching for the reincarnation of his long-lost love, Frank's got no other choice than to stop the terror and save Karen in the process.

Kastle x a different version of The Mummy 1999

[qqueenofhades]

Enjoy your time out of the office and vacation! Since you’re taking prompts, how about Kastle? I always think about reconciliations and reunions during the winter holidays. It doesn’t have to be explicitly romantic and I’d love it if it was at least a little messy. But I miss Karen and Frank so much, I’ll take anything.

The house is dark, the heating is on the fritz again so it's barely cracking sixty-five degrees in here, and despite the glow of the tree lights, it doesn't feel particularly warm or festive. Karen makes a note to call the repairman in the morning, though the sudden cold snap across New York means that they're likely to be booked solid, and pulls on the extra sweater hanging over the back of the kitchen chair. She thinks everything is ready for tomorrow, when they'll head over to Foggy and Marci's place for Christmas dinner, but if it isn't, she can't be bothered. She doesn't feel especially possessed by holiday spirit, and can't imagine that she will. At least keeping busy for other reasons has stopped her from thinking about it, but still.

Karen sits on the couch, rubbing her tired eyes and thinking that she should go up to bed, not least since she's going to be woken disagreeably early. But then, just as she's about to do so, there's a creak on the front steps as if someone is climbing them, she sits up and tenses -- it's been a long time since open trouble, but she's never quite lost the instinct -- and then, after what feels like forever, a knock on the front door. Why a knock? She isn't expecting anyone. Is this a trap? Her gun is locked in the safe upstairs; she can't leave it lying around for obvious reasons. She wishes that paranoia wasn't her first instinct even on Christmas Eve -- the night of welcoming in strangers, all that -- but she can't help it. She waits tensely, pretending she's not home, to see if they'll try to break in. Nothing.

Karen sighs, reminds herself to call a therapist along with the repairman, and goes to the front door. Unhooks the deadbolt, pulls it open a crack, and then --

Her hindbrain catches up to the realization faster than her conscious mind, like the white blaze in the very instant before a lightning strike. She goes stiff all over, and then she jerks the door open. "What the fuck," she hisses, "are you doing here?"

Frank Castle looks back at her with a very Frank Castle expression, a black beanie crunched low on his head and an old parka zipped up to the chin, grazed with two or three days of unshaven stubble. Karen can't tell if the dark stains on it are blood, but the wise individual would wager so. "Hey," he says gruffly, after a long pause. "Karen."

No, no, no. Karen rubs her fingers under her eyes, contemplates whether to strangle him or just slam the door in his face. Tempting though it is to leave him to freeze to death on her porch, she finally decides otherwise. "Fine," she snaps. "Come in. But you'd better be quick about it. And you aren't staying."

Frank opens his mouth, decides he can't dispute that, and steps over the threshold, his heavy boots clumping on the wooden floorboards. He glances around the house, raises an eyebrow. "Nice place."

"Shut up," Karen says again, short and tight, arms folded over her midriff like armor. "Say what you came to say, then get out."

There's another crackling pause. Frank looks wrong-footed -- which, good, he can't just think he can turn up out of the blue whenever he needs her help in one of his demented murder crusades, then vanish again. At last, he spreads his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Hey. I'm not comin' to make trouble, Karen. Swear. I just -- I was back in town, and I heard that you'd moved here, and I -- I was gonna see if, you know." He pauses. Shuffles. "You needed anything."

The barely-working central heat suggests that maybe he could, in fact, do something, but Karen isn't going to ask that of him. She doesn't want his pity or his charity or whatever years-too-late realization he's finally had about her, about them. "I'm fine."

"Karen -- " Frank hisses in frustration, takes another step. "I'm sorry, all right? I'm sorry for being a fuckup, for what's happened. You were right, as usual. I want -- " He stops, chokes. "I want -- "

"You want what?" Karen's voice rises. She can't help it. "What do you want, Frank? Because you've had plenty of chances, and -- "

"Jesus Christ, Karen -- "

They're forgetting themselves, they're making too much noise, and then in the living room hallway, there's another voice, small and tremulous. "Mommy," it says. "Mommy, what's wrong?"

Taken totally off guard, Karen and Frank spin around at the same moment, thus to behold the small, tousled four-year-old girl in her pajamas. Karen briefly goes very still. Then she flashes over and scoops her up. "Katie. Katie, it's fine. Go back to bed. Mommy just has to deal with this. You don't -- you don't need to see this, all right?"

Katherine Francesca Page looks unconvinced. She stares over Karen's shoulder at Frank, and Frank, staring back, looks as if all the breath has been driven out of his body. After all, the resemblance is unmistakable: the smaller and daintier version of his own crag of a nose, the fine brown hair, the stubborn set of the chin. He is staggered, shaken, stripped down to nothing, and Karen wants to enjoy it, but she's still too bitter. Frank looks wildly between them, can barely seem to breathe or form a thought, stand up or remember his name. "Karen -- " he starts at last, a hoarse stammer. "Karen -- "

"Go back to bed, Katie," Karen orders her daughter, puts her down and turns her sharply back toward the stairs. "Now."

Katie backs up, stares fearfully at this big strange scruffy man come in out of the cold on Christmas Eve and arguing angrily with her mother, and then runs for it. When she's sure that Katie's gone, Karen turns vengefully back to Frank, who's halfway sat, halfway-collapsed on the couch, rubbing both hands over his face. "Jesus Christ," he manages, choked. "Jesus Christ, you didn't -- you never told -- "

"No, I didn't." Karen's voice comes out like a whip. "If you weren't going to stay for me, then I certainly wasn't going to make you stay for her. What was it you said -- you and Maria dated for three months, she got pregnant with Lisa, you proposed the same day? I wasn't doing that. I wasn't going to try to hold onto you the same way. I asked you for me, and you turned me down. When I realized that I was -- that I was going to -- it was too late. You were already gone."

Frank is white as a sheet. He still can't muster a single word. Karen wants to feel bad for him, but she doesn't, not yet. At last, she points at the door. "Go."

"Karen. Jesus Christ. Fucking -- fucking hell, Karen -- "

"You decide." Karen marches to the door, holds it open against the swirling chill. "You decide what you want, Frank. And then don't come back here until you do. Got it?"

He looks at her, wild and raw, ragged and yearning. She almost cracks, but still doesn't. He opens his mouth. He shuts it.

"Her name's Katherine," Karen says, very softly. "Katie."

Frank looks at her again. His eyes flick up the stairs, as if it's taking all his wherewithal not to run up there right now. But at last, he obeys, and nods as if his head is something stiff and clumsy, unfired clay. "All right," he says, barely more than a whisper. "I, uh. I'll go. Merry Christmas, Karen."

Karen looks back at him, fierce and vengeful as a valkyrie, not wanting to break down, not wanting it -- because if she opens her mouth, she'll invite him to come back yet again, and this time, stupid and shallow and useless as it might be, she can almost delude herself that he'll stay. She just nods in turn. "Merry Christmas, Frank."

[zushigirl]

I Take My Coffee Black

For Day 2 of @kastleexchange Come What May💛💀First two parts are up on AO3 😊

“Please tell me you brought real coffee.”

Karen tries to keep her voice calm, tries to laugh, but the swell of emotions makes her voice crack.

Frank Castle is standing in front of her, looking more like a lost puppy than the fierce Punisher she’d seen aiming his semi-automatic. Offering her cover fire. Letting her get that shot at Bullseye.

Foggy…Matt…

Her best friend is gone.

Truthfully both her best friends are gone…because there’s no way Matt is coming back from this the same person…she’s alone now.

And yet…

Yet Frank is here.

[kanerallels]

Kastle, Bodyguard AU?

Posting this one a little earlier in the morning before I head into work! Also please know I had to struggle between deciding on like four different ideas, but I went with this one in the end. (consider it set in a universe where Frank did not murder a bunch of people. Or if he did, he at least didn't get caught)

Karen was far too used to the sound of gunfire at this point. Taking a deep breath, she started to reach for her purse, but the man pointed his weapon at her. “Ah, ah. None of that.”

“Okay,” she said, raising her hands above the table. “I won’t. Just— tell me why you’re here. You don’t have to hurt anyone.”

She could all but hear the rest of the coffee shop holding their breaths as the man let out a scoff. “I don’t, huh? Unfortunately for you, that is why I’m here. You’ve been a thorn in my boss's side for too long, Karen Page, and that’s about to end.”

Lifting the gun, he pointed it directly at her head and cocked it.

Before he could pull the trigger, something— or someone, Karen realized— smashed into him, knocking the gun flying and tackling him to the floor. In a heartbeat or two, it was over. The man was on the floor, spitting curses, and the person— another man, this one wearing a black jacket— who’d tackled him had him efficiently pinned.

He turned to Karen, and she caught an impression of a crooked nose, a military short hair cut, and dark eyes that held her gaze calmly. “If someone could call the cops, I’d appreciate that.”

“I’ll do it,” the barista at the front immediately as the rest of the coffee shop burst into applause. The man didn’t seem particularly affected by the applause, just gave Karen a nod. “Ma’am. You okay?”

“Fine,” Karen said, curiosity tugging at the inside of her chest. “I appreciate the help— who are you, exactly?”

A look of brief surprise flashed across the man’s face, but only for a moment. “Frank Castle, ma’am. Your editor hired me as your bodyguard. Said I should meet you here.”

Karen’s jaw dropped. “Ellison did what?”

“I take it you didn’t know about this?”

Dragging a hand through her hair, Karen let out an irritated sigh. “He said he’d do it if I got into much more trouble in my latest stories, but I didn’t actually think he was serious.”

“Apparently, he was,” Frank said gravely. Glancing down at the assailant, a foot still planted in his back, he added, “I can see why.”

“I appreciate it, but I take care of myself,” Karen told him, making a mental note to go straight to the office and give Ellison a piece of her mind. If he thought she was going to agree under duress like this, he had another thing coming. 

As the wail of police sirens started to approach, Frank said, “Understandable, ma’am, but I’m not about to walk out in the middle of a job. Until your boss fires me or I quit, you’re stuck with me.”

“Fantastic,” Karen muttered. Despite herself, however, she couldn’t help but think, On the other hand, this could be helpful— but I’m definitely not giving Ellison the satisfaction, let alone Matt and Foggy. I can take care of myself. I’ll just have to put up with this guy until I can get him to quit.

Looking over at the man, she had a feeling it wouldn’t be easy.

[goddamnitkastle]

Two Hearts - Dermot Kennedy

How could our farewell mean as much as our time?

[zushigirl]

I’m ready for some more Kastle vibes!

Check out the winter exchange works if you haven't already, and vote on what kastle content you'd like to see next! Whatever gets the highest vote will be organized sometime in April, maybe May (aside from ao3 exchange)

[elen-tari2]

Down Bad

For @kastleexchange

***My contribution to the Kastle Exchange: Born Again Week. Prompt 3 "Who We Are" is to think of lines and scenes that define the characters and consider how they may be revisited in the upcoming DDBA. This is what happens when my brain decided to throw in a bunch of Taylor Swift lyrics into my fic, predominantly from the song "Down Bad" but other references abound. But don't be off-put if you're not a Swiftie-- hopefully it is tastefully done!***

Teaser:

Sometimes it made her heart clench with loneliness. Other times, it pissed her off. That he had saved her life so many times and then abandoned her. Supposedly for her own safety. Despite the fact that she had never felt more safe than when she was with him.

Today was one of those days. She was pissed off. Not just at Frank, but at herself because she just couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t give him up. That her body still screamed that she needed to be in his presence. She knew what Foggy and Matt would say. Hell, even Dinah, who was probably the closest to being able to read her heart, would think she was nuts.

Karen Page was down bad in love with Frank Castle. She turned up the volume on her playlist and ran faster on the treadmill.

Please enjoy the rest on AO3:

[karenpage]

I might fuck around and start writing fanfic again, specifically kastle 👀👀👀 anyone got any ideas they wanna see, or fun prompts to get the ball rolling?

[pomegranate-belle]

Trick or treat!

Happy Halloween! I present to you a discarded snip from when I was trying to figure out what to write for the "Medieval AU Kastle" prompt in the DD fandom prompt fest:

The cell door explodes off its hinges. With Frank's luck it's some goddamn wizard trying to assassinate him before he can face this fuckin' kangaroo court trial for some guy that looks just like him. But it ain't a wizard. It's Karen Page in fuckin' plate mail. Frank rubs his eyes in case he's lost it, but she's still there. All that long blonde hair flowing like a banner as she rushes into the cell. When the cold metal of her gauntlet closes around his wrist he figures it's not a dream. "You sure make a hell of an entrance," he says, since there ain't much else to say.

Also, gummy worms for Wormsie, heheh

Come trick or treat in my ask box!

[discoverywriter]

20 Questions For Writers

Didn’t actually get tagged on this, but it looked like a fun one. 🤣

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

AO3 says I have 24. Huh.

2. What is your total AO3 word count?

288,626 since I started in 2021, which seemed like a lot to me until I realized 179,551 of those belong to the second thing I ever wrote, a massive 4 part series covering from Rio’s resurrection to their inevitable HEA.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Veronica Mars brought me to AO3. The Punisher (Kastle) made me think for the first time about writing prompts, but it was the Good Girls (Brio) fandom that finally got me to put the proverbial pen to paper.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

1. Even If It Hurts (Part 3 of Walk Through The Fire series)

2. Sanctuary (Part 2 of Walk Through The Fire series)

3. Get Your House In Order (Part 1 of Walk Through The Fire series)

4. By My Side (Part 4 of Walk Through The Fire series)

5. What Would Elizabeth Do?

5. Do you respond to comments?

Yes! I try to, at least. Sorry if I’ve missed any, sometimes I lose track of the notification emails.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Ooh, definitely Enemy of My Enemy. Hardest fic for me to finish. Not fluffy. No HEA. Rio is aaaaaangry.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Hmm… there’s a lot to choose from cause I looooove a soft, fluffy Brio. If you can slog through the 4 part series, it covers the most ground, ending years after the show. It’s loosely based on canon to start, but veers off.

8. Do you get hate on your fics?

Hmm… Not really. Luckily just one I can think of. A vague accusation that all my ideas were suspiciously like a lot of other ones on AO3… except those other writers did it way better. 🤷🏻‍♀️ I blocked them and figured if anything, it meant I’d finally “made it”. 😂

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I try to. I aim for the kind I think people will enjoy reading, but I often alternate between worrying it’s either a little too cheesy, or over the top.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I don’t, but I would never say never. There are some I would *love* for other people to write, though. Karen Page (Punisher) and Steve Rogers (Captain America)… Intrepid reporter interviews national hero after the Battle of New York. Neither are looking for anything, but sparks fly. Anyone? Anyone??? 🤣

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I don’t think so?

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

No, but wouldn’t it be awesome if AO3 had a button that would do that automatically?

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Again, no. I won’t say it would never happen, but I’m a bit of a lone wolf writer. Strict deadlines, etc are tough for me, so I think I’d find a co-writing situation very stressful.

14. What’s your all time favourite ship?

It has to be Brio. 🥰

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

This is a tough one. I don’t tend to release fics until they’re finished, so I don’t have any orphaned stories out there crying out for a happy ending. I do have a dozen or so ideas that are in various stages of completion. Some are almost done(ish), so I suspect the ones that are less likely to get finished are the ones that are literally a sentence fragment… barely a complete idea. I mean, they’re great random scattered thoughts, but… Yeah.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I’ve been told my Brio characterizations are good.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Hmmm… Dialogue and smut. My descriptions aren’t bad, but my writing style isn’t as “flowy” as I’d sometimes like.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I’m not bilingual, so if I include another language in a fic I tend to keep it fairly short and straightforward to lessen the chance of getting it wrong.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Good Girls. First and only.

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

I don’t mind rereading (most of) my own stuff. I have a special soft spot for ones where Brio interacts with the kids, like Smarter Than Your Average Gang Friend (Rio gets shown up by the Jane), and In Sickness (Jane’s sick and Rio shows Beth an uncharacteristic kindness).

Not tagging anyone in particular. Please, jump in!

[kastlenetwork]

hello kastle fam! for everyone who's come back to the tag (or are in the tag for the first time, welcome 💕), please feel free to join us for the next kastle week!

this next event will run from monday, september 2nd through friday, september 6th!

every medium of work is welcome. you can write fic. you can make edits, gifs, art. playlists curating the vibes of the frank and karen in the prompts, are great, as well! there's no pressure to create something for every day of the week -- feel free to pick and choose what you want to participate in 💕

monday, sept. 2 | we meet again | the day of yearning frank and karen reunions. whether that be months, years, or anything below or in-between.

tuesday, sept. 3 | rom com aus | the day of fluff some actual summer fun for these two dramatic, angsty losers. (coffee shop aus, college aus, beach aus, ect.) picture bright and colorful cartoon book covers lol.

wednesday, sept. 4 | through new eyes | the day of observations outsider, 3rd party perspectives of frank and karen's relationship. no matter where it stands.

thursday, sept. 5 | forced proximity | the day of honesty frank and karen being brought together in various situations where they can't just walk away and are forced to confront their feelings.

friday, sept. 6 | plot? what plot? | the day of desire frank and karen smut day. we know this fandom, let's be for real lol

okie dokie! i hope that anyone who wants to join up can do so! and that something up there inspires you in some way 😊

💕, chey / @kastlenetwork

[starkholme]

Frank Castle lost his family long before Day One, so the loneliness stayed even after the apocalypse happened.

Living in his farm upstate New York, he realized quite a few tried to get near the farm. The ones who came close, messed up on their own and got caught by the creatures, but other than him, no living thing was inside the fences.

Although his mind often wanders about the people he loves, David might had made it and he hopes Sarah and the kids did it too, Curtis' location was unknown — he doesn't even know if his best friend was alive —, Frank is conscious that he's in fact alone.

As the days go by, he can't grasp reality the way others did before the creatures came. Living in the constant silence he had learned how to be with his own thoughts, how live with his demons, how to silence all of them.

Until she appeared.

Alone, with her head bleading, a knife in one hand, an old radio in the other one and a single note pressed in front of her t-shirt:

"I know how to end them"

Suddenly, all of his silence is overcome by the presence of a fierce woman named Karen Page.

In other words, Kastle in "A Quiet Place" scenario

[qqueenofhades]

I know you haven’t written for Kastle in a long time but something with 18 and/or 39 pls?

The wet grass crunches and squeaks under Karen's shoes as she crosses the lawn, slick enough that she's almost tempted to grab at the nearby tombstones for balance. She doesn't; it feels vaguely disrespectful, even if the occupants are dead and long past caring. The night is cold enough to see her breath, dew beading and freezing on the branches of the old oak trees, and if she had any sense, she'd be at home, tucked up warmly with the window shut and the heating cranked. But when it comes to this -- when it comes to him -- well. She has proved that she very much fucking does not.

"Frank?" Her voice comes out as a hissing whisper, taut with anger and fear. "Goddamn it, Frank! Are you here?"

No answer, no sound, except the distant rumble of traffic from the Long Island Expressway and the hooting of an owl on the branch above. It's almost midnight, the moon is full, and it peers then and odd from the thick scrim of clouds, casting ghostly shadows over the well-manicured cemetery greens. It sends a portentous chill down Karen's back, but she can't be sure if that's from the setting or just the usual thing that comes of dealing with Frank Castle: the awareness of prompt and inevitable impending doom. Fuck, this is stupid. He's either gone, or wreaking havoc elsewhere, or possibly just dead in a ditch, which seems convenient for already being in a cemetery. She's almost about to raise her voice, to call and summon God knows what, when she sees a dark silhouette slumped against the wall of an old mausoleum, some prominent Gilded Age New York family. Something that is, however tenuously, alive and not dead. Then, wet grass or not, she runs.

"Frank!" Jesus, Jesus, Jesus Christ it is indeed him, and he looks even worse than usual. His black hoodie is stained with drying blood, his nose looks broken (again), and he's holding a torn-up piece of rag to his eye in a futile attempt to nurse down the swelling there. Fortunately, Karen has come prepared for this eventuality, and she throws herself to her knees, digging in her backpack for the first-aid kit. "Asshole," she hisses at him, hands already moving to tear open a sterile wipe and find some clean gauze. "Asshole!"

Frank grunts, not bothering to deny it. One corner of his mouth twists in a very wry smile. "Good to see you too, Karen."

"Shut up." Karen reaches out by reflex, running her hands up and down Frank's torso to check for especially serious wounds. Nothing's gushing blood, so he's probably not dying, but she's long lost her ability to tell in regard to him. "I really am going to kill you."

"Uh-huh." She hears him grunt a laugh against her ear, the warmth of his breath shockingly intimate in the chilly evening. "Sure you are."

Karen is tempted to smack him or something, just to make a point, but he does look bad, and while she gives him a withering glare, she restrains from further remonstrance. When she's sort-of patched up the worst, decides she really doesn't want to know what the fuck he's been doing (Frank stuff, as usual), she digs in the backpack, pulls out a thermos, and pours him a cup of black coffee. "I'm not going to do this again," she warns him. "I'm not your paramedic, or your nurse, or even your girlfriend."

"Noted." Frank sips at the coffee, winces when it stings his broken lip. There's a long pause. Then he adds, "Thanks for this, yeah?"

"Yeah." Karen sits back on her heels, wondering (as ever) what on earth she's going to do with this giant idiot. The moon comes out again, casting his face in rugged shadows, and she clenches her fists to avoid doing something stupid. "You're the worst, Frank."

He huffs something that might be a laugh, but doesn't want to commit too hard for fear of jostling a broken rib. She pauses, then settles next to him in the lee of the mausoleum, close enough to brush their shoulders. Almost wishes she'd brought a blanket, like they're two teenagers sneaking away to the cemetery at midnight to make out and doubtless fall victim to some lurid urban legend. But Frank is more than terrifying enough to chase away the Hook-Handed Man or whatever boogeyman is lurking around Long Island at midnight, and for a moment, she half lets herself relax. They sit there together, staring out at the neat rows of the dead. Then she says softly, "You scared the shit out of me."

Frank grunts again, this one in the tenor of an apology. She's very good at reading his wordless noises, the shift of his body against hers, the soft moments and unspoken meanings, and yet again, she debates whether to let that be enough for her, to pretend it is, even if it isn't. He passes her the thermos cup, their hands brush, and Karen can feel herself teetering on the verge of something she's very much going to regret. But that, unfortunately, isn't enough to stop her. She turns toward him, sees the silhouette of his face in the moonlight, his mouth opening in a question, and just fucking does it. Grabs the front of his filthy sweatshirt in both hands, crowds him roughly back against the stone, and kisses him like a fist to the face.

Frank jerks, makes a strangled sound, and briefly she thinks he'll wrench free like a sea serpent and sprint for the hills (or whatever passes as such in the New York suburbs) and never be seen again. But then he grunts, gasps, mutters, "Fuck, Karen," and doesn't manage, regardless of any feeble efforts to the contrary, to pull away. Instead he swings her around and presses her against the mausoleum, the two of them the only living things here and kissing, breathing, moving raggedly, clutching at each other, his callused soldier's fingers roughing and tangling in her hair, and she makes short jerking gulps like she's drowning and can't get enough air, enough of him. It goes on for five, ten, twenty seconds -- it might as well be forever, it feels that way. Then with an agonizing struggle -- she's not above noticing that and enjoying the pain it's clearly causing him to pull apart from her, as much as it does for her with him -- Frank breaks away. "Not now," he says hoarsely. "I just -- please, Karen. Okay?"

It's clearly meant to convince himself as much as her, and she manages a stiff little nod. Not now at least implies a someday, though she still likes to think that she's done wasting her time by hoping for him to come around. The coffee has spilled in the crush of their embrace, steaming gently where it soaks into the chilly earth, and she imagines the sleeping dead tasting a sip. She looks at her hands, since she can't look at Frank's face. Maybe it will never end. Maybe it will never let her be free. Maybe there will only ever be him.

"All right." Her voice sounds thin, artificial. "Fine. See you around, I guess, Frank. Whenever you turn up half-dead again."

"Karen -- " He reaches for her halfway, drops his hand. "I am -- for this -- tonight. Thanks. Thanks. You take care of yourself, okay?"

You too. Asshole.

"Sure." Karen stoops, picks up the fallen thermos cup, puts it back into her bag. "See you around, Frank."

She doesn't look back. She doesn't let herself.

[onebatch2batch]

@sarma requested kastle with: “Casual smooches! It dawns on Karen at some point that Frank touches her as much as he can get away with and she didn't even realize, because it felt so right” and this kind of got away from me. thank you for the prompt 😊

— [ao3 link]

Foggy is looking at her like she’s got a second head and for a moment, she’s tempted to check for another neck sprouting from her shoulders. They’d been sitting here celebrating the end of exams, huddled up at a corner table at Josie’s like normal. They’d all been laughing until Frank got up to get another round and when Karen turned back to Foggy, he’d been staring at her like this. Like she shape-shifted right in front of him. Karen lowers her beer glass back to the table and blinks at him.

“What?”

“Are you kidding me?” he asks, bewildered. It feels rhetorical, but at this point they’ve been drinking for going on four hours and she figures she should check.

“What’s wrong?”

“Karen Gretchen Page—“

“That,” she says in a burst of laughter, surprise momentarily overtaking her confusion, “is not my middle name.”

Foggy barrels on without stopping, waving a hand like the words are a personal offense. He leans forward to stare her down. His eyes are wild and glassy, but even close to drunk Foggy is alert and observant. “Frank just kissed you.”

He’s so convinced of this that she wonders if he really did and she blacked out through it. Because no way would she forgot that if she was ever actually conscious. And then she realizes—

“Foggy, he kissed my cheek.”

Her friend stares at her, mouth agape. “I cannot belie—….Karen. He sat there with his arm around your chair for last hour, and then kissed you on the way back to the bar.”

“On the cheek!” Karen argues for a second time. It’s not unusual—even when Frank is completely sober he’s pretty tactile. He’s usually within reaching distance, or even touching her somehow, and she him. That’s how they’ve always been even in the beginning of their friendship, back in freshman year. It’s nothing to freak out over, and she tells Foggy as such with a roll of her eyes.

Frank appears with another round of drinks and sets them down with a small grin. He’s just as tipsy as the rest of them and why not? They’ve made it through their final semester of college. They’re a month from walking the stage to graduation. They’re celebrating.

“So you’re not bothered,” Foggy says pointedly, staring at her. She stares back, trying to figure out what he’s getting at. Why should she be bothered by something like a kiss on the cheek? Between friends? Strictly platonic friends? Strictly platonic friends who sometimes kiss…and cuddle during movies and…hold hands and…

“Bothered by what?” Frank’s head swivels like he’s looking for whatever annoyance is ruining her night, like he’ll toss a punch the moment she points out this unknown offender.

Karen’s got a half cocked realization forming in her alcohol soaked brain, but Foggy only raises his brows and gestures with his beer as if to say, you tell it, then. She looks to Frank, to the adorably concerned expression on his face. “He thinks I’m bothered by you kissing me.”

His face instantly screws up in surprise. “Oh.” He looks between them uneasily, then turns both shoulders towards her, giving them a modicum of privacy from the crowded bar and Foggy’s watchful gaze. In his semi-drunk state he sways further into her space than normal—or is she just noticing now because of what Foggy said? “…are you? Uh, bothered?”

Her eyes widen. “No, Frank—“

“Prove it,” Foggy interrupts, leaning forward once again. There’s a devious twist to his smile. She suddenly realizes they have stepped into a trap that was set long before she even realized the possibility of one. “Frank, kiss her again. If you’re both so unbothered. Just on the cheek.”

Karen looks at Frank, and he looks back. They both laugh in tandem—a stuttered, nervous chuckle, and then he shrugs. He leans forward and presses his lips to her cheekbone, like he’s done countless times before, but this time it feels different. Drawn out, almost. Lingering. He stays there for several heartbeats, until warmth rises on her face. Karen stares past his ear, past his wayward curls, and meets his eyes when he finally pulls away from her. Without looking, she knows his arm is across the back of her chair just like her foot is balanced on the bottom ring of his. Just like they are inexplicably always drawn together, circling orbits.

“Yeah, you look unbothered,” Foggy says dryly.

She would retort back, something witty and sarcastic, but before she can do much but blink Frank is back in her space, hands cupping her jaw lightly, and he’s kissing her.

Actually kissing her.

On the mouth kissing her.

Not a cheek kiss, not a peck, but kissing kissing her.

And while Foggy’s matchmaking methods leave a lot to be desired, Karen decides his bar tab is going to miraculously disappear. Because apparently she had been bothered by the amount of time spent touching Frank, in whatever capacity they found themselves, and it hadn’t been until Foggy’s stupidly smug dare that she realized she was bothered by it after all.

And it seems, so was Frank.

Yeah, she’s going to have to eat that bar tab. But, she thinks as Foggy raises their glass to them from the corner of her eye, the price isn’t that steep. Not even a little.

And she would pay it again. Any time, over and over, as long as she ended up right back here: in the palms of Frank’s hands with his lips on hers and his breath filling her lungs.

[garglyswoof]

:D Ahhh, prompt prompt prompt - how about a mash up, vampires meet kastle?? :D

She found out about it purely by chance. Some part of her had been thinking of life in Vermont that day, the skies in New York the same sheet metal grey as the dreariest of days in Fagan Corners. Her thoughts drifted enough for her to battle with her phone in a losing effort that ended with her searching the surprisingly online tiny local paper. She’d trawled through the articles, smiling at the news of 4H Club awards and greased pig races. There was a comfort in these reminders of her small town history, and when she hit the obituaries section she continued out of morbid curiosity. Was old Mrs. Wilkie still alive? Stern in her housecoat, fuzzy slippers, and ever-present broom like some modern-aged witch? How about the bank president who had tried to buy coke from her? Sure, it was a college town, but it was also a small town and most people didn’t ever get out. She had certainly felt trapped. 

“Former Penny’s Place owner Paxton Page…” The words crept into her brain slowly, as if reluctant to enter. She dropped her phone, her hand rising to stifle the sharp intake of breath.

Dad.

Things willfully ignored; things pushed back, hidden, and thought drowned rose to the surface, crested, and broke. She slid down to the floor, her hand shaking and still cupped over her mouth as if to hold it all in.

--------------

The drive was a long one and she went alone with her thoughts. She knew Foggy would have dropped everything to come along, and part of her still wished she’d asked, but…. this was better. She’d face this alone rather than explaining, though she owed Foggy the truth soon. She just wasn’t…she wanted a little more time, ok? From Kevin to Allied to almost dying in a prison to Fisk to now, Karen hadn’t had much good in her life, and Foggy and Matt, when he was tempered by apologies and guilt, were good.

Sometimes your heart makes judgments that aren’t logical, fueled by something just on the edge of your vision, just out of reach. In hindsight it’s why she latched on to them so quickly, something in her recognizing something in them. Enough to have her paying Matt’s bills when he’d vanished for months, enough to have her jumping right in as a strangely happy unpaid employee of Murdock and Nelson. Her heart panged at the memory of those first days, replete with casseroles and more flan than she could possibly eat in a week. Stretching the dollars to keep them afloat, the sound of Matt’s text to speech software and Foggy’s muffled curses whenever he tried to fill out forms on the ancient typewriter and failed miserably.

A flash of brake lights ahead jolted her out of her reverie and into the present, barrelling down the highway directly to a place she’d been forced to leave behind. Dad.

One hand gripped the wheel tighter, to prevent the shake, and the other hit the console in frustrated grief. Her phone jostled in its cubby from the motion and she wet her lips as she glanced at the screen, a picture of her and Foggy at Rosie’s, making bunny ears over what they’d thought was Matt’s oblivious face. Heh.  She still loved it. If anything it made her realize that Matt had loved it too.

Damn it. “Call Foggy”

“Mmpf? Karen?” His voice sounded far away, muffled.

“Did i wake you?”

“Yes but it’s ok because apparently,” she heard the sheets rustle, “ I am lying in a puddle of my own drool and it’s clearly time to flip.”

Karen smiled, her cheeks stinging with the stretch of it. “Late night at Rosie’s?”

“I’ll have you know I also frequent high class establishments.”  A pause. “But then I went to Rosie’s. We missed you there.” His voice was losing the grittiness of sleep and she could tell he must be upright now, imagined his hair stuck up in 10 different directions like it did after a face first desk nap.

“Yeah I uh, I went to bed early. I’m driving to Vermont.”

“What’s in Vermont?” Karen could hear the subtle eagerness in his voice and her heart panged with it. She really hadn’t told them much about her life, and she vowed to change it.

“Grew up there. Needed to take care of some family stuff.” She’d failed her first chance to open up, clearly, and tried to make it less obvious. “Dumb paperwork!” Even though she was driving she closed her eyes for a brief moment from the awkwardness of it.

Foggy was quiet for a moment, his voice soft when he spoke. “Well be safe, Karen. You back soon?”

“Yeah.” Her throat was closing up and she had to end the call soon. “Just, let’s hang out when I get back? Sunday maybe?”

“Of course.” Still soft, still accepting. Still more than she deserved.

----------------------------------------------

The town was bright with spring green as her old Cherokee rumbled onto Main Street. She passed the hardware store, sun-faded display from her childhood still advertising weedkiller, the old barrel she’d always tried to climb on top of anchoring the door open. Many shops were closed, and she saw that most of them had town curfew signs plastered in the windows. When had that started up, she wondered.

She wasn’t immune to nostalgia, obviously, or she’d never… her heart clenched with the reality of what she was here for, and she turned on Sycamore, right on Laurel, her blinker clacking loudly. There were a lot of church signs up, not something she remembered from last time she was here. Not…not signs saying “St Luke’s Lutheran Church” either, these were like that weird stretch of road Marcie had talked about on I-70 outside Kansas, where every other billboard was Hellfire and Brimstone. 

THE DEVIL WILL TAKE YOU

FAGAN CORNERS IS DAMNED

She thought it strange, but when she crested the hill the diner was a shock piled on top of another. The sign was bright and clean, Sue’s Vittles, and she felt the rage rise up in her, an urge to tear it down, before she came to her senses. It wouldn’t just… have sat there forever. The town had to move on. She wondered when her dad had lost it, and how far in debt he’d taken Penny's Place. She wondered if she could have saved it.

She knew she could have, if he’d let her.

The return home tour continued on, her eyes rimmed with red now, wet with tears both shed and not. She had never felt so alone in her life. She drove three miles in the wrong direction to avoid the bridge and tried to think of what she was doing here even as she pulled into the town cemetery. She knew he’d be buried next to mom, and pulled a small bouquet of peonies out of the passenger seat as the engine settled, ticking. 

There was a new stone next to her moms, and she knelt, tracing the letters with her fingers. Paxton Page. She remembered her and Kevin making fun, popping the syllables, “Paxton and Penny Page” before they’d dissolve into giggles. Everything she thought of made her heart ache.

She sat there for hours, talking to her mom, saying what she couldn’t say to her dad. That she’d thought herself beyond redemption until Father Lantom had gotten through to her, that she still did, sometimes. She told her mom about Foggy and Matt, and then she told her about Frank. God, she’d needed this. She knew her mom would understand, more than anyone, about seeing through to the heart of people. She wondered where Frank was, wished she knew, wished she had some way of contacting him. Despite their last meeting and her anger towards him, she would never let go, not really. 

“Sometimes, just someone makes you feel safe, at least when you’re with them. And then when you’re not… I don’t know.” She shifted, sitting back on her haunches and idly rubbing a peony petal between her fingers.  

“Me and Frank. Wrong place, wrong time, maybe that’s what it will always be for us.” She said, staring at her mother’s name, carved in stone.

The gravestone stared back, mute, as the light dimmed and she ached with the silence. Evening fell quick in this neck of the woods, without the conflagration of light that made up the city. She shivered in the fall of the spring evening, her throat aching with tears spent but feeling better in the spending of them.

She leaned over the gravestones one last time, peonies settled at the base, and said goodbye.

Gathering her things she startled at the sound of a footfall, the first time she’d heard any noise since she’d settled in. It was hard to see in the fading light, but the man standing at the hood of her car looked like no one she knew, though she waved anyway, small town and all. He didn’t wave back and she shrugged and rounded the back of her car, warily eyeing him as she slipped behind the wheel, the curfew signs flashing in her mind.

Was there some sort of crime ring? Her brain ticked as she started her engine and the man stepped away from the Jeep, a dark slick of a smile caught in the headlights. Karen felt a frisson of fear and pulled away back onto the gravel, eyes in the rearview as she turned down the lanes that led to -

A closed gate, though she remembered from illicit midnights with friends that it was like a fence gate, unbolted and something she could lift and swing out. Karen reached into her purse and felt the comforting weight of her gun slip into her palm. The man wasn’t in her rearview mirror, but it was too dark to tell where he was. She put the Jeep in park and left it running, sliding quickly out of the seat and lifting the gate latch, spinning around and slipping her other hand up to grip the gun two-handed. It was no use, the darkness was complete, no lights to break up the dim beyond the Jeep's headlights, and she rounded the vehicle, shoulders tense, her mind racing, her -

A hand across her mouth, an arm across her chest, pulling her arms down and pointing the gun at the ground. She screamed behind the clamped hand, stamped her foot where she thought the man’s instep would be, snaked a hand up and smashed her elbow backward, hearing a satisfying grunt as the blow landed. She spun away from the arm banded across her middle, trying to transfer the gun to her now free hand, but he was too fast. Her wrist wrenched back, pain shooting up it, the gun falling to the gravel below. 

She could see him now, his hair dark, unkempt, his face attractive if it weren’t for the gleam of satisfaction in his gaze, if not for the - oh god oh god she’d known they were real Matt and Foggy had made fun of her but she’d known it and oh god she fought she kept fighting she had to escape, her arms thrashing, trying to duck and use his weight against him, but nothing shook that iron bar of an arm loose from her chest and the smile descended and with it those fangs, sharp and oh god she closed her eyes she let them slip closed because maybe this was redemption, this was closure, maybe this was…

----------------------------------------

ONE MONTH LATER

The city reeked of hot dogs. Hot dogs approaching rancid as the last of the summer sun baked the scent of an overturned delivery truck’s escapees into the street. Frank’s nose wrinkled with the stench as he ducked into an alleyway. The smell of piss here wasn’t much better, but Frank wasn’t here to avoid smells, knocking hard on an unmarked door. He waited, knocked again, heard an irritated voice shout back at him, accent thick even through the door.

“Don’t expect a delivery til -”

Frank lodged his foot in before the man could pull the door closed, stepping in and locking the man in a headlock with an athlete’s grace. 

“Get the fuck off -”

“Shut the fuck up.” Frank squeezed tighter, feeling the trachea beneath his arm. 

The man floundered feebly, choked gasps ragged as he lost the air to function. Frank maneuvered him into an office close to the door, pulling out some duct tape and lashing him to the chair, gagging him for good measure. 

The warehouse would be empty this late in the day - Frank had been monitoring it for weeks. Still, he let the captive’s head loll as Frank pushed out of the office and scanned the warehouse, moving low to the ground in a room clearing pattern ingrained into his bones. Clear. He checked the warehouse door, ensuring it was locked, and placed a nearby bucket of loose hardware on the lip of the door’s bottom edge, advance warning should someone decide to open it.

He circled back through the warehouse, eyes still darting about, up to the loft, behind the stacked crates, his footsteps less than a whisper on the concrete as he circled back to the office, unfolding a chair and straddling it, arms propped on the headrest, waiting for the man to awaken.

He did with a start, his eyes bulging and curses muffled behind the tape. 

“I’m just here for a few questions Aron,” Frank said, watching as the man’s eyes widened at the use of his name. “Word on the street is that your little Albanian enterprise here is bigger than Rudaj ever was,” Frank said. “Something about a secret weapon, huh?”

Aron’s eyes narrowed. You didn’t live long if you weren’t able to face a little questioning, and something in Frank’s demeanor told him that Aron held all the cards here. Frank needed to flip the program. 

He looked up, spotted the beam he’d seen in blueprints, and rummaged through his bag for some rope, tossing it over the beam before knotting one end through a set of shelves and forming a noose in the other. He slipped it around Aron's neck, patting the man on the cheek with a smile, before hoisting the man up to his feet, looping the slack in the shelves.

He removed the tape at his mouth then, deftly avoiding the spit and rolling his eyes at Aaron’s Balkan curses. “So what can you tell me?”

Silence, and once again a discomfiting smile spread across Aron’s face. Frank hated when they were difficult. He pulled the rope, reknotted it. Aron's back was rigid now, spine stretched as far as it could to lessen the pressure, breath harsh in the closed space of the office.

“If you don’t already know,” Aron smiled despite his struggle to breathe, “There’s no harm in telling you. You’ll be dead within a matter of hours.”

“Yeh? Good to know.” 

“Even if you are the Punisher.” A ragged breath. “Yes your reputation precedes you. It also means nothing.”

Aron’s idle threats were wearing thin. “Okay.” A tug at the rope. 

“Superhumans.” Aron rattled out. “Stronger than you. Faster than you.” His eyes glittered. “They’ll drain you dry.” He coughed, and Frank caught what it was trying to cover. A shift in the eyes to a point over his shoulder. Frank ducked and rolled and heard the swish of air above his head, shot back with an elbow and caught air himself. A faint footfall, a flap of fabric, where the fuck was this guy?

Fast. Too fast. Impossibly fast, Frank thought as he was thrown out of the room, his head cracking on the wall outside. He shook it off even as he was moving, realizing he needed to put distance between him and the threat. He vaulted into the main warehouse, analyzing the terrain, potential weapons. Superhuman. Drain me dry, huh? He knew he had only seconds, ducked behind a crate and backed against a wall where pallets stood leaning. A flash of movement and Frank heard laughter as the heel of a hand smashed against his ribs. Broken, he had a moment to consider while the other hand closed around his throat.. Pain and rage clouded his vision and he knew he had one chance, one chance or it was all over. 

In hindsight he’d probably wonder if it was worth the choice, but for now survival instincts kicked in and he cracked a plank off the pallet behind him and brought it up with all of his strength, trying not to breathe in to avoid the pain dulling the blow. His assailant’s grip on his throat proved his downfall, removing the advantage of speed. The plank hit its mark, the adrenaline and training allow the jagged edges to pierce through skin and muscle, through ribs. A high-pitched keening, terrible in its inhuman sound, issued from the assailant’s throat, and Frank watched features swim in and out of view. Pale skin, a jagged scar cutting across a pair of thinned lips. A mouth split in pain, and there, there - he couldn’t be sure but he also knew it couldn’t be anything else - incisors long and sharp. 

The hand tightened on his throat briefly, muscles trying to continue past the ceasing of life, and the vampire in front of him dropped to the floor, wheedling noise still issuing from its throat, fading now with the dying of light in his eyes. The eyes, Frank thought, were the worst. Sclera shot through with red, but so human. Equal in death, the light gone. He fought his failing consciousness, he needed to get out of here before more showed up. He knew that face. Knew him from the papers, when he was human. The Albanians leg up on gang activities needed no more explanation than this, he thought as every inhale felt like ground glass in his bruised throat, his chest.

He stumbled back towards the office, lurched through the doorway to the shocked face of the mobster who still stood, throat noosed. Frank tugged at the rope anchored to the shelving and looped it a few more times with the rest of his strength, ignoring Aron’s choked breaths and gasps.

--------------------

Lana almost killed him when he returned. The pit bull / boxer mix hadn’t yet learned to not jump up, and her paws on his chest earned a pained grunt.

“Fuck. Down, Lana. I need you to be a good girl, please.” She tilted her head at him, boxer jowls flopping. He couldn’t help smiling through his pain. Pushing past her into the small kitchen, he grabbed a steak out of the freezer and some aspirin and eased himself down on the couch, steak pressed against his ribs. 

This was as close to home as he’d had in a long while, this warehouse unit in Queens. Secure enough with Micro’s help - he still couldn’t call him David. David was for the married guy, with kids, that Frank shouldn’t be bothering. The separation helped. His chest panged again, but not from pain this time, as he thought of those he’d lost in his unceasing war. Curtis had let him go. David wanted nothing to do with him. Karen -

Karen had disappeared off the face of the earth a month ago and it was driving him crazy. If he knew where she was, if he just knew, then she was safe. He pulled his phone out of his pocket with a grimace as Lana’s tail thwacked against the couch cushions, her brows alternating as she looked up at Frank, face nestled in her paws.

He found her last byline - a little over a month ago - a report on the growing presence of Eastern European crime families, actually. It…didn’t seem enough of a report for her to be targeted but who knows what she had gotten into. He knew her, she was persistent beyond what was safe. Karen wouldn’t let go. 

If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t want her to, despite his claims otherwise. 

So where was she? He slid a palm down his face, frustrated.

He checked his sources, found nothing. Reaching over his shoulder with difficulty - you forget that the simplest of actions is immeasurably harder when you’ve got a broken rib - he flipped on the police scanner. He and Lana listened for news of vampires, caught no mentions, nothing unexplained. The warehouse he’d invaded was off the radar, so he had some time before that would be circling around the airwaves, at least police ones. The steak was partially thawed now, so he tossed it in the dog bowl where Lana inhaled it as if it were her only meal in weeks.

Where was she?

-----

TWO WEEKS LATER

The Albanians were still expanding their empire, despite the setback at the warehouse. Frank wondered how many vampires there were. It clearly wasn’t an epidemic, which he’d feared initially but understood now - hard to keep power when you’re just spreading the source of that power around. Frank was on the streets, ribs starting to heal but deep breaths still causing sharp twists. He knew he needed more time. He also knew he didn’t have it. 

He had to find her, and so he was here in Hell’s Kitchen, eyeing the neon Rosie’s sign as he approached, it flickered Ro ie' tonight, the esses flickering in and out. He didn’t want Red catching him out here, instead hoping his friend would be the first to leave. It was a flip of the coin whether Murdock would find a way to turn him in, that high-and-mighty morality of his a ticking time bomb, Frank thought. 

His eyes shifted from the flickering sign as a voice called out. 

“Spare some change?”

That voice...he'd know it anywhere. “You’re alive, oh god I thought -”

Karen laughed, blanket wrapped over her telltale locks, ball cap pulled low over her brow. “Nice to see you too, Frank.” She reached out a hand, as if to take change from him, and pressed a folded paper into his grip. He held on a beat too long, her grip cold in his own, taking in the details of her face, what he could anyway. He ducked down to catch her eyes and her own darted away. 

“Not now, ok?”

He nodded and walked away, waiting until he was back in the warehouse to open the paper. The smile spread unbidden across his face.

Grand Ferry Park. You know where. 1 hour.

She sure had a sense of drama, he thought, thinking of a time long past, jokes of hipsters and her hair a bright flag in the breeze off the water. He thought of the softness of her cheek, and when he took a deep breath this time he didn’t even notice the pain.

-----------------

Lana was losing her mind, and not in a good way. He’d brought her with him, knowing Karen loved dogs, but she was having none of this meeting. This sweetheart of a dog had her hackles raised, growl low and deep as Karen put up her hands and squeezed her eyes shut, as if pained.

“What is wrong with you, girl?” He knelt down beside Lana, hand tight at her collar and glancing up apologetically at Karen. “Sorry, she’s the calmest dog usually, I thought you might like to see her.”

Karen slowly lowered to the ground, her hand held out. “Do you have a treat I can give her? Maybe that will help.”

“Yeh, sure.” He tossed her a packet from his bag and she opened it, shaking out some near where she knelt. Lana licked her chops but still growled low in her throat, if a bit more of a confused growl.

“Here, what’s her name?” A glance up at Frank as he responded. He noticed her hand shaking. “Lana, sweet girl. Got a treat for you!”

Frank encouraged Lana when she looked up at him, her expression almost hilariously human and clearly saying “you trust this lady??” The dog edged forward, tentative, and snatched the treat from the ground where Karen had placed it, backing up but calming her growl. 

“Well, progress at least.” 

Her smile was just as he’d remembered. 

“Where have you been, Karen?”

A flash in her eyes. “Didn’t know you kept tabs on me, Frank. You seemed pretty clear about me staying away.”

It hit him like a blow he deserved, and he fought for a response and lost. There was nothing he could say, he knew that, but he still wanted to try. It came to him in as he saw her eyes damp and hard, but still not hiding the hope behind them.

“I’ll always want you to be safe, Karen.”

She scoffed at that and stood up. “It’s a bit late for that.” 

“What, what is it, what happened to you? Do I need to punch Red’s light’s out?”

Karen laughed at this, bitter and so unlike her it closed his throat. He did this.

“Just…stop, Frank. I need you to listen.” A barge horn sounded in the distance as if to punctuate her words and her brows eased, just a little, at the humor of it. “I’m…” She stepped closer, Lana alert at the motion, and cupped his face in a hand. “I know the Albanians are after you. The vampire you killed was one of their sires from the old country. I don’t even - Only you, Frank. Older vampires are so strong, you had a one in a million chance.” She shook her head at this, as if still disbelieving.

“How do you know?” he asked, leaning into her touch, cold yet still a comfort. He searched her eyes, gripped Lana’s collar a little tighter.

“I know, because I’m one of them.” 

He tore away from her, the motion and the tension in him sending Lana into a fit of barking, her muzzle flecked with spittle. He couldn’t - he heard that high-pitched keen in his head, tried to reconcile it with the expression on Karen’s face. He pulled his Beretta out, trained it on Karen’s anguished face, looked around for bystanders. He backed away towards the railing bracketing the East River. If he needed to he’d escape in the water. But Lana…

He’d let down his guard, bringing her here. Letting himself dream and hope and wish and here was Karen and goddamn she looked beautiful, her eyes bright and hair streaming in the wind off the river and he could not reconcile the pieces.

His voice was a shadow of itself when it rasped from his mouth. “Explain, Karen. Tell me you’re not a monster. Tell me -” he stopped, unable to say more. 

He saw her eyes close and the resoluteness stiffen her spine. Hope bloomed in his chest. She…she was still her. Her stubbornness, her implacable will.

“I’m not a monster, in the same way you aren’t.”

He worked his jaw, thinking, eyes casting about, settling on anything but her now. Her words were ones he’d normally deny in his heart, but it seemed the stakes had shifted, and his gut reactions fell flat in the face of the fact that Karen Page was here, and she was a vampire.

“Guess that’s why Lana’s losing her mind,” he said finally.

Karen laughed at that and goddamn if it still didn’t make his heart flip with the sound. What was wrong with him. 

“Look I -” she started, uncertain. “I was bitten a month ago in Vermont.” She noticed his quizzical expression. “My Dad, he…I saw his obituary in the paper, so I drove up there. The town was riddled with vamps, some offshoot of the Albanians taking root in Fagan Corners of all places. They’ve locked it down since, but lucky for me!” She lifted her hands, her tone mocking. “Not my favorite trip ever. One star.” She joked, and cast her eyes down when it fell flat.

“Came back and have been feeding off criminals. Not like they're hard to find in this town. Frank -” She caught his gaze in her own. “I wanted to see you, wanted to see you and…I don't think anything can stop them, not anything human." She stopped, searched his eyes.

He wasn’t sure if she found what she was looking for but somehow knew what her next words would be all the same. Still, he let the pause linger. It was a moment, one to let go in. If there was anyone he trusted, it was her, goddamn, and maybe...maybe it was finally time to show that.

She inhaled then, and he idly wondered if that was force of habit or if vampires needed oxygen. He breathed a breath of his own, rib aching with the effort, and drew closer, sliding his hand into the silk of her hair, fingers sifting through it. He looked at her then, full on, not letting his gaze wander, not letting himself look away. He nodded then, an answer to the questions in her eyes, and bared his neck to her.

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