#win for me as now I have more Matt/foggy fics to read without first having to search for it

[greaseonmymouth]

went through my marked for later list on ao3 to whittle it down as it’s been 5 years since I last just cleared the history knowing I would never get around to reading all 19 pages anyway, but I didn’t want to do that this time because I have just added a bunch of fics to it and anyway I had 14 pages and now I have 8 and I’m not sure that made any difference actually

[garglyswoof]

A slice of life kastle fic (read: nothing happens in this ok) for Luce’s birthday @lclrgsl​ because she is my favorite potato, and damn it, it’s still her birthday in my time zone so I call it a win. (IT’S NOW ON MY CALENDAR FOREVER YOU CAN NEVER ESCAPE BUT LOOK HOW FAST I WROTE FOR YOU IT’S A MIRACLE)

It’s Curtis that gives her a heads up first. He leaves a message, gives a time and a place, and adds that Frank most definitely isn't aware of this call. She smiles at this, because it’s good to hear that someone has his back - it makes her feel a little less alone knowing that he isn't.

She dresses carefully, rolls her eyes at herself in the mirror even as she tries another top, and settles for a work outfit she’s always gotten compliments on. She can pass it off as running straight from the office, she thinks, smoothing her hands over her hips, the pencil skirt settling into place.

Karen isn't sure why she feels like she's on a first date. Her and Frank...aren't like that, could never be that. It's what she tells herself whenever she thinks about him and the shadow of his family looms. They're the impetus, the reason, and to find an attraction and draw so close to him for the same exact reasons she can never act on it is a cruel joke.

Maybe it's that they've never known each other outside the violence. What do you talk about when you know what lies beneath? She runs through a few scenarios in her mind and everything sounds stupid. He likes dogs. She has a new penchant for dive bars she blames on Matt and Foggy. Ugh. It all sounds so normal, it doesn’t fit.

But even if nothing seems right in her head, she can’t wait to see him, and her heels click faster than usual on the sidewalk as she nears the old school Curtis said for her to meet them at.

A few vets, marked by their military-issue jackets pulled tight against the autumn chill, are leaving when she walks in. One holds the door for her and she gives a nod of thanks, climbing the stairs to wait outside the room, where she hears a voice - Curtis - ask for Frank to hang back a bit. Her hands fidget as the meeting continues to let out, a chorus of gruff goodbyes and ‘ooras.

When the voices die down to two, she walks into the room as softly as she can, but her heels ring on the linoleum and he looks up in alarm.

He rises with a start, the chair screeching on the old flooring. His glance at Curtis is accusatory, and Karen takes a step back, weight poised to leave.

“I can-" she doesn't finish the sentence, just nods at the doorway. This was a bad idea.

“No, no,” Frank’s voice is apologetic. He scrubs a hand over his face, through the hair he’s let grow out again. “Shit, Karen. I just,” he trails off, glances at Curtis again who lifts one brow in challenge.

Frank looks at her pleadingly, holding up a finger to ask for a minute and she nods, stepping just outside the doorway. She hears footsteps and Frank's rough voice, first in an unintelligible whisper, the tail of it becoming audible as his voice raises.

“...You better watch your spare legs, man. Gonna steal em all and replace them with pink ones. Rainbows on em. See what the boys think about that.”

Curtis’ response makes her smile, and she can almost see his nonchalant shrug. “Bring it, ladies love a man in touch with his feminine side.”

She's getting over the shock of Frank’s laugh when he appears in front of her, his eyes sweeping across her, studying the exits, coming back to rest on her face. “Saw your article last week,” he says, starting down the stairs and motioning for her to follow. “I liked it. It was a topic that won't get you shot,” he says, and she smiles. Her latest exposé on grocery store butcher counters had certainly been safe.

“That was the most boring article I've written yet. But thanks.”

He glances as her as he hits the push bar on the school doors, evening splaying its last rays of light across the entranceway.

“Coffee?” he asks and, at her nod grins and places his hand in the small of her back, an unconscious steering as they walk down the stairs, her heels clicking on the cement.

It’s weird. To walk with him instead of run. To have her heart beating at normal speed instead of almost tearing out of her chest. To feel safe not just because she's with him, but because the situation is. She wonders if he feels the same, looks up to find his eyes searching hers. Maybe he does.

She tamps down her nervousness as they enter the diner, the formica tables so similar to the ones in that diner not so long ago that it's hard not to react. His hand brushes low on her back again, perhaps because he feels it too, and she takes comfort in the gesture before sliding across from him in a booth.

“Your face looks much better this time,” she says, because she's never been one to dance around the issue.

He cocks a half grin at her, reaches for a ketchup-stained menu held up by a set of salt and pepper shakers. “Yeh. Suppose it does.” His eyes cloud for a moment and dart away, and she ducks her head down to try to meet his eyes again, trying to pull him back. He sees her and lets out a quick breath, eyes locked on her own. “Got no idea what I'm doing, Karen.”

The words echo between them as the waitress comes, pouring coffee at Frank’s nod and murmuring an ‘Ok, sweetie, you just tell me if you need anything’ at Karen’s head shake.

“None of us do,” Karen finally says.

“Not everyone's done what I've done.”

“And you just let your past own you?”

“No, that's not it. I mean,” Frank drums his fingers against his mug, “it’s more...who the hell am I? Who am I to sit here and talk to you in this diner in this city? I know I'm a weapon. Kill the bad guys. Wipe the slate clean. Got that shit down. So I go put on a suit and tie now? Pretend like that shit isn’t there?” He looks away, eyes trained on something outside the window that she can't really see.

It's more words in a row than she's ever heard from him and she's not sure how to respond. She reaches over and grabs his cup, takes a sip and makes a face at the bitterness. “Do you regret the things you've done?” She can tell he expected kindness instead of this directness, his eye twitches as he steals the cup back and watches her over the rim, biding for time.

“No.”

“Do you want to do it again?”

He gives a small huff of breath, mouth twisted in a sneer, and he turns it on her instead of answering the question. “What's your story, then? I know you've danced with the devil, it's in your face every time you look at me. Is that what this is? Some kinda rehab project, save Frank Castle.”

She knows he's baiting her but it still hurts, her voice clipped and angry in response. “if you want to push me away you'll have to try harder, Frank.”

He sniffs, cocks his head and squints his eyes to look at her close. “Yeah. Guess I do.”

Silence stretches out between them and she motions to the waitress, orders a cup of coffee and a B.L.T. He’ll have to be the one to leave. She listens to the low hum of the refrigerated pastry case, the bray of a laugh two tables down. Frank’s looking out the window again.

“I don't have answers for you,” she begins, his head snapping to attention as if he was waiting for her to break the silence, “I struggle with who I've...killed both directly and indirectly. But I do know that I don't condemn you, never could. I do know that I should,” she says with a smile, gives a small laugh. “But you've never been anything but honest about who you are, what you do. It’s a code I can't really disagree with. So,” she pauses as the waitress sets a plate in front of her, plays with one of the toothpicks spearing the bread. “So I'm left thinking that there's a truth in what you do, that it's something that I have to back up against rules instead of morality to even start thinking it's wrong.” Frank is unusually still. She's used to his little tics, the head dipping down, the eyes flicking over their surroundings, the slide of his tongue across his lips after a sip of joe. But he’s so focused on her it’s almost unnerving, and it makes her next words come out awkwardly, all in a rush.

“But the real truth is, when you were out there, when I wanted you to stop, it was never about those people. I was worried for you.” She drops the toothpick, reaches for her cup, but Frank’s hand grabs her wrist, turns her hand palm side up. They both stare at their hands, Frank's thumb swiping across her pulse point once before letting go, and when she looks up his face is unreadable and his gaze darts out the window again where the bright yellow of a passing cab reflects off the glass. It's like he was put on pause while she spoke, and now he’s back to life, all uncoiled energy.

“Karen-,” and oh god she hears it in his voice, the apology, so she stops him before the words can hurt her, a finger to his lips.

“Don’t.”

His lips part and they're soft on her fingers. His expression shifts to regret.

“Not that either,” she says and smiles, pulling her hand back. He shakes his head, grin stretched across his face, and her heart aches at the sweetness of it.

“Much better,” she says and picks up her sandwich, taking a comically large bite just to see that smile stay. This is how they start, she thinks, because they too need a new one.

An hour later and Karen scrapes the plate clean of cherry pie filling, to Frank’s wordless protest. The bill is paid and the waitress gives her a wink and thanks them in her rough smoker’s voice. The diner is empty now, the hour late on this weekday night, but she hadn't noticed the time, and neither had he. There’s a light rain falling now, the city streets a blur of diffused light, and he walks her home without them discussing, his long-legged gait slow so she can keep up. It would feel like a date except it’s not, but she's also not quite sure what it is.

At her door they pause awkwardly before she pulls him into her arms, her face against his neck, his head slotting over her shoulder, his hand and its slow slide through her hair enough to make her close her eyes. She knows he's not ready. She's not sure if she is either, but there's something spun between them that lies deep and she kisses him where his neck meets his shoulder as if acknowledging things to come. The yellow light from the outdoor bulb halos above them as she turns in his arms, and Frank looks like he wants to say something so she studies his face for a hint of what it could be. The light crackles, an errant moth, and instead of saying anything he tips his forehead to meet hers.

The ghost of a smile plays at both of their lips in unspoken recognition and they stay there for a few moments, breath mingling, close enough for each of them, for now.