Rogue and the Punisher.

Karen/Rogue/Whoever you ship Frank with:  What age should our daughter start dating?

Frank: Thirty-six. (Still reading his Robert Frost poetry book)

K/R/W: Frank, be reasonable.

Frank: Twenty-six, then.

Rogue was nervous to say those three little words. I love you. They represented more than just love, they were opening her up to being vulnerable, of potential loss.  What if he doesn’t love me? What if he does, but is too scared to admit it? What if he ridicules me? Or worse, ignores me?  All those thoughts and more poured through her.

She stared at her feet, while Frank moved around the Spartan makeshift apartment.  He had saved her from the mafia and she’d been too frightened to go anywhere else but with him.  With a scowl, he had let her come home with him, when he considered that she might be a target elsewhere.

He sat down in a chair with a grace that belied his size.  She considered him handsome, with his piercing eyes and strong, masculine features. His jet black hair, kept short by both necessity and not wanting to fuck with it, had a single strand of silver.  She thought that he’d go completely gray by sixty.

"Anything wrong, Rogue?  You’re antsy, like you want to tell me something.  Have a sin you want to confess?” He peered up from attending to his gun and almost smiled at her.  He’d grown fond, truthfully, more than fond of her since she came to stay.  She made herself useful, she learned to shoot and defend herself, and made sure the apartment was tidy and that he had fresh food.  Rogue hated eating those MRE’s and refused to permit him to eat them when she was around. He shouldn’t have let himself feel for the woman, Frank knew that, but Rogue was a breath of life and light.   

"Ah’m afraid if Ah tell you, you won’t believe me.” Rogue said as she closed her eyes.  Frank was not an easy man, but he was loyal and he listened.  He always listened, even when she didn’t think he was, much to her gratitude and, on occasion, annoyance.

He placed his M1911 back in the thigh holster and regarded her with his intense eyes. Eyes that had seen much and could read people like a book.  Eyes that held a wealth of world weariness and wrath, when provoked. Rogue loved those cold blue eyes, the intelligence behind them and the sorrow that she saw when he believed she wasn’t looking.

“Ah love you, Frank.”  Rogue said, nervous and dreading the inevitable ‘get-the-hell-outta-here.’

He did not utter those words, but he scooted closer to her.  “You shouldn’t, Rogue.  I don’t deserve it." His gloved hand tipped her head up to meet his gaze.

“Ah love you.” She repeated, her eyes full of fear of rejection and her heart beat wildly. “Ah can’t help it.”

He sighed.  He was a very patient man, one had to be to make it through sniper school, and introspective.  He always was a man who liked to think.  He loved Rogue--he was drawn to her warmth and personable charm--but did not want to hurt her any more than life already had.   /I could tell her the truth or I could lie and break her heart.  It’d save her life./

Finally managed to get my stories in proper order on AO3.  

Karen Page knew she shouldn’t be here, as she surveyed the wreckage of the Castle family home.  The fire had died out, now all she could see was ash and a few exposed and charred beams of what had supported such a beautiful house. She rather thought of them as bones. The sky above matched the grey of the ash, and Karen felt her heart grow heavy.  The day seemed drained of color, even the yellow caution taped seemed muted to a dull butter hue.

Why did he do this?  Did he destroy the house to escape the memories of his wife and children? Or was it an attempt to destroy himself?  Karen thought perhaps it was a combination of both.   He’s said good-bye to the hope of a better life and devoted himself to a self-destructive path.   Karen cared very much for him, not in a romantic way, but she felt a connection to Frank. That connection burned brightly in her, as much as she might curse and deny it.  He said he was dead, but he’s not.  And he’s not to me, either. There, I’ve admitted it.

She got out of the car that her friend had given her and walked over to the house.  No official was there; she waited until they had left. Dressed in jeans, t-shirt and sneakers, she slid past the tape to root around in the remains.  Karen wanted to find what was left of the Castles, before some idiot got a moronic idea to go looting for valuables.  She wanted to keep any precious memento she found safe and close to her heart, even if she were unable to do the same thing for her friend Frank.

Friend.  Is that what I’m calling him now?  She supposed she was.  Frank was a puzzle, a labyrinth to her, full of undefinable mysteries and hard to pin down. He’s a monster, but a human one.  

She uncovered a few photos of the children and Maria, carefully dusting as much as of the ash off before tucking them in her purse.  The weight of all the happiness that had been here crashed down on her.  So much love.  So much life. All gone, so needlessly.  She didn’t notice the tears streak down her face, which washed away some of the finely textured debris from her skin.

After not finding much other than the photos and a toy or two, she decided to search one more place before calling it a day.  A bookshelf, mostly consumed by the blaze, lay face first. She marveled that it even survived falling through the second floor, let alone the fire.   She recognized it as belonging to Lisa.  It seemed like an eternity slogging through the ash and wreckage before she reached it.  With a grunt, she turned the bookshelf over.

Somehow, somehow, a lone book survived.  One Batch, Two Batch.  She remembered it from the first unauthorized visit.  It was kissed by flame, but intact.  She trembled and picked it up and ran her finger along the binder then the cover.  It survived, Frank. Your daughter’s favorite book survived.

She opened the book and read it all. The words were simple and plain, but she smiled and thought that a part of Lisa still existed.  An integral part of Frank’s humanity still existed.  Her fingers, long and elegant, went through the whole book this time.  I’d just skimmed it when I was here, when the house was whole, when their ghosts fluttered through the house like moonbeams.

Karen frowned as she came upon a slip of paper that had been folded and stuck behind the last paper. She treated it as if it were made of the most delicate tissue paper.  She unfolded it and saw that Lisa made a “Welcome Home Daddy” picture, the crude figures crafted with love and care were slightly smudged, but they smiled anyway.  The child’s hopeful optimism and love for her father shown through and it brought Karen to her knees.

If she had been aware of Lisa begging her father to read that book to her, the despair would have coursed through her, like a shot of too potent liquor.  

She furiously wiped away evidence of weeping, smearing ash into her pale skin.  I’ll have to take a shower.  I need to get going.  Karen thought she saw a woman’s head peek out from behind a curtain.  A curious neighbor.  Yeah, I better get my ass in gear. I must get in that article by five. She quickly put away the picture and book, smuggling away the remnants of a family.