“the writer and her broken muse”

they say you are dangerous.

well, that’s what i have been told.

it’s what the world has been told upon your resurfacing.

they wrote your name in big black letters on their headlines

smeared your reputation in that very same ink,

and i will tell you this: the world is scared.

they are fearful of the way your calloused hands hold weapons.

they do not like that you release the mangled screams from your war torn carcass,

that you do what they are fearful of, so simply, so easily.

they want it to stop, they want to silence you:

but not me.

i see the purples of your bruises are painted on your face

as though your artist was careless. he did not want to spend time on you.

he cast you out for the world to see in your ugliest form

and you cry. you are emotional and you are vulnerable.

the world is still scared of you, scared to cross the transparent border that keeps them from you

they do not want to face the repercussions for what they did to you.

they do not want to face the hellfire you will unleash upon them.

they know exactly how they broke you, how they seeped into your mind and destroyed you.

because it is their fault, it is.

they are scared because they know what they did.

but not me.

you are honest with me.

near enough to friends; we sit and we talk.

it seems a while since you had someone to do that with;

i am happy it is me.

what made you let me into your warzone?

i don’t belong there, and you make that apparent;

but you do not tell me to leave, either.

i am inside of the turmoil of your mind,

right in the centre, placed there with a pillow to sleep on.

amidst all of the battle cries, i can drift to sleep.

their winds are calm when i tread light enough

and despite their adamant claims, you keep me safe.

i am almost unsure of how– but you do an incredible job.

maybe that is all you are trying to do; save yourself.

they all think that you are a monster,

with claws drenched in blood and an anger inside of you hard to tame,

but i cannot see these canvases the world pins you to, to your name:

they are not visible to me. not to me.

they did not get to know you the way i did.

if they had bothered, they would see: you are not that person at all.

their fears are greatly misplaced, they need not feel threatened at all.

because you are not the villain they made you.

what is to fear about healing?

and i will tell you this: i will set their fear on fire.

make them feel the way their words burned onto your skin, make it sink deep.

when they get close, they will not know what hits.

i will write the truth and i will bury them so deeply into their graves,

with my knives carved so sharply from the wit on my tongue,

and the veracity poured straight from your mouth.

they do not know what is going to hit once my words are on their paper.

they will know that this will be the last time they break you.

they will not make you apologise for healing, you cried aloud. for help, for love.

i hope i can be that for you. that i can give you the love you deserve.

maybe you can be that for me, too.

He sat on her living room floor with her, the one source of light being her open window, drinking wine that he would, on any other day, deem too sweet for his taste, but it was good tonight.

And they were, of course, arguing.

Not seriously, without any heat or resentment, just… Out of habit, maybe.

He had been explaining what had happened after the hotel bombing, she was, for some reason, saying that he needed to stop throwing himself in front of bullets, as if she didn’t know that he would take every last bullet in the world if it meant they would not reach her.

“Bullets don’t even hurt that much anymore”, he joked, setting his wine glass down on the floor, leaning back against the wall. “It’s the bomb shrapnels that sting the most”.

She made a face that was half worried, half amused, and shook her head, looking at him that way that made time stand still, stretched seconds into hours, made him feel something he barely recognized anymore.

With eyes full of tears that startled him, she scooted closet and got a hold of his right wrist, lifting his sleeve, forcing it up, exposing his forearm, bunching the fabric past his elbow, up up until she saw it, the angry patch of badly healed skin, the scar that the piece of metal had left behind, the stitches from David a statement of efficiency, not technique.

He watched as she ran the tip of her fingers over it, big eyes focused on the scar that deep, open wound had left behind.

Frank lifted his left hand to turn her face away from it at the same time she bent towards it.

The feel of her lips over the rough skin was the most pleasant of shocks.

Suddenly, he felt his strength leaving him, as if evaporating at that simple, intimate touch, leaving him vulnerable and pliant, defenseless.

Willing.

She moved her lips from one end of the mark to the other, as if trying to kiss it away, and he almost believed the skin would be unblemished when she lifted her face from his arm.

A tear ran down her cheek and he reached up to wipe it away, moving forward towards her, and then there they were again, so close, alone, silence surrounding them. His forehead against hers and tears caught in her throat.

But, now, they had time.

He touched her face and caught that tear on his thumb. She moved and he moved along with her, searching, surrendering, at once, closing his eyes, feeling her hands on his face and her lips on his temple.

Another scar, the bullet that had not been meant for her, but she didn’t know that yet.

One kiss, two, three, and a sniffle.

“Stop saving my life” whispered in his ear, and he smiled, weaving his hand into her hair, guiding her face back to his, her own hand losing its grip on his head and sliding down, around his neck, draping on his shoulder.

“No”, and the salt of tears on his lips, the beating of his heart pulsing, echoing in the dark apartment, in his mind, his soul, the weight of her over him, a breath.

He swipes at her name with his thumb, an odd gesture he can’t even begin to assign purpose to, and reads. She’s gotten better, become more comfortable with her voice and not pulling punches in her writing. Telling the story like it is. He can hear her saying the words printed across the page, her inflections, her emphasis, her passion.

At least she’s not baiting someone in this article. His eyes flick away at the thought, landing on a police scanner that lies dormant beneath a coating of dust. He’d promised Curtis, and he’s trying to stick to keeping a low profile, but it relies on one Karen Page not being a reckless daredevil in her reporting.

And with her fire, with her goddamn spirit, he thinks, he’s not sure how long that’s gonna last.

The weeks go by and the pile of clippings grows. He fools himself by sticking them like bookmarks into novels that remain unread. The corner bodega would know him by name if he didn’t always buy his paper in a different place every week. It passes the time, he thinks, as he tries to build this new life for himself outside the shadow of vengeance, of unending grief. So it’s another night, another set of pushups, another moment with his arm curled behind his head as his eyes track across the page. It’s something different for her, a byline in the Lifestyle section: Flowers and the Modern New Yorker, it reads, and his brows furrow as he resigns himself to read on.

Almost everyone’s heard of the old adage - red roses for love, yellow for friendship, but in the latest of New York’s sometimes inexplicable trends, it’s not just the rose that’s being used to convey thoughts and feelings. Flowers are flying off the shelf for their meanings, causing the florists of New York to quickly bone up on the subject that dates back to the Victorian Era.

Jan Hooks, owner of Late Bloomers in Chelsea Market, says that…

Frank can’t help but think of the flowers he’d given her what seems like forever ago. What were they? What meaning had he unintentionally given? Hell, what meaning would he give now? Pfft…it’s bullshit, but there’s something in him that eats up the article all the same.

Maybe it’s because he’s unsettled, off-kilter, not remotely surefooted. He thinks of his hazy memories, dulled by pain and blood loss, of her reaching for him across an elevator that had seemed a chasm. He remembers the look in her eyes, part plea, part wish, part confusion.

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t get her feelings, though he’s not blind to them. How did she…why…what did she see in him? It had been so long since he had thought of anything but killing those responsible, carrying out his mission, commanding officer: himself.

The light outside flickers off, the sound of a car horn filtering up through his open window, and he sits up, back against the plaster wall.

Because he knows that’s a lie. You can’t live in a vaccuum, not entirely. She’d seeped in through his cracks. He folds the article in his hand, in a rough semblance of the paper it was taken from, swats his palm once, twice, as he thinks.

Maria.

He figures it out then. That she is the thought in his mind when he considers Karen is the most telling thing of all. His gut twists with guilt. He taps the paper a few more times, the sound hollow against his hand.

Karen.

God what is this what is this fucking insanity how could he even consider?

He’s out of the bed and out on the street before he can think about it.

It’s 2 am in the city that never sleeps but it’s apparently missed the memo, the streets almost hushed as his boots hit the pavement, steam rising from the earlier summer shower. He pulls a baseball cap low over his eyes that flick to the corner, spotting the traffic cameras, then flick back to the road ahead, the sidewalk, the alleyway. Habit, from when it meant life or death, and frankly it still does.

He passes the Papaya Dog, the jewelry store that’s a front to some kind of money laundering if he were to bet on it, the nail salon on the corner. The traffic picks up and he hunches his shoulders, because smaller is less memorable, and he’s too big a guy to not have to fake it. A few blocks of this and he’s there, her apartment at the end of the block, wreathed in shadow from a broken set of streetlamps - what was it with the lights in this town?

The suddenness of thought hits him, what he managed to escape on the way here. He has no idea what he’s doing here. What is he, gonna knock on her door at 2 am? Break through that shitty lock he keeps meaning to badger the super into replacing on the front entrance? Goddamn, he’s never felt more impulsive and stupid in his life. He’s poised to turn, on the balls of his feet, grace belying his frame, when he sees it.

Flowers, in her window. He wishes he’s studied the article harder, wishes he could make out the blooms, realizes he doesn’t need to. Because he knows, in the same way he knows why he’s here, why he’s come. He closes his eyes and breathes deep, pulls out his phone. Sends a text. And waits.

Multichapter 

Between the Sinners and the Saints by angel_deux 

Make Up Your Mind by badboyaccountant 

Better Natures by etirabys * 

Fire Meet Gasoline by xenowhore * 

Heaven Sent the Saints Down (Hell Sent Them Up) by Ambrosia

Insomnia by Queen_haQ * + 

The Fall by ghoulsngunz * + 

Surfacing by spellitwithyourpeas

Series 

such good bad ideas by seren_ccd 

Oneshot

Tough Girl is What I Had to Be by angel_deux 

to arm your fears like soldiers and slay them by viansian 

hangmans knot and three mouths to feed by alchemystique

found love deep in the sea by idekman 

After Visiting Hours by irishcookie 

Her by slashy

Fist Fighting a Sandstorm by tabula_rasa * 

somehow we’re never quite prepared by MegLynn

Don’t Say You Will by Moonknife * 

New Year’s Day by misszeldasayre 

the christmas party by freedomatsea * 

this is all i ever was by idekman 

Three to Five by homesick blues and StellarRequiem 

my girl is tall with hard long eyes by idekman 

better by freedomatsea * 

Perihelion by evil bunny wolf 

walk together with our hands up in the sky by alchemystique 

yarrow by pluton 

elevator by thefudge 

over and out, she said by half_wolf 

My Own Works 

Multichapter

Renascent * + 

Series

it exists, it’s real, it’s possible, it’s yours 

Oneshot

carry me home tonight 

what is sweet and what is terrible

That same evening, Frank goes to his friend’s Curtis' bar situated around the block from his parlor. The two have met while on tour and have stayed close over the year. Curtis is the one good person that is constant in Frank’s life and they’ve been through everything together. He knows right as he enters and Curtis looks up at him with a smirk, that he’s not going to be able to just sit and listen as he usually does.

“Did you have a nice day? A nice lunch?” Curtis asks as he sits at the bar. Franks looks up at him, keeping a neutral face. Given his tone, he’s pretty sure that Curtis isn’t being just polite but if his friend wants to play it casual and innocent, he can too. “Are you not going to answer?” Frank sighs “Yeah, it was nice.” “Anything special happened?” “Just spill it out, Curt,” laughs Frank, “You’re no good at this.”

His friends shrugs, handing him a beer “Fair enough, although to be said it’s because you’re not giving me much practice.” He ignores Frank’s raised eyebrow as he goes on “I saw you with a nice looking blonde lady at lunch. In the dinner across the street Care to elaborate on who she is?” Frank points at him with his beer as he goes to fetch a glass for a client “You’re too curious for your own good, Curt” Curtis comes back to stand in front of him “So? Who is she?” Frank shrugs “Just the florist from across the street, the one who opened about a little more than a month ago. She’s doing a decorative project with every business in the street and wanted to talk about it with me, for the parlor.” “Yeah? That’s nice. Did she take all the other shop owners out for lunch?” asks Curtis with a smirk. Frank glares at him. “Don’t be stupid, she's nice.”

Curtis leans on the counter with a frown, “So what does that mean Frank? Why would her being nice means nothing could happen? Don't you deserve someone who is nice?” Frank shakes his head “Come on Curtis, it's not that. It’s just...it’s not like that. Don't you have customers you should attend to or something to do anywhere else?” “What you gonna do? Throw me out of my own bar?” Frank laughs, “Eh, I might try.” “Yeah, yeah, ok I see...Listen, I’ll drop the subject. Just...Sometimes it's good to let things happen. Don't be a wallowing asshole, Frank.” the man says as he cleans a glass. “How many times a day do you say that, Curt? Five? Ten? Don't you get tired of it ?” His friend points at the door, grinning. “I'm thinking of renaming my bar like that actually. What do you think?” “Get outta here”, he laughs. “You can’t tell me to just get out of my own bar, Frank.” “Watch me.”

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

The next day, Karen decides to take a break as the shop is quiet and she suspects that, with the rain pouring down, not many people are going to come buy flowers at lunch time anyway. She crosses the street after hesitating for a while to go visit Frank or not. She decide that their conversations have been friendly enough so far and that there’s nothing forbidding her to go see him.

To her surprise, it’s not him she finds as comes in the parlor. Instead of the tall dark-haired man, a young man stands at the desk. Quickly getting over her surprise, she asks for Frank and the guy tells her that he is out and won’t be back before a few hours. She goes back to her shop wondering who the guy is and thinking that maybe it's for the best if she doesn't see Frank again on a third day after basically forcing him to have lunch with her yesterday. He's probably busy and has other things to do than chat with her about flowers or any other subject.

It doesn’t seem to be the case as he comes by a few hours later wondering if something's wrong and apologizing for not being there when she came in earlier. She waves his apologies off. “There’s nothing to be sorry about Frank. Don’t worry. I was just wondering if the young man I met was your assistant? I didn’t know you had someone working with you.” “Oh yeah, he’s my apprentice, he’s nice. He’s a kid that Curtis worked with in his veteran group and he seemed pretty into what I was doing so I thought I’d give him a chance. He only started last week.” “That’s really good what you’re doing. Giving him an opportunity like that,” declares Karen. Frank shrugs, “Yeah well, you gotta help your own, you know?”. She smiles, nodding.

“But he didn’t tell me what you came for so I was worried it might have been important.”adds Frank. She reassures him with a smile “I was just wondering if...we could have a chat over lunch, but now it’s obviously too late.” He shifts on his feet. “Oh yeah, you probably have questions left about the project?” “Yeah, a bit,” she shrugs – none really, but it didn't stop them from chatting yesterday so they can use that as an excuse as many times as they want as far as she's concerned. “Ah, I’m really sorry I missed you coming at the parlor, I was just out picking up stuffs and...I apologize.” “Stop apologizing, Frank,” she laughs,” It’s okay, really.” He nods, seemingly relieved, and steps up to the counter where she’s working on a package.

“Have you started working on the arrangements yet? For the shop?” She signals for him to pass her the scissors next to his hand on the counter “No, not yet, I’m working on the ones I first went to see. The lingerie one and the bakery.” He hands her the scissors and aks, “Can I see? “ “The arrangement?” He nods at her question. “Are you sure? It's just drawings and samples right now, it's not really interesting.” explains Karen. “Nonsense, it's your work. I just... I just wonder how you do it you know? How you come up with ideas and all that,” he shrugs. “Oh well, if you want, sure! Come in.”

She stands up and walks to her workshop in the back, “I don't think it's much different from how you work, in concept, except that instead of drawing flowers, I use them.” “Yeah,”he mutters, “I bet you don't have anyone asking you for a bouquet in the shape of a pin up fish riding a tricyle”. She stops in her tracks and turns to face him “What?” He laughs at her reaction. “Wait, someone really asked you for a tattoo of that?” He nods, “Oh yeah they had even done the drawing and everything...” “How was it?” she asks biting her lips with a smile and he shakes his head. “Christ, it was awful.” “I'm guessing you said no.” “Course I said no! I'm a respectable tattoo artist, I don't do fish fetishism.” She can’t stop laughing as she pictures the scene and he joins her in her workshop.

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

Over the following weeks, they get a habit of visiting the other at least once a day, or more, for a coffee. He sometimes bring her a cup if he hasn’t seen her leave her shop in a while, knowing that she doesn’t have a coffee machine. She jokes that he is fueling her addiction to coffee and the next day, he brings her a cup of tea - “I bought a kettle for tea. I can’t drink that warm water, I need something stronger but I figured this would be nice for you to drink sometimes, it’s supposed to be relaxing or something like that. Well, that’s what the lady at the shop says, I don’t drink that shit”-. She laughs and thanks him, touched by the fact that he bought something for her, and included something permanent in his business for her.

[He first thought about buying the kettle and giving it to her, but he selfishly wanted a reason to keep on visiting her.]

Now, he alternates between coffee and tea when he brings her a cup and she has to guess which one it is. Sometimes, she comes into his shop when she doesn’t have customers and they chat for awhile. She looks over at his new designs and he makes sure to tell her some of the ridiculous requests he gets. They go on a few lunch breaks together which means that Frank keeps on being teased by Curtis as they always go to the dinner in front of his bar.

Frank has taken the habit of staying for a while everytime he brings her a cup and if he doesn’t have an appointment, especially at the end of the day. At first, he would leave as soon as the cup was in her hands but she asked him to stay for awhile and so he did. And she asked the second time and he stayed again. She doesn’t have to ask now. This leads to regular quick, or not so quick, chats in her workshop while she works on her orders and flower arrangements.

He just stands there looking at her while she is working, observing her hands and her ability to combine colours and flowers, play with length and size, textures and smells...She can feel his gaze on her and it doesn’t feel awkward or insistent or like a pressure. Well, it is a pressure but a good one, that makes her skin tingles and her inside warm. He asks questions about flowers and designs and the orders she’s receiving but most of the time they just chat about their clients, the movies or books they’ve seen or read. He isn’t allowed to see the design she’s coming up with for his shop and he has a feeling that she’s taking longer for him than for the other - which is definitely true because she wants ait until she’s almost done with the others to truly start and she wants it to be perfect and also a small part of her feels reassured by the fact that if she isn’t done with it yet then it means they have a reason to stay in touch (although it’s been at least two weeks since they’ve dropped the pretense of chatting about her project everytime they meet).

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

One morning, after coming in very early to finish an order that had just been picked up, Karen leaves her shop to visit Frank. She is used to seeing him across the street every morning when she opens up but she missed him by coming in so early and wants to see how he is, to keep up with their routine. As she closes her door, she notices that the curtains aren’t raised on the main window of the parlor which is odd. Arriving at the door, she finds a sign explaining that the parlor is going to be closed for two days. No reason is given. She goes to leave, disappointed that Frank hasn’t warned her but mostly worried, hoping that nothing bad has happened to him.

As she is about to cross the street, a voice calls her name and, turning around, she recognizes the owner of the bar from the other side of the block. He’s introducing himself as Curtis and explaining that Frank is inside. They saw her outside, he says, and Frank is asking for her. She hurries in the parlor wondering what’s happening if Frank isn’t coming out himself and is struck by what she finds inside.

Frank is sitting on one of the chair with bruises on his face and what looks a lot like a bandage around his chest. She brings a hand to her mouth with a sharp breath. Before she cans say anything, he looks up and she notices a deep cut on his collarbone that seriously looks like it needs stitches.

As soon as he sees the look on her face he goes to stand up, “Do you need anything?” She scoffs, “Do I need anything? Don’t be ridiculous Frank, you’re hurt. Badly.” He stands up fully, “If you need anything I can…” She shuts him up,“I don’t need anything, I just wanted to see you.” “Oh”, he seems startled by that and she notices how Curtis, now standing next to Frank after making him sit down, looks away from them to search for something in his first aid kit.

She takes a few steps closer to stand by him “Jesus, Frank, what happened?” “I, ouch, I got into a fight yesterday with a few guys trying to attack a girl when I was coming back from the boxing club.” “You should have come to me right away instead of waiting for the morning,” sighs Curtis. “The girl called the cops, I had to make a deposition and it was late when I came home. I just wanted to sleep Curt. I took painkillers and put on bandages. I was fine.” Curt sighs looking at the cut on his shoulder, “Fine, he says...This is going to need a few stitches.” “You do what you gotta do, Curt.” “Yeah, yeah I know the song” says his friends as he pulls the thread and needle from the box.

“So what happened exactly?” asks Karen Frank clenches his jaw as Curtis forms the first stitch on his collarbone, “I just saw two guys pulling this girl into an alley and heard her scream, I ran and when I arrived they were pushing her against the wall so I attacked them.” He says it almost nonchalantly as if it was part of his daily routine and as if he wasn’t being stitched up without anesthesia right at the same time. “Attacked them?” “Yeah. They did tried to fight back and one of them had a knife. I got distracted because they had a dog and I didn't want him to get hurt, so the guy got me but I still broke one this fucker’s arm and probably a few of his ribs and the other one just went straight up unconscious after a punch.” “...Jesus, how hard do you punch Frank?” He shrugs, receiving a light punch on the stomach from Curtis to make him stay still, “Hard enough.”

And as weird as the situation is, Karen can’t help but laugh a little. Her laughter is nervous and shaky and apparently Frank can feel that. He looks up at her, who’s now looking over him biting her lips, “Hey, I’m fine. It’s not too bad.” “You’re getting stitches and your ribs are bandaged and your face is covered in bruises. I don’t call that fine, Frank. I call that hurt and beaten up.” He grunts, “I’ve had worse, I’ll get over it. I heal fast.” She takes a step closer and crosses her arms “It’s not a reason!” He frowns “So what? I was supposed to just stay there and do nothing uh? Just walk past them and let her attack her? Would that have been better, uh?” “Frank, don’t be like that,”says Curtis. “Of course not!”, exclaims Karen “Of course you shouldn’t have just walked past it! I’m glad you stopped them and that they got arrested. But...but when you get hurt you need to take care of yourself. If that happens again, you go straight to see Curtis, okay?” He opens his mouth to speak but before he has the chance to say a word, she repeats “Straight to Curtis.” He nods, “Okay.”

“And”, she takes another step further, “If he’s not there, you come to me.” He nods again. “Okay?” she insists. “Okay”, he replies. “Okay”, she repeats softly Curtis looks up at her with a look between bewildered, as if he can’t quite believe that she just gave an order to Frank Castle, and that he said yes, and appreciative.

She lets out a breath and, resisting the urge to run her hand through Frank’s hair, she asks if someone wants coffee. Both Frank and Curtis nod and she hurries to Frank’s office to prepare it. She likes his office, she thinks, as she enters the room. It’s different from the rest of the shop, a bit darker without the big windows at the back and the front of the shop, it’s almost bare and yet it feels very Frank. There is a picture of his family on his desk, a few papers and doodles next to the computer.