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kastle prompt: after the explosion scene, frank takes karen back to his and micro’s hideout. possibly a shower scene (doesn’t have to be sexual) where frank is comforting karen because she took another life while looking out for frank as they were making their escape.
Thank you for this prompt! It’s the last one I managed to write pre-Punisher, haha, and one that I had a lot of fun with. I hope you like bonus!Micro in here, too, and that it is some of what you were looking for me to write.. hope you’ll enjoy!!
Karen Page crumbles on the passenger’s seat of the van and he almost drives them straight into the goddamn lamppost.
In hindsight, he’s not at all sure how he managed to get them from the inner city’s crowdedness to Micro’s more remote location without steering them both straight into a hospital’s care. He’s been looking over at her more than he’s been paying attention to the road. Keeps himself grounded by causing himself pain. Has wrapped his hands so tightly around the steering wheel that he thinks he's going to start bleeding from his palms any damn second now.
She's still breathing. He thinks he has checked her pulse more times than he can count, pressing his fingertips to her neck and wrist alternately as if one of her pulse points is lying to him. He doesn't trust his own judgment. Doesn't trust himself to make the right call, not when it's his shit-out-of-luck timing that got them into this mess in the first place.
He's never been more scared for her in his life and he thinks it shows when he drives the van straight into its garage a little too haphazardly.
“Don't you fucking start with me,” he snarls out at Micro the second he opens the door and stumbles out of the van. He steadies himself haphazardly against it. Wobbles on his feet for a moment. Fucking cut above his ear is a nuisance. He feels just a little bit on the side of queasy about it, somehow, even when he's had worse blows than this by far. “Had to get her safe. Get outta their crosshairs. And no,” he growls, “I was not followed back here.”
Micro fixes him with a look he has come to identify as 'not convinced, please try again later'. The man rakes his hair back tiredly and nods at Karen. “What's the deal with her?”
He doesn't answer immediately. Makes his way over to Karen's side of the van a little unsteadily. The floor blurs and sways before him a moment and he takes a deep, shuddering breath in response to that off-kilter motion. He hates getting hit in the head. Hates getting so fucking disoriented that he can't focus for a moment too long and has the worst happen on his watch as a result. Micro's sharp intake of breath when he coaxes Karen off the passenger’s seat makes his heart clench for a moment. That's on you, his brain thrills, that's all your fucking doing.
Frank Castle looks at Karen Page and wants to die.
“Shit, man, what happened?”
He knows Micro has now spotted the large bloodstains on her shirt. Has spotted the blood that coats her hands and fingernails. He winces as he realises that the red reaches all the way up to her elbows. Her hair is coated in it, matted and tangled with the chaos of his life, and he sees now that his attempt to clean her face properly has been in vain.
Karen Page is drenched in blood and it's all his fault. He doesn't want to tell the other man this, but thinks he may know anyway when the man's piercing gaze lands on him a moment as though searching for something deep within Frank. He huddles in on himself. Does not want to give Micro access. The man knows too much anyway. Makes it his business to know all the things that are best kept hidden and sequestered.
Yet, he can't hate the man. Can't hate him when he makes himself small enough to fit into Karen's space without appearing threatening. Can't hate him anywhere near as much as he hates himself. Micro reaches for her with too-gentle hands that speak of a lifetime of practice with upset children and a handful of a wife. Frank blinks rapidly in turn. Forces the salt water that comes to his eyes back down with a grimace.
“We're going to get you clean, all right?” he hears Micro state, so softly that the words drift in the quiet for a moment before settling down. “Get the blood off you. Then, you're going to get some tea and honey. Herbal stuff. Make you feel right with the world again, okay?”
He wants to tell the man it's not that simple, but Karen's head dips just a fraction and he swears his heart stops beating. It's the first sign of life she's given since he hauled her away from danger. Since he hauled her to her feet, since he took the knife from her, since he put her in harm's way and she reacted on pure instinct.
He's not sure what it says that her instinct is the exact mirror of his own, but he can't meet her unseeing gaze or the wispy breaths she exhales as a sign that she's still alive. He can't look at her. Not when he fears to see himself in her. Fears to find himself wanting.
“Right.” Micro sounds increasingly done with the situation. He hears it in the way the man clips his tone rather than drawing segments of his words out. “When you're done beating yourself up over something you can't change, you can take this woman by the hand and get her feeling like herself again. I'll be making tea.”
“Don't,” he says, before he can help it.
“Don't what?”
“Don't go and do that.” Shit, he's aware it sounds pathetic. Big bad Punisher needing a piece-of-shit hacker to stay with him because he doesn't think he can handle being alone with her again so soon. Can't help it. “You, uh, you made her react. Just now. You gotta just..”
He exhales, long and slow, and finds himself praying for the first time in a long time.
This time, he doesn't shake the man's hand off when it lands on his arm. It's the most physical contact they've had since their small brawl two nights ago. He's shaken off his annoyance at Micro for the most part. Micro seems to still be a live wire of fragmented rage and jumbled feelings, but his fingers on his arm are gentle and feel more understanding than Frank wants them to be.
“No,” Micro says then, and he's reminded of all the reasons why he can't stand the curly-haired hacker when the man does not stop there, “you gotta get your head out of your warzone. She's hurt. She needs your help.” The man shakes his head. “She doesn't need a total stranger like me. You got this, all right? Just.. put her in the shower. Get her clean. Get her dry. Get her a change of clothes.”
“That won't fix shit,” he says, because he should fucking know this. He's lived this.
“No, but it's the decent thing to do.”
Fuck, how he hates the man.
*
By the time they are in the bathroom, he's down to his last damn nerve and huffing out jittery breaths inbetween stealing glances at her. She's become a little more responsive, walking on her own without him having to guide her, but her eyes are still staring into space a little too much and her hands tap out a pace he understands like the trigger of a gun.
He almost tells her she should have brought the .380, but thinks he'd be some kind of asshole for saying it.
“Hey,” he says instead, opting for safety, “I'm just gonna, uh, wash the blood off you. Sink's fine, you don't gotta shower. It'll come off. Always does.”
He knows that's not the problem when she simply blinks at him and extends her bloodied hands in reply. The problem's in that head of hers, but she's somewhere he can't reach. Somewhere just out of his grasp. She's never been this far out of reach before. She's never been this fucking elusive.
He's scared for her.
“You did good back there,” he finally says. Maybe he wants her to react to something. Maybe he wants her to cry, to scream, to beat his ass into submission with half a word and twice the fury he's ever owned. “Ma'am.” He offers her the title with all the force he can put behind it. “You watched my six. Thank you.”
He needs her to know that, too. Needs her to know it mattered. That this death, this blood on her hands, that it means something. Carries weight. Carries weight that's not dragged down with guilt but raised up for forgiveness.
The washcloth brushes her hands and she blares to life with a sharp intake of breath before letting loose a wail he's certain is going to step into his nightmares from here on out. It pierces his skin, punctures his ears, rips at his flesh to hear her crumble in on herself. Her eyes are fixed on nothing and her hands tear nothing apart between them. Her breath comes out in shudders and screams and she muffles half of them behind her hands as though they're the dam that can stop her from bursting apart at the seams.
He drops to his knees before her, lays a hand on her knee, and waits for the inevitable. Waits for her to break.
“Why does nobody ever listen to me?” laments Micro's voice suddenly, behind him, and he snarls a “get out!” at the man before he can think twice about it.
Micro never fucking listens, either, but Frank's not stupid enough to point that out when the hacker draws himself up to his full height and stalks into the bathroom with all the take-charge aplomb of a man on a mission. “Help me get her up, man. She needs to be in the shower. Under the water. Cold, preferably.” Micro's voice drops several octaves when he gives orders, matter-of-fact and cutthroat intelligent all at once, and for one terrifying moment Frank knows exactly how deeply the man's involvement in the NSA may truly have been. Reassesses that thought entirely at the man's next words. “Sarah did it to me once when I was freaking out. Put me right. You gotta give her this, too.”
He mostly concedes because he's all out of options. Rises to his feet and brushes her hair out her face. Watches Micro's movements like a hawk, but the man seems content to simply fold his hand around Karen's and squeeze down on it gently. Micro stretches out and turns the shower on moments after just as Karen's voice shatters on half a sob. He thinks it still sounds better than the shattered scream that brought Micro back into the room in the first place.
“Okay,” he says, because he can do this, he's gotta, “let's get you up. Come on, Karen.” He tries to sound brave, for her. Tries to sound like his heart's not being ripped out of his chest when he looks at her. “I've got you, sweetheart, come on.”
He decides he likes Micro just a little bit more when the man simply lets Karen lean slightly on him before he is able to wrap her in his arms. Likes the man even further when there is no comment on the affectionate stream of words he bestows upon her as he steps her closer to the water. Her head's against his chest and she smells like gasoline and he's there, right there, burning with her at every soft noise that escapes her. Micro's hands are on her wrists, encircling and grounding her down into her body, and he thinks he detects pride in the man's eyes when her fingers finally respond to the touch.
She comes to life under the water, as Micro said she would.
It's so fucking cold that he actually has to take a deep breath before submerging himself into it with her. The water's ice to the touch, but it's nothing compared to how his heart freezes when she finally lets loose. She muffles her screams in his bloodstained shirt, claws at his skin as though she wishes to be let into the darkest parts of him, tears at his heart when she bursts into tears and all but collapses against him. He takes the pain. Deserves it.
“I dropped my guard,” he says, then, and he doesn't know if he's saying it to her or to Micro. Doesn't think it matters. He's just scum and he's gotta say it. “One of 'em clocked me. Gave me the cut on the head. I got dizzy. Didn't feel right.” He hates himself for being weak. Hates himself for letting this happen. “I was out of it a moment too long.”
Micro steps away from the water with every word that passes from his lips. He frowns as Karen sags in his arms, sobbing and hiccupping her anguish forth into every square inch of him, and shakes his head at Micro. Silently begs the man to please stay, because he can't deal with being the one a woman like her's gotta lean on.
“I'll leave you to it,” the man says, and Frank decides then and there he hates the hacker all over again. “My boots are fur-lined. They take forever to dry.”
He almost throws the shampoo bottle at Micro over that comment, but stills his hand when he hears a soft laugh escape between the hiccups of her jagged cry. Micro, damn him, just nods at him knowingly before retreating out of the room. (He hates it when the man's right.)
She's laughing between her tears now and she's never sounded more alive.
“Hey,” he murmurs into her hair, “it's okay. It's okay. I've got you, ma'am. You did good.” He feels stupid repeating it. Feels stupid saying it. “I'm sorry that it was necessary for you to do that.”
“Not my first,” she says, then, and the water may be cold and his skin may be ice but his insides blaze at the sound of her voice. He flares to life at it, even when her words knock the air straight back out of him again. She sounds small but decisive, soft cat's paws right before a steel trap that's all clamped jaw and vicious teeth, and he thinks this woman will be his end. “Just.. I never did it like this.”
She never buried herself in the dead the way he did. Never cut a man's throat like that, stabbed his guts like that, clawed her way into his veins with a dozen cuts and felt the breath leave his body. Not before tonight. Her hand had closed around the knife one of them had been stupid enough to drop. He went down to his knees from the blow, disoriented from the cut they gave him, and she rose to her feet at his back. He witnessed it all in a haze. Her snarl of fury, her immediate motion to kill rather than take prisoners, her tremble of breath before the calm that rolled her shoulders back and made her eyes spark to life like he'd never seen before.
She is beautiful and terrible all at once and he holds her close like he does the trigger of his gun.
He's sure she's going to haunt his dreams, but right now he simply settles for holding her close under the water. Sways gently back and forth with her, lets her crumble until her arms wrap around him and he's the one blinking back tears, and vows to keep her safe even as he starts to wash the blood out of her hair. She doesn't need anybody to be her keeper. That's not why he does what he does, checking her surreptitiously for injuries before scrubbing red off her skin bit by bit and layer by layer.
He's past telling her what to hold on to.
Thinks it may be okay, just for today, if she chooses to hold on to him.
she’s not supposed to be here. no hydra base has been a simple in - out operation, there’s always some obstacle ------ an inconvenience, if you will. if this place was rigged to blow, they were on the clock, and if not, well. she’s seen his face.
“So what are you doing this weekend, that’s not work,” Colleen added, right off the bat. Because working didn’t count as an excuse to say no to what she was going to ask next. Especially since Karen probably needed some time off from whatever she was working on anyways.
“There’s a film festival this weekend, you should take a night off and we’ll go. Have you ever seen Lady Snowblood? Because they’re showing both movies back to back on Saturday.”
watching karen work is like getting a chance to see what it was like back in the ye olde days when Chaos was first Ironed Out by whatever cosmic hands had the power to dip a brush into that particular ink-pot. she makes a painting out of blobs of color you’d never expect to go together. she pairs THOSE SHOES with THAT top and you’re like whoa, how even, but also yes, yes, YES.
it’s entertaining even to someone like barry who needs more than your typical saturday morning cartoon line up to feel like he’s zoned in completely. and look, he gets that she is busy and at this point he should probably buzz off and make himself useful elsewhere but ugh, he’s got some kind of emotional investment in this girl.
like, why else would he admit to dreaming about her like a big ol’ goon?
“pfft, no” he scoffs, “i’m not QUITE there yet..”
but now he’s thinking about it and if we’re not careful this is going to lead to a tangent and barry really mucking up her work schedule. he sinks lower in the seat he’s occupying, legs thrown over the left arm and spine pressed against the right.
“we were eating lotus flowers, like in that myth,” he begins cautiously. he isn’t watching her but he is making out shapes in the popcorn textured ceiling tiles.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
“Karen, you know I can’t talk on the record about an active case, let alone an active terror threat. I’m sure some press will be held in a few hours with formal updates, and we’ll be filing reports,” Dinah folded her arms, never fond of being the one questioned.
