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Karen knew the way to Frank's hideout by heart.
Not that she visited him often; she was rarely the one to seek him out, mainly because he was almost impossible to find these days. Usually, it was Frank who appeared on her fire escape or called from an unknown number.
There were some months when there was no contact with him, the burner he called her from either forgotten or destroyed, and the apartment he'd last told her he was staying in sold to someone else. There were days when the only sure way to get in contact with Frank Castle was a pot of white flowers on the windowsill, but Karen didn't overuse that method.
The man never stayed in one spot long enough to unpack, changing places and safe houses often, so that if anyone tried to find him, they wouldn't be able to track him down easily. Even now, he was still on the run, or at least lived that way.
Frank once said he would always abandon the place after he was done with it, never to return there, for he would be too easy to find if he did. He even said that in some extreme cases, when he suspected he was being followed, he'd leave traps or cameras behind to know whom he was dealing with.
There was only one exception to the rule: a hideout in Hell's Kitchen that Frank told her she could always come to had something happened–one he never fully abandoned, and never admitted was there only for her safety.
It wasn't until many weeks later, when someone began breaking into flats near her apartment complex, that Karen first took him up on that offer.
Her stay wasn't long, as the burglar was apprehended the very next day when he attempted to steal her neighbors' jewelry and triggered a security alarm.
After that, Frank insisted on changing her locks and when Karen checked the bowl where she kept her keys, other than the one for the additional lock he had installed, there was a third key she didn't recognize, left for her to take as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
From that moment, whenever danger loomed over her, she always had a place to stay.
This time, it had been different. James Beckett had been a client first, a rare case their firm took for the money rather than out of Matt and Foggy's bleeding hearts.
But still, he was no monster when they first met. The man had been charged with drug trafficking and racketeering, but he seemed to be a normal guy who simply got involved with the wrong people and let them drag him into their mess. Matt even made sure Beckett had been telling them the truth by listening to his heartbeat.
For a while, the case was going steady; James pleaded guilty, and although he was certain to serve time in prison, they believed they could reduce his sentence and help him become eligible for early parole. After all, Beckett seemed like a proper man.
And then, they found out that version of their new client only came with alcohol forced out of his system by the time he spent in custody.
Not even six days after they met Beckett, he returned to his old habits, leaving the politeness behind.
Karen, Foggy, and Matt quickly grew tired of the drastic change in his attitude. It was almost impossible to work with him now that he barely picked up his phone and met with them while drunk. The man was supposed to be on house arrest, and yet, somehow he managed to get out of his ankle monitor and go bar hopping almost every night.
The fourth time they found him completely hammered, they told him he would need to find a different legal team.
At that, the man became angry and then aggressive.
He threw mean and ableist comments toward her friends, and when that didn't work, he tried to intimidate Karen. At that point, Matt got between them and pushed the drunk away, causing the man to start yelling and throwing things at them, screaming that this wasn't over.
Of course, they left then, left and called the police, but by the time the cops showed up to arrest James, the man was gone.
She began receiving threats not long after.
It wasn't much, an email, some angry texts. But then she found a letter on her doorstep. She told herself it was only a stupid joke. Definitely. Perhaps it wasn't even their ex-client's doing.
It didn't matter how long she tried to convince herself she was safe. She couldn't help but flinch at every sound outside her window and couldn't stop reaching for her gun whenever someone knocked at her door.
It was almost laughable. She had survived far worse, dealt with people a hundred times more dangerous and influential than one drunk convict who hadn't even physically assaulted her. All he gave were a few words. And even after all she went through, it was still enough to throw her off.
One night, after another angry email hit her mailbox, she just grabbed her phone and called Frank, glad that the last number he gave her was still working. Karen let the man know what was happening, and she didn't even have to ask, as he immediately offered that she could come to his place until the situation resolved itself.
She obliged, and now her footsteps came to a halt as she reached her destination.
Karen fished out the key from her bag and opened the door, a part of her still unable to believe the simplicity of it.
"Took you long enough," Frank's rough voice sounded from the other side of the room. He set down the gun he'd been cleaning and walked up to her, his eyes scanning her as if searching for an injury he knew he wouldn't find. Frank stopped in front of her.
For a while, it seemed like he was considering reaching out to her, his hands fidgeting before he stashed them into his pockets and cleared his throat. "I was startin' to worry," he grumbled.
Karen couldn't stop the smile forming on her lips after hearing the admission. "Matt stopped on my roof during his patrol. I had to wait for him to leave, else I'd never hear the end of it."
"Oh, I can imagine."
"Well, he's worried too. Both he and Foggy felt pretty guilty after I told them about the threats."
"They caught Beckett yet?"
Karen shook her head. "It's probably only a matter of time."
"You gonna stay the night, then?"
"Yes, with those threats I—" she paused. "Is that alright? I know what you said earlier, but..."
"It's fine," Frank assured her.
"It's only for a bit anyway."
"It's not a problem, Karen."
She nodded.
Frank's eyes softened. "It really isn't," he repeated.
She knew it wasn't. After all, Frank offered it himself, even trusted her enough to give her the key. But Karen had seen through the pattern. Time and time again, it was the same whenever they met. Something was always going on: a hospital, a shooting, a hostage situation, and now threats on her life.
Did they really need immediate danger to see each other? There were times she wished they could simply spend time together without involving guns, bombs, or bloodshed.
The worst part of it was the fact that Karen knew Frank wanted the same. He said he didn't and tried every trick in the book to shove her away, but whenever she needed him, he appeared. She didn't even have to ask.
And as soon as it was over, he disappeared. It frustrated her immensely.
Pushing the thoughts aside, Karen settled in. She didn't bring much, only a backpack filled with her clothes and other necessary items, which she now set by the chair she sat on.
The two were quiet for a while before Frank broke the silence and suggested he make them coffee.
A part of her wished she could agree, that they could sit here together, each with a steaming cup in hand, and talk about something normal for once. But after a moment of consideration, she rejected the offer.
Karen was tired, and coffee would only keep her awake—awake and thinking of all the overly terrifying outcomes this night could have had if she had stayed home. Logically, she knew nothing would have happened, that all the messages she received were empty threats. But it didn't stop her brain from making up the worst scenarios. No. She needed to rest.
Frank said she should take his bed, and Karen agreed, already feeling the exhaustion setting in.
She hadn't been able to sleep without waking at the smallest sound for a while now, so when she at last got a chance to lie down in the quiet, calm safehouse, it didn't take long before her eyes grew heavy, and from then on, sleep took her almost instantly.
Karen wasn't awake to see Frank stand up, drape a blanket over her shoulders, put on his Kevlar vest, and grab his gun.
She didn't hear him leave and lock the doors behind him.
When she woke up, the man was gone.
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Frank returned hours later, one bullet less in his gun's magazine and his clothes bloody. He quietly stepped through the door, not expecting to find Karen awake and awaiting his return.
"Where have you been, Frank?" Her voice sounded resigned, as if the woman already knew the answer to her question but decided to ask him anyway.
"Handled Beckett," he said simply. In turn, Frank's tone was hushed, but there was no trace of remorse or hesitation. The sentence was a simple fact, stated plainly like the weather or the time of day, not a murder he had just committed.
Karen didn't seem surprised, she nodded grimly. At least Frank didn't lie to her. "He die quick?"
"Yeah." He didn't elaborate.
He didn't tell her how he tracked down Beckett in his favorite bar. He didn't tell her how he took a seat in the back and watched James order beer after beer after beer while boasting to his friends about just how easily he got off. Frank didn't tell Karen how he waited for the man to step away from the group, saying he needed a smoke. Nor did he tell her how he followed Beckett outside, grabbed him by the neck, smashed his head against the brick wall, and then put a bullet through his chest.
"Anyone see you?"
Frank shook his head. That, he was sure of. "No. No witnesses."
Karen didn't comment on it, so Frank chose that moment to walk past her and towards the small kitchen area, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. He downed the cup way too casually, like nothing had happened at all. Like he hadn't just pulled a trigger on someone.
When Frank turned to look at Karen again, their eyes met for a second before she tilted her head away. "God, Frank," she finally spoke up. "What do you want me to say?"
"Nothing." He shrugged. Because what could she say? That it was wrong? That she hadn't asked for it? Thing was, Karen didn't have to ask for it, just like she didn't have to ask for the key to his place or for the invite to stay with him when she felt scared and alone.
Frank was well aware that her annoyance wasn't directed entirely at what he'd done. She was angry that he'd exposed himself again. Took a risk. And she was especially mad that he'd done it for her.
Karen winced at the answer. "Matt's gonna be pissed," she said simply.
"Probably," Frank muttered, completely unbothered by the idea.
For what it was worth, Daredevil could throw all tantrums in hell he wanted, and Frank still wouldn't be convinced of his version of justice, not with the moral code too strict to do what needed doing when it came to protecting people like Karen.
"At me too," she added.
"Not for long. He knows this isn't your fault."
Karen bit her lip in frustration. "Will it be like this with every idiot who so much as looks at me wrong?"
"Depends."
"On?"
"On how wrong the look is," Frank responded bluntly before pausing for a moment to walk up to her.
He observed Karen for any sign of discomfort as he approached. If she didn't want him near right now, he would understand. Hell, he'd even leave her alone if that’s what she wanted. But in his search for rejection, he found none, so he took a seat next to her. "You safe? That's all that matters to me."
"Not more than I was an hour ago," she argued. "He was no real danger. You knew it."
"Could've become a danger," he countered. "Guys like that? They start with threats but escalate when they don't get what they want. And then the next thing you know..." Frank trailed off, not wanting to entertain the thought.
"Yes. I'm aware," she huffed. "I just—" Karen's frown eased up a bit. "I don't want you killing for me, Frank. Haven't you done it enough times already?"
Frank stiffened slightly at that. He killed for plenty of reasons: revenge, self-defense, his own messed-up version of justice... and for Karen. He knew the woman wouldn't pretend that violence was unnecessary. Frank suspected that, in a way, she even agreed with his twisted ways, and that thought terrified him, as the last thing he wanted was for her to walk the same path as him. "There's no such thing as enough here, Karen."
"Bad people will keep coming. There will always be someone."
He ran his hand through his hair. "Yeah, they won't stop." Frank let out a low sigh. "I won't either."
"You can't do this forever."
He huffed, his hands falling onto his knees. Karen was right. He couldn't. Not even the Punisher, ever the soldier, could defeat every threat that would come his way. Eventually, something would get to him, or worse, to her. "I know," was all he managed to say instead.
"So what? You'll just throw yourself into every meaningless battle until I just... lose you one day?" Karen copied his posture, her own palms clenched together on her lap as she tried, and failed, to keep them from shaking.
Frank's chest tightened at the fear in her voice, the pure, real distress that replaced the anger. He reached over slowly and placed one of his hands over hers. He couldn't bear to see them trembling. He kept her safe, hadn't he? She wasn't supposed to be shaking like this.
Karen drew a sharp breath but made no move to push him away; instead, she only wrapped her fingers around his, gripping him tightly.
Use two hands, and never let go.
She tilted her head up, meeting his eyes, her gaze drifting across Frank's tired face. Just what was she searching for? He couldn't give her anything except a place to hide and a promise to get rid of those who hurt her.
Karen deserved so much better, so much more than what he had left for her. Yet, she still kept looking for him. Looking at him, as if she saw through all the barriers he so desperately fought to keep in place. Frank wondered if it was blood she was seeing. After all, he hadn't had the time to clean it all off yet.
"I don't want that." Karen's voice wavered as she spoke, but Frank understood what she meant. I don't want to lose you.
He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly feeling dry. "I know," he rasped. I don't want that either.
How could he allow himself to mean enough to Karen to cause her so much pain? Hadn't he been careful not to let her get attached? Just where was that ability to reject her now when he needed it most? How dare he let her hold onto him, knowing that it wouldn't last?
Frank hated it. He despised the way her voice cracked helplessly, as if she were already mourning him. As if each time they met was merely a preparation for the day she'd bury him.
That undid him. Without another word, and despite knowing better, he pulled her into him, letting Karen choose how close she was willing to get and not feeling surprised when she instantly nuzzled herself into his chest. Frank tried not to think about how well she fit there, with her face buried in the crook of his neck.
Gently and carefully, he pressed his lips to the top of her head. It wasn't a real kiss, barely a brush against her hairline. More of a quiet reassurance than a romantic gesture, but she still leaned into it as if it meant everything.
Karen must have known that Frank wouldn't kiss her properly; that the man wouldn't allow himself a moment of weakness such as that. In a way, a part of her felt grateful for his insistence that they weren't this.
Frank would only ever hold her. But he held her as if that moment was all they would ever have—an embrace filled with the reek of blood from his clothes, the sound of their drawn-out breaths, and the sins they hadn't fully atoned for.
It wasn't sweet or cozy in a traditional sense, but the truth was that holding each other like this brought them greater comfort than anything else possibly could.
Frank's breath evened out, his usually tense frame relaxing for the first time in weeks.
He'd gladly stay forever with Karen in his arms. But he pushed that thought away almost as fast as it formed, for it was easier to pretend there would never be an after than to hope for something impossible.
"Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever truly be safe," she admitted, tears welling up in her eyes.
Frank glanced at her, fighting the instinct telling him to remind her that no one ever is. Instead, he simply placed his forehead against hers in that familiar, affectionate motion. "You are safe right now."
It pained him to know that it was all he could guarantee. But at that moment? Somehow, it was enough.
In that moment, as Frank gazed into Karen's eyes, his thumb reaching to wipe the tears that had spilled down her cheeks, he knew that, even if only for a while, she was perfectly safe.
As she fell back asleep, Frank's hold on her never once wavered; he stayed by her side.
That old, bone-deep devotion made him stay in place, making sure she'd rest easy. Whenever Karen would shift in distress as if plagued by nightmares, Frank was there to hold her until the bad dreams passed.
They didn't mention it when after the night of sleeping in the same bed Karen and Frank woke up pressed against one another, their legs intertwined and their hands still clenched together.
Now, both awake, they were growing uncomfortably hot, but despite that they were still pulling closer, neither wanting to be the first to let go.
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Many years later, as Karen sat in the hideout, her eyes carefully watching the cot where Dex lay unconscious, she realized that the place didn't feel safe anymore.
It stopped being safe the second Matt returned, dragging a dying Bullseye with him, demanding they help him. It was like a knife to her back, seeing the last person she could trust in this whole ordeal betray her so easily, without a second thought.
The last remnants of comfort disappeared alongside her boyfriend when he left her alone with the man who used to hunt her for sport.
The woman suddenly understood why Frank changed his locations so often and why he never told others about his whereabouts.
Feeling her chest tighten with a mix of fear and determination, Karen kicked the cot, jostling the sleeping man. "Get up," she spat out.
She watched as Poindexter shifted awake, tossing around when he realized he was handcuffed to the bed.
Karen could feel herself tense up, knowing that even chained, Bullseye was still dangerous.
Her hold on her gun tightened.
Dex grinned, realizing who was sitting in front of him. "Hello, Karen."
"Hello, Benjamin," she replied.
Dex's smile widened, amused after finally getting a response. He threw himself forward and sat up on the bed, wincing from pain.
"Your staples... they hurt?" Karen asked, and Dex only chuckled weakly in response. "Good."
"Are you gonna shoot me?" He looked up at her.
"Probably."
Frank was right; there really was no such thing as enough.