Pieces of You
At first it’s not anything he’ll miss, just a button that’s already hanging loose from his jacket. It would have fallen off sooner or later. She carries it in her pocket for days after he leaves.
Then it's a coffee cup from Starbucks with “Fredo” written on the side. She rinses it out and sets it on her counter, snagging a few daisies from a street vendor and dropping them into the plastic cup to brIghten up her cramped apartment. That lasts until the flowers wilt and she can't logically think of a reason not to throw a disposable coffee cup away. And so for a little while she carries the button around again.
It's just a little thing that reminds her that he was there, that she didn’t dream him showing up hurt and more than a bit tired at her door.
Because it does seem so dreamlike, Frank relentless silence, holding onto his words with a vice-like grip. Karen can’t help but get exasperated trying to pry loose something other than a monosyllabic reply. She has no other choice but to embrace the quiet and leave him be. She can never quite tell if he’s relieved by this or disappointed that she’s not more tenacious.
His visits aren’t frequent, and Karen starts to wonder what it'll take to get him to come back on his own, to not have his hand forced by an overzealous cop or a gang of well trained thugs. She gets a little bolder, slipping a needle and thread from his first aid kit, plucking a few brass jacketed bullets from his carefully inventoried ammo belt. She hopes he’ll notice.
The little box of Frank paraphernalia she has hidden under her bed contains less than a half a dozen items, but she finds herself dragging them out and lining them up on her nightstand sometimes, taking small comfort in their presence.
Frank protects the city, and by extension her. It’s been a long time since she’s felt safe like this. That’s has to be the source of this feeling deep inside of her, this need to cling to him. At least that’s what she tells herself. She’s not brave enough yet to contemplate the possibility that he has a special interest in her, aside from the convenience of laying low at her apartment. And she’s definitely not brave enough to consider the idea that she has a special interest in him.
It’s become a nightly ritual of hers, to line up all these pieces of Frank in a neat little row, soldiers standing ready. The latest item is a larger and perhaps riskier acquisition. It’s his watch, a simple utilitarian thing. It’s black with a worn canvas wrist strap, the digital face dark unless the button on the side is pushed. Very nondescript. She hadn’t even noticed that he wore it until she found it lying on her bathroom sink, nestled beside her toothbrush holder.
And he can’t exactly be mad at her for squirrelling it away. He is the one who forgot it after all. Granted, he’d only been one room away when she’d plucked it up off the counter, and she could have slipped it into his bag before he left. A part of her thinks this'll be the thing that tips him off, that lets him know all these missing things are no accident.
It would be nice to see him when he isn’t distracted by pain, or nervously looking down into her alley every twenty minutes. She doesn’t like the distance it puts between them. It’s convenient perhaps. The night in the woods still echoes in both of their minds whenever Frank’s nightly activities come up between them, whether in the form of a bruised jaw or a tense look. She wonders what it took for him to come to her the first time, what kind of pep talk he had to give himself to come expecting help after she’d told him he was dead to her.
She regrets the words, credits them with creating this chasm of silence between them.
Karen sighs, scooting the objects one by one off her nightstand and back into the box. It is a an infinite loop of illogical thinking, and she has a bad habit of overanalyzing their interactions. Frank makes his own damn decisions, regardless of how he feels about her. The box goes back under the bed where it belongs and Karen tries like hell to get some sleep.
She tosses and turns. Cursing, she angrily fluffs her pillow, punching the overstuffed pillowcase like it’s Frank’s stubborn jaw and if she hits it just right he’ll flee from her mind. She’s never had anyone look at her the way he does, his eyes so full of pain, hope weakly flickering in their dark depths. It’s that hope that wrecks her, makes her want to close the space between them and wrap her arms around the big man until he finally breaks down and hugs her back.
She knows he likes her. She’s seen him smile, laugh with genuine amusement at the memories she sparks, seen Frank’s warm beating heart underneath his punisher armor. The only people that can hurt that much are the ones that are capable of loving just as intensely.
Her eyes drift shut, indescribable longing curls in and out of her limbs. It’s a feeling she can’t give voice to, even if she wanted to describe it the words just aren’t there. She doesn’t know exactly what she wants so badly, or why she’s struck with the irresistible urge to cry when she realizes she’ll never have it.
She’s about to give in to sleep, let the sweeping embrace pull her under where she can dream of the things she wants, when there’s a knock at her door. It’s the softly scraping tap of a man who doesn’t actually want to wake her up if she’s sleeping.
She’s out of the bed in seconds, rushing over to drag the chain from it’s slot. She doesn’t even bother flicking the lights on. When the door swings open she’s almost embarrassed at how eager she seems, cheeks flushed, slightly breathless from running across her apartment.
He’s frowning, black cap pulled low, a loose fitting army jacket hanging off his shoulders, no doubt concealing a weapon or two. He doesn’t step across the threshold when she moves out of the way, instead standing stock still, feet planted on the floor. He clears his throat, as if readying for a speech. “Ma’am.”
That’s it, the single word, his eyes piercing her with a knowing stare. That’s all it takes. She knows he knows about the watch, that she took it and he didn’t simply lose it. She wanted this, and yet it’s still embarrassing. Her blush intensifies, the heat of it radiating off her skin. “Frank.”
One corner of his mouth twitches up and he takes off his cap so he can see her more clearly, gingerly holding the thing between his thumb and forefinger. There’s amusement in the set of his jaw, in the slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes. “Never pegged you for a thief.”
You never pegged me at all, Frank. Her eyes widen, for a brief moment fearful that he can hear her ridiculous thoughts. She curses the way her mind works. The moment she gets flustered all appropriate trains of thought flee and she’s only left with a completely unhelpful inner monologue. “Um… I, uh, don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“So that’s how it’s gonna be? Gonna add extortion to your growing list of crimes?”
He’s clearly joking with her, and even though she wants things to be different between them, this is somehow too foreign. He’s teasing her for Pete’s sake. She can’t formulate a response, and when he pushes past her into the apartment a faint little noise of relief escapes her. Out of his line of vision, she regains some composure, shutting and locking the door behind her. What had he said? Extortion… Maybe she would add that to the list.
He’s squinting in the dark at the coffee cups in her kitchen sink, little brown rings staining their bottoms, sticky with dried sugar. She hardly ever does dishes, washing and drying out the nearest one when she needs it. She’s never been embarrassed by it before, but for some reason having the meticulous man poke around her kitchen sets her on edge. “I assume you want your watch back.”
He glances up, pinning again with his gaze. “Well, it is my watch, ma’am.”
She nods, imitating the way Foggy crosses his arms when examining a hostile witness. She puts on her most lawyerly air, squaring her shoulders and looking him straight in the eye. “Well, possession is nine tenths of the law, or so I hear. In a property dispute in the absence of clear and compelling testimony or documentation stating otherwise, the person in actual, custodial possession of an object is presumed to be the rightful owner.”
Frank snorts, a genuine laugh escaping him. “Lawyer bullshit. You need to spend less time with those scumbags.” He’s grinning at her now, stepping a little closer. “How exactly should we settle this dispute, ma’am?”
Some of her confidence tries to flee, but Karen forces herself to hold onto it with an iron grip. “Well, Mr. Castle. Would you like to purchase the watch from me, since you want it so badly?”
“I got about ten bucks in my pocket.”
“I’m not interested in cash.”
“No?”
“No.. I’m more interested in the currency of information.”
He frowns, fingering the seam of his black cap thoughtfully. “Information?”
“How about you tell me who the hell broke two of your ribs last week? We can start there.” She manages to infuse her request with confidence, knowing that he could just clam up again and walk out the door. But she’s banking on the fact that he actually wants to talk to her. Why the hell else would he have come looking for a cheap watch?
Nodding, he makes his way to her couch, dropping down in the lumpy cushions with a little groan. “Well, that would be your buddy Red.”
The game fades away, and suddenly she’s sitting beside him, mouth hanging open in surprise. “Matt?”
“Yup, got me real good with those quick feet of his before I blacked his eye.”
“What were you doing?”
“Just having a philosophical discussion, ma’am.” He grins at her. “Red likes to try and kick me around, but I think he likes it when I get some good licks in, massages that guilt he’s always carrying around.” Dropping his cap on her coffee table, he thoughtfully drags his index finger across his knuckles. “Jack Murdock’s boy ain’t got no glass jaw, that’s for sure.”
Karen smiles, in spite of the fact she is talking to one of the most frustrating people she knows about the other most frustrating person she knows. This is definitely not the discussion she had in mind when she tried to lure Frank back.
He relaxes into her couch, tension rolling out of his shoulders, head dropping back to rest on the cushion. Instinctively she reaches forward, running her thumb along the edge of his cheekbone. It’s too dark to see really, the light of a street lamp the only illumination, but she can tell the bruises from last week are fading. His skin is warm though, and she’s suddenly accosted with nearly paralyzing self-consciousness. She pulls the hand away, sheepishly saying, “Well, you don’t seem worse for wear now.”
“Not a lot of bullshit going on this week, surprisingly.”
Gone is the amusement that had laced his words. It’s all serious business for Frank, business that he doesn’t feel comfortable sharing with her after the incident in the woods. She frowns, opening and closing her mouth like a fish trying to find something to say. “Frank, I--”
He cuts her off, abruptly getting up. “Mind if I make some coffee?”
She shakes her head. “No. Sure.. it’s fine.”
She watches him gracefully go through her cabinets, scoop out the coffee granules, pour the water into the pot. She thinks maybe they’ll have to broach this talking thing at another time. Quickly, she snatches his cap off the coffee table and tosses it behind a sickly house plant. She’ll make sure there’s another time.