Your Knight
She’s locked out, again, keys lying uselessly on the other side of the door. She groans, leaning her head against the rough paneling. It’s been a long day and all she wants to do is sleep, not bang on Pete Martinelli’s door for half an hour trying to get her spare. Her super is a useless drunk when he’s home, which isn’t very often.
It’s not the first, or even third time she’s found herself stranded out in the hall, barefoot in her damn pajamas no less. It probably won’t be the last with these new locks. Foggy insisted that she replace the flimsy knob-lock with an automatic deadbolt, and now her apartment is an impenetrable fortress when the door swings shut. Gone are the days when she could jimmy the thing open with a credit card and naked determination. Fuck.
Then she hears it, the heavy thump of combat boots coming down the hall. It’s Frank. The tops of her ears turn red with embarrassment and she wishes there was some other explanation for her situation, something that didn’t make her sound completely like an incompetent ninny who locked herself out while walking trash to the chute. She turns around slowly, already expecting the annoyingly smug look on his face.
He doesn’t disappoint, one eyebrow shooting up in amusement, the corner of his mouth twitching as he gives her a slow up and down look. Heat chases along her skin everywhere his eyes linger, unwanted desire thrumming through her. Why does she have to be attracted to this asshole?
“Nice outfit, Page. I think you forgot the fuzzy slippers.”
There it is. The snarky comment she’d expected from the moment she heard his footsteps. He always has something to say, always gives her that look of smug amusement. Always makes her damn pulse jump, blood rushing to her extremities. Her nostrils flare, the heat of indignation replacing her embarrassment. She stomps across the hall to stand in front of him. “Could you be a gentleman for once in your life and spare me the smartass comments?” She sharply gestures to her attire. “I’m clearly a damsel in distress.”
He shoulders his bag, giving her one last salacious look before turning back to his door. He slips his key in the lock, and leans his shoulder against the wood paneling. “It’s your lucky night.”
Is he inviting her in? Heat rushes to her cheeks even as she takes a step to follow him. But he stops abruptly, a strange look crossing his features when he turns to find her standing so close.
He clears his throat, and for the first time since he’s been her neighbor he looks unsure of himself. “Uh, I passed Pete on the way in and he’s not stinking drunk. Like I said, lucky night.”
She knows she’s as red as a tomato, embarrassment flooding her so completely she’s thinks she’s going to drown in it. Without a word, she spins away from him, marching toward the stairs.
Frank calls out after her retreating form. “You’re no damsel in distress, Page!”
She rounds the corner, taking the stairs two at a time, mumbling to herself. “No shit, and you’re no knight in shining armor, Castle.”
A blessed week passes before Karen sees him again. She’s taken to scurrying past his door as quickly as possible, and it’s only after three completely Frank free days that she notices he’s not actually coming and going. By day seven her guards are down and she’s almost forgotten about the embarrassing hallway encounter.
Coming home from work after a particularly hellish news cycle, all she wants is to down the deliciously creamy ice coffee clutched to her chest and settle in for a TV marathon. But there are emails that need to be sent to get colleagues at The Bulletin, and Matt and Foggy are both continuously bombarding her with texts about their latest case. Her investigative skills have proven useful lately, but she just wishes she could unhook from the rest of the world for one peaceful and stress free night.
She has her head down, eyes glued to her phone as she doggedly marches up the stairs to her apartment. She doesn’t notice the sound of Frank’s heavy boots until it’s too late.
They both round the corner into the cramped stairwell at the same time, Frank headed in the opposite direction. Her coffee is crushed between them, soaking the front of her blouse as her phone clatters to the floor.
She sees red, every little frustration from the past ten hours colliding together and exploding. An angry yell escapes her. “Can’t you watch where you’re going?”
Frank is already kneeling to pick up her phone, and the question makes him pause, eyes narrowing as he looks up at her. There’s a brief flash of anger in his eyes before he squelches it. “Excuse me?” He waives her phone at her. “You were the one not paying attention.” Looking down at the phone, his frown deepens. “I think you could have waited five minutes before texting your boyfriend back.”
She’s never heard a word so filled with disgust and it surprises her. It’s too late to backtrack, not without looking like an idiot, so she doubles down. “Where are you going in such a damn hurry anyway?”
He stands up, fruitlessly brushing at the giant stain blooming across his white tee. “Not that it’s any of your damn business but I was headed to Mabel’s.” He looks down at the stain in disgust. “Unlike you, I like a little coffee with my cream and sugar.”
The material clings to him, and Karen hopes like hell that he can’t see the way she’s ogling him. Good lord, the man must work out every free moment of his life. She swallows and collects herself, trying like hell to drag her eyes away from the clearly outlined ridges of his chest. “Well don’t let me stop you.” She bites the words off, hoping they’ll hide the how wobbly her voice sounds. He has her off-center and he doesn’t even know it. It’s so unfair.
She doesn’t wait for a response, pushing past him. It isn’t easy to do in the small space, and at one point she’s nose to nose with him, breaths mingling for half a second before pulling away. She practically runs up the stairs in an effort to escape the insane need she feels. Her name echoes behind her, but she keeps going.
She makes due with the cheap coffee in her pantry, watching her ancient coffee pot struggle to drip the liquid gold into the slightly cracked carafe. It’s almost full when she hears the knock on her door, the last couple drops rippling across the surface like silk. She ignores the knock, focusing instead on stirring her sugar into the hot liquid. The cream diffuses through the dark in pale amber blooms and a satisfied sigh escapes her. She takes a drink, fully intending to ignore her visitor.
But the knocking persists, getting a little more frantic, a little louder. She’s no idiot, no one knocks on your door after ten at night with good news. Cautiously she peeks through the peephole, eyes widening in shock at the picture she’s presented with.
It’s her gorgeously smug neighbor, a frown unlike anything she’s ever seen painted across his face. It’s accompanied by a large purpling bruise riding along the edge of his cheek. Now she’s the one that’s frantic, hands trembling as she scrambles to flip her deadbolts. God damn Foggy and his good intentions. Finally she slides the chain free from its latch, swinging the door wide open.
He’s not alone, a small and delicate child ensconced in his arms, her big dark eyes sparkling with unshed tears. She can’t be more than four. Karen’s seen her playing on the stoop under the loving gaze of her watchful mother. Frank’s breathing heavily, like he bounded up four flights of stairs, his jaw ticking with barely suppressed rage. The little girl starts to whimper.
Instinctively, Karen steps toward them, reaching out, but the child curls into her protector, tiny fingers grabbing up fistfuls of his tee-shirt. Karen watches as he consciously slows his breathing, adjusting his grip to cradle the child’s head against his shoulder. Softly he makes shushing noises until the child’s silent sobs abate.
Karen is entranced, watching him. It’s a full minute before she snaps out of it, moving to put down her coffee and scoop a blanket up from her couch. She drapes the soft thing around the trembling child, leaning in to whisper in Frank’s ear, “What happened?”
“Her mother…” He stops, shaking his head at her. Karen doesn’t know whether it’s because he doesn’t want the child to hear, or because even mentioning it sends a fresh wave of anger washing over him. Again, he pushes it down, pacing back and forth, swaying with the child.
Time passes in a vacuum, Karen watching the surreal scene in a dreamlike haze. Finally the little girl succumbs to exhaustion, falling limp in Frank’s arms, tiny chest rising and falling evenly. Ever so gently, he moves over to the bed, laying the sleeping child down. Karen watches in fascination as he adjusts the blanket, sweeping a stray lock of hair away from the girl’s face.
Satisfied, he abruptly rises, hands balling into fists as he walks toward her door. “Can you watch her until I get back?”
Karen blinks, suddenly aware of the lunacy she’s found herself in. Reaching out, she snags his arm, whispering as forcefully as she can. “Hey, tell me what the hell is going on.”
His muscles tense, and for a second she’s afraid that he’s going to jerk out of her grasp and stomp out without talking to her, but the opposite happens. He takes a deep breath, turning to face her. “Some… assholes jumped her mother and dragged her into the alley beside the building. Left Alyssa screaming out on the stoop all alone. I…” He trails off, the after effects of adrenaline making it hard to recount the incident. “I beat one of them into a bloody pulp but the other one got away. EMT’s took her mother to the ER, and the cops just left her with me because they thought I was her father.”
She’d heard the sirens, ignored them as always. “Ariana?”
He nods.
“How is she?”
“It was… bad.” Anger suffuses his features again, fingers balling into fists. “I have to go find that other son of a bitch. Please just…. watch her until I get back.”
Silently she acquiesces, watching Frank disappear down the hall before retreating back into her apartment. There’s no way in hell she’ll ever be able to look at him the same. She may not be a damsel in distress, but Frank is certainly the closest she’s ever gotten to a knight in shining armor. She’s a goner.