Almost
Karen Page wasn’t a drinker, not really. A shot or three after work with a few friends, just enough to feel loose and uninhibited, that was one thing, but this losing herself in the murky depths of amber liquid wasn’t her deal. The dimly lit bar was the last place she would bump into anyone she knew. There wasn’t a chance in hell a saintly lawyer would be leaning up against the grimy juke box, and it was just as unlikely that his gregarious blond cohort would come bursting from the men’s room, flush with the warmth of alcohol running through his veins, a goofy grin on his face as he begged her to play darts.
No, this place wasn’t Josie’s, not anywhere close. That was the whole idea of coming into this shithole. Talking was not on the fucking agenda.
She’d given up on ordering shots hours earlier, instead talking the surly bartender out of a filthy streaked tumbler and a bottle of his cheapest whiskey. It had only taken her a couple of seconds to convince herself that the alcohol would kill whatever germs lay lurking in the crystal grooves of the unwashed glass. And it felt good, the way the liquid burned going down her throat, settling in her stomach like heavy poison. She would forget, soon, the way the date on the calendar stared at her accusingly all day, the way every little thing reminded her of the worst day of her life all those years ago. She would forget the way his face looked, pale and waxy as the light behind his eyes slowly faded away.
She poured herself another glass, downing it and tipping the bottle over one more time. Time came unstuck when the alcohol really started filtering through her, the clock’s ticking fading into the background. Soon this day would be over, and all she would have to remind her of it would be a pounding headache and a sour stomach. Good.
She slammed the tumbler down on the scarred wood of the bar, earning a dirty look from the bartender. His twisted expression swam back and forth. She blinked, grimacing at the thick haze of cigarette smoke floating around her. Hell, she was going to smell like death tomorrow. Wasn’t there some law about smoking indoors? Foggy would know.
She pulled out her phone, scrolling through her recent calls. Foggy’s round face came and went as she scrolled. Instead, she stopped on an unsaved number, finger hovering over the digits. He wouldn’t answer, she knew that. She just wanted to hear the sound of his voice, to hear the gruff and politely formal address when he realized it was her. She wanted to ask him if she would ever forget what it was like to take another man’s life.
She tapped the touch screen, holding her breath as the number began to ring. Too late, she remembered that talking wasn’t something she really wanted to do, not like this, not three sheets to the wind and on the verge of crying.
She was paralyzed, holding the phone up to her ear, breath caught in her chest as she waited for him to answer. She just wanted to hear his voice, that’s all, to know there was someone out there who could understand.
He did answer on the tenth ring, not saying a word though. She could hear him breathing on the end of the line, waiting for her to say something first. It was like a game, listening to each other’s breath, strangely intimate and isolating at the same time.
She could see him, in her mind’s eye, face mottled purple with bruises, hair clipped short, mouth turned downward in irritation. If she closed her eyes she could lean forward and breathe him in, the faint aroma of cigarettes lying underneath the much stronger scent of freshly brewed coffee and soap. It had been too long since their last contact.
“Talk to me, ma’am. Is something wrong?”
She nearly dropped the phone, fumbling until she had a better grip. Her vocal cords were frozen, words trapped in her lungs. “F-frank.”
His name came out on a sob, every last bit of strength in her crumbling. The alcohol hadn’t helped. It made things harder to deal with, pushing all the emotions to the surface, making her feel unstable and close to spontaneous combustion. She needed someone to hold her together.
“Tell me where you are.”
-
She waited outside, the cold wind somewhat sobering. The bartender had confiscated the bottle of whiskey at the sight of her tears, deciding an emotional patron was more than he wanted to deal with at one in the morning.
She leaned against the brick edifice, silent tears still streaming down her cheeks, feeling so fucking tired. She just wanted to lay down, to stop holding herself up, stop holding all of it together. The easy smiles, the cute little outfits and her kitten heels, it was all a cheap edifice built to keep everyone else unaware. She was the bright eyed receptionist, the untiringly sweet friend, the dumb blonde who fell for a liar. It was getting too heavy, her arms like noodles every night when she got home, exhaustion in her very soul.
She slid down along the wall until she was crouched on the sidewalk, legs curled up beneath her. The concrete was cold and a little damp. It was all she could do not to slump down further and just lie in the filth of the street, letting sleep overtake her.
Frank was the only one who saw what she really was. Sure, the details were still a mystery to him, but he’d seen right past all the bullshit, right into the sadness that lurked inside of her, the desperate need. And she’d felt… accepted.
As if her thoughts had conjured him, Frank materialized from the shadows, dark cap pulled down low over his eyes. He was silent as a shadow, moving toward her, gently lifting her off the ground.
Under the streetlamp he looked terrifying, dark shadows cast across his face. She was so happy to see him, to feel his touch against her skin as he swept her hair out of her face. She knew she looked a mess, nose red, eyes puffy and bloodshot from crying. But God, it was good to see him.
Without thinking, she threw her arms around him, nose buried in the crook of his neck. He smelled exactly like she’d imagined, the collar of his shirt tickling her nose. And he was warm too, vital and alive against her. She could feel his chest rising and falling with his measured breathing, his heart beating against her.
After a brief hesitation, his arms came up, holding her gently in the golden light of the street lamp. He cleared his throat. “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”
“I’m drunk,” she mumbled forlornly against his skin.
“I can see that.” He waited, hands moving slowly across her body in search of injury, methodical yet gentle. “You’re not hurt?”
She shook her head, slowly easing out of his embrace. “No.”
He narrowed his eyes, peering down at her. “You sure about that?”
One hand was at her neck now, fingers resting along the column of her throat, callused thumb feeling her fluttering pulse. He was looking at her, really looking at her, with those deep brown eyes, so full of sadness. It made her want to cry all over again. She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to meet his serious gaze any longer. “Tell me I’m not a monster, Frank.”
If she had opened her eyes again she would have seen the look of confusion flash across Frank’s face. Suddenly it was like they were in an alternate universe, and she was asking him for absolution. It was ludicrous to him. And yet, her eyes were squeezed shut, pulse thundering against his fingers, pain slashed across her features. She needed to hear it, even if it were from someone as morally dubious as himself. “Pardon me, Miss Page, but you’re just about the furthest thing from a monster as anyone I’ve ever met.”
His words didn’t help, she shuddered, gasping out a confession. “I killed him.”
He knew, of course. Wilson Fisk’s man had died at her hands. It hadn’t been hard for him to figure out. As far as he was concerned she’d been doing the city a favor, ridding it of yet another scumbag. “That you did, and I imagine Wesley deserved every one of those bullets you put in his chest.”
Pulling away from him, eyes wide with shock, she shook her head yet again. “Not Wesley… It’s not… I know he was going to kill me… ” She buried her face in her hands, backing further away. He almost didn’t hear her next words. “I killed my brother. What kind of monster kills her own brother?”
He was speechless, watching as she fell apart in front of him, tears streaming down her anguish filled face. “Frank, I loved him when we were kids, I did, but… he got mean when he drank, and he would hit his wife, knock her to the ground. One time - “ She tried to catch her breath, the words coming fast and hard between tears. “– one time he hit her so hard he blew out her eardrum. She was like a rag doll, just helpless, and I - I - I took our dad’s gun, and I just wanted to make him stop, I didn’t… oh god, I didn’t –”
Frank reached for her again, this time taking her in his arms of his own volition. She was near hysterical, words almost unintelligible between her sobs. He held her close. “Shh, shh, it’s ok…”
She quieted, pulling back to look at him again. “Can you still say it? Do you still think I’m not a monster?”
She looked so broken under the street lamp, tearstained face streaked with mascara, eyes still sparkling, grief tearing at her from the inside out. He knew the feeling well, woke up with it sitting in his chest every morning. Her pain called out to him. He brushed away a stray tear, hands pausing to cup her face gently. “Miss Page, you are a lot of things… a monster isn’t one of them.”
“Yeah?”
The single word was soft, barely a puff of air escaping her lips. Frank found his fingers under her chin, tilting her face up toward his. He was caught, by the desire to give comfort and to take it. His thumb brushed her bottom lip, and he leaned in closer.
He could taste her already, lips still inches apart, vulnerability in the scent of whiskey on her breath. It trembled out against his skin as she let out a shaky sigh. She was drunk, and he wasn’t.
Regretfully he pulled away, reaching instead to tuck her arm beneath his. “Come on, Page, let’s get you home and get some coffee in you. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
She complied, following his lead. “And if I don’t feel better?”
They walked silently, Frank contemplating this strange new dynamic. “I’ll be right there with you, not feeling better, we’ll make quite the pair.”
She laughed, tucking herself into his side. She still felt like shit, but at least she wasn’t alone.
A/N: This is obviously not too reliant on canon regarding Karen’s past, specifically what we know about her brother buuuuuuut… Idk idk