The Time He Doesn't
A/n: THE FINAL CHAPTER! I enjoyed writing this, please let me know what you think. Any kind of feedback at all is welcome and it encourages me to continue writing, to be quite honest.
When she decides to quit caffeine, he gives her one of his patented looks. That “ok sure sweetheart” look that absolutely makes her want to fly off the handle, to angrily list the seven hundred reasons the stimulant is bad for the human body. She has a list already printed and taped to the fridge. He knows this, and that’s why he does it. If there’s one thing that Frank likes, it’s when her skin is flushed and her eyes are wide and she’s yelling about something she’s passionate about. But then she says the one thing he can’t deal with.
“You could stop drinking it too. Solidarity and whatnot.”
“Not gonna happen.” He says it with a mock-frown, waiting for her to launch into a diatribe. He’s honestly anticipating it. But she doesn’t.
It’s been months since her father died, and they’re together now, at least as much as it is possible for the ‘Punisher’ to really be with anyone. His things are in her closet, his toothbrush sitting in a little cup right beside hers. They sleep in her tiny twin bed, legs all twisted together, her head planted squarely on his chest. She even lets his dog curl up at their feet. She says he keeps her toes warm in the winter, but Frank knows it’s because she can’t handle the pouty faces the creature makes. This little apartment is cramped, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. He supposes he should make some concession, negotiate a little with her. She deserves that much.
“How about… half-caf?” He’s ribbing her, a little smirk hidden beneath a couple day’s worth of stubble. “I might actually die if you cut me completely off.”
She shakes her head. For someone who isn’t drinking caffeine, she’s particularly jittery, wringing her hands as she paces back and forth. She’s wearing a hole in the small patch of linoleum by her kitchenette. “Frank, um… I have to stop drinking coffee.”
The look she gives him is imploring, eyes wide, mouth much too serious for the topic at hand. Suddenly all the mirth in him evaporates, and he knows what she’s trying to tell him. “How long?”
She clears her throat, turning away from him to rummage in the fridge for some orange juice. With her back to him she says, “Oh, uh, you know the time frame for these things is usually, um… nine months.”
It’s like sirens are going off in his head, his heart seizing up in his chest. A cold feeling of fear takes hold of him. “Karen.”
At the sound of her name, so calmly spoken in his raspy morning-voice, she turns. The refrigerator door swings shut behind her. “I'm at eight weeks, really early still.”
She sounds regretful, but he can’t quite process it, his own heart thundering in his ears. “I need a minute.”
And he’s gone, walking out the door without so much as a look in her direction. It’s exactly what she feared would happen, that dropping this bombshell on him would be too much too soon. She can’t even imagine what the idea of having another child must feel like to him. She has all the sympathy in the world, but it still doesn’t stop the tears from welling up in her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. Even though she knows all the reasons this is a bad idea, she can’t help but already love the little thing inside of her, can’t help but imagine holding a child with dark eyes and a serious expression.
Steeling herself for a miserable day, Karen grabs her coat and heads to work.
-
She’s swaying slightly, clutching the pole in the rocking subway car as she heads home to her empty apartment. Part of her wonders what she’ll see when she opens the door. Will Frank’s things, all the little touches of him scattered across the place, be missing? She’s always had an amazing amount of strength inside of her, but the thought of a Frank-less apartment sets her chin to quivering.
Lost in thought, she barely notices the tall man who sidles up next to her. It’s only when something warm is shoved into her hand that she looks up. He’s so close, his nose inches away from hers, eyes boring into her soul. She can’t take the intensity and looks down to see what it is that he’s brought her.
It’s a paper cup, steam coming out of the vented lid. She doesn’t know why exactly, but her heart breaks all the more. “Frank, I told you. No more coffee.” The cup feels like a symbol, like an expectation. Don’t stop drinking coffee Karen. I don’t want this child, but I do want you. She’s on the verge of tears, because this is not a compromise she can make.
Then she feels it, his gentle fingers at her chin, tipping her face back up to meet his. He says, “I know. It’s chamomile tea.”
“Tea?”
The single word is a waterlogged question, the tears from earlier finally spilling out. He brushes the moisture away, leaning his forehead into hers for a gentle kiss. “Yeah. I’m sorry I left.” He has more to say, but it’s hard for him. No matter how much progress he thinks he’s made, he still doesn’t like divulging the things that have the power to destroy him. “I felt guilty… that I was moving on. When you said it… I felt hope swell in my chest, and then I immediately felt guilty. I think it’ll always be that way when good things happen for me.”
She nods, resting her head on his shoulder, leaning into him. “It’s okay. You’re right, we’ll figure it out.”
He smiles. “Just don’t try and make me quit drinking coffee.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”