A life worth living
It started with a toaster.
Frank had no idea how, but somehow, it ended with Karen standing in the middle of their kitchen wielding a spatula like a weapon and a smoke alarm going off overhead.
“You told me you could cook,” he said gruffly, fanning the smoke with a paper plate.
“I can cook,” Karen snapped, glaring at the charred remains of what was once supposed to be French toast. “Just… not with your toaster. This thing has, like, two temperatures: Arctic and Hell.”
“It’s a toaster,” Frank deadpanned. “It has one job.”
“Yeah, and it failed. Just like capitalism. And your coffee maker.”
Frank smirked.
They’d been wrapped up in their little cocoon for days now, the kind of quiet routine that wasn’t exactly domestic but wasn’t war either. It was… peaceful. Or as peaceful as things could get when you were dating the Punisher.
They’d slept in, made breakfast (or tried to), walked Trouble around the block where the neighborhood kids kept calling him “Batman’s dog,” which Frank refused to correct. Karen said it made him look tough. Trouble just looked smug.
Later, they sprawled on the couch, Karen reading some paperback thriller she’d found at a used bookstore, her feet in Frank’s lap. He didn’t say anything about it—he just absently rubbed her ankle while watching a black-and-white war movie, muttering corrections every ten minutes.
“No way that gun jams like that. That’s movie bullshit.”
Karen didn’t even look up. “Wow. Thank you, History Channel.”
He grunted.
When she finally tossed her book down, she looked at him sideways. “You ever actually relax, or do you just sit there waiting for someone to break into our apartment so you can stab them with a spoon?”
Frank didn’t blink. “Don’t tempt me.”
She smirked. “You need a hobby.”
“I’ve got one,” he said, flicking her calf gently. “Keepin’ you alive.”
Karen mock-swooned. “God, you’re so romantic. Are you gonna embroider that on a pillow for me?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You want a pillow, I’ll make one outta concrete.”
Later that afternoon, they ended up at a bodega arguing over snacks like they were married and broke.
“You don’t even like sour straws,” Frank said, squinting at the bag in her hand.
Karen rolled her eyes. “I’m buying them for the vibe, Frank. The vibe.”
He turned to the cashier, completely serious. “What the hell does that mean?”
The cashier blinked. “I—I don’t know, man.”
Karen shoved the candy in the basket. “It means I might crave them later, and if I don’t have them, I’ll kill you.”
Frank smirked, paid in cash, and they left with way more snacks than two people should eat in one night.
They ended up back at her place—hers now, but he was always there—and Trouble immediately claimed the couch like it was his god-given right. They let him.
While Frank cooked (real food, thank God), Karen stood behind him in the kitchen narrating his every move like she was hosting a reality cooking show.
“Here we see the elusive Frank Castle, who pretends he’s not a softie but just julienned those carrots like a damn Michelin chef. Look at the grace. The intensity.”
He didn’t look up. “You keep talkin’, you’re gonna be wearin’ these carrots.”
“You’d never,” she said sweetly.
He turned slightly, holding one up like he might throw it.
Karen ducked behind the fridge. “Frank!”
Dinner was good. She told him stories about her weirdo coworkers, like the one guy who brought fermented goat yogurt to the break room every day and the intern who tried to flirt with her by quoting The Godfather.
“I told him if he misquoted Pacino again, I’d file a restraining order.”
Frank chuckled under his breath.
She looked at him then—really looked at him. He was relaxed in a way she didn’t see often. His shoulders loose. The hard set of his jaw a little softer. He looked like a man who had maybe, maybe let go of the weight for a second.
“You’re different like this,” she said.
He raised a brow. “Like what?”
“Like you’re not waiting for the sky to fall.”
Frank didn’t answer right away. Just reached across the table and brushed his thumb against her hand.
“I’m not sayin’ it won’t,” he said quietly. “But if it does… at least I get to say I had this. You.”
Karen swallowed the lump in her throat. “Well, now you’ve cursed us.”
He snorted. “Guess we’ll just have to fight God.”
They ended the night on the roof, Trouble curled between them, Frank nursing a beer, Karen sipping cheap wine out of a mug that said “Not Today, Satan.”
The city buzzed beneath them. For once, it didn’t feel like it was closing in.
Karen leaned her head on his shoulder. “You ever think about the future?”
Frank was quiet a long time. “Sometimes. But it always ends in fire.”
Karen nodded. “Same.”
They sat like that until the air turned cold and the stars came out. Until laughter turned into quiet, and quiet turned into sleep, and sleep turned into peace.
And for a little while, they were just Frank and Karen.
Almost normal.