Crash

3. FOGGY’S GOT 99 PROBLEMS BUT KAREN AIN’T ONE

So Matt’s being super fucking weird lately.

Things were meant to be better now.

They were meant to go relatively back to normal and Foggy was meant to be able to stop spending a disproportionate amount of his time worrying about his best friend. And you know, if he wasn't so in-tune with the other man he probably wouldn't even have noticed something was up.

But they lived together for years. He notices.

Matt's on top of all his cases, but there's shadows under his eyes like he's not sleeping.

He laughs and smiles with them at work, gives no sign anything's up - but the smiles don't reach his eyes, not completely.

When they do talk he's quieter than he used to be, seems a bit out of it. And he randomly walks out of the office sometimes without a word, but he's always back within twenty minutes. "Getting some air" is typically his excuse, whatever the fuck that means.

Thing is, as far as Foggy can figure, there's nothing wrong. There's no big threat they're up against, and Matt's not actively hiding anything - he's not taking weird calls and Foggy goes round to his place all the time like he used to, so there's no big personal crisis going on. Whenever he asks, Matt says he's fine.

And thing is, Foggy's scared to push too hard.

He can't lose Matt again. He's got this constant underlying fear that one day Matt's gonna disappear. Gonna just bolt like a scared horse if he feels like things are going wrong, if they get too overwhelming.

Foggy's grand solution is thus to just pretend everything is fine. Don't show any sign of weakness or discontent. If everything's fine, everything's stable, then Matt won't leave-

'Cause literally, if he had a mind to, he could just fuck off like he did after Midland. Like we're talking about the guy who faked his own death and then didn't head off to Siberia or Australia or anywhere else remote. He was hiding like three blocks down the road and Foggy had no fucking clue.

He can't go through that again.

At some point, he knows, shit will either settle down on its own, or it'll blow up in their faces, but either way all he can do is wait, and add Matt Murdock to the ever-growing 'shit that's stressing me the fuck out' list.

Number two on the 'shit that's stressing me the fuck out' list is the fact that he can't get a decent night's sleep to save his life.

He's had nightmares for a while. You don't get shot and not get nightmares. For a long time he's been dreaming of diving to the floor as bullets whistle overhead, of dark silhouettes creeping up over hospital windows, of blaring alarms and emergency lights.

The last few months things have gotten even worse.

He'll wake up screaming Matt's name, after dreams of digging through rubble until his hands bleed. He'll dream of standing over his grave and feeling like someone's watching him from the trees. He'll dream of being back in college and knowing he's in danger somewhere and trying to find him. Never getting there in time. Even now Matt's back, even if he knows he's okay, those nightmares don't go away.

And then, of course, there's Poindexter. Foggy can't count the amount of times he's woken in a cold sweat with tears trailing down his cheeks and his mind echoing with the memory of that false Daredevil striding towards him, face slashed with a cold, sneering grin. He'll wake with a jolt, flinching back from some phantom object flying towards his head. He thinks of Ellison, falling back limply against the wall, and the smell of blood filling the room.

He doesn't think there's a single night where he doesn't wake up at least once from restless dreams. Sleeping pills help a bit, but leave him feeling groggy and dazed in the morning.

Sometimes he'll open his mouth in the middle of the office and just want to ask the others if they're going through the same thing. If any of them are getting any fucking sleep. They've been through as much as him, if not worse. Wants to cry, how do you do it, how do any of us do it?

But he doesn't, because Matt never talks about stuff like that and Karen looks fine and he doesn't want to be the first one to drag down the vibe they've got going in the office. Y’know, that 'everything is peachy, we won and we're fine now' vibe.

For a little longer, let them dream that everything is okay.

For a little longer, let them all have this. Let them at least pretend.

“Foggy? You okay?”

Foggy jerks awake with a startled yelp - his heart’s pounding and although he wasn’t dreaming, it takes him a second to register where he is.

This turns out to be face down on his desk, drooling onto a pile of important legal documents. Jesus fucking Christ.

"Karen?" he mumbles, squinting up at her. His mouth tastes like a rinsed turd and she's staring down at him with a smile, eyes glimmering in amusement. Her hair's hanging around her face and the late afternoon sunlight streaming in from the window behind her lights it up like a golden halo. Maybe it's his sleep-addled mind making him silly, but for a second she looks startlingly beautiful, and it's enough to nearly take his breath away.

"You were snoring so loudly I could hear you from the next room over!" she says.

Foggy huffs out a laugh, reaching up to scrub at his face. He honestly has no memory of falling asleep. He's just so exhausted that he must've passed out, into a slumber so deep he didn't even have a chance of dreaming.

"Literally unconscious," he replies, and her smile fades a little.

"You okay?" she repeats, setting a mug of coffee on the table and sliding it towards him as she sinks into the seat opposite. Foggy wraps his hands around it gratefully.

"Just exhausted," he replies, and when he looks up her eyes are soft and worried.

"Had bad dreams lately?"

She offers it tentatively, and Foggy freezes. He meets her eyes and sees something a little too vulnerable in her own face. Okay, he thinks, okay, so we are talking about this then. He's both relieved and terrified. Mostly relieved. Turns out he didn't have to make the first move, then.

"Yeah," he admits, and his shoulders slump. "I've had them for a while."

"It's understandable," she whispers. "After everything we've been through. Everything we've seen."

Foggy thinks of walking back out through the Bulletin's offices, of the bodies covered in white sheets, of the silence. He swallows hard and wonders if the haunted look in Karen's eyes is mirrored in his own.

"They'll go away eventually," he tries, but Karen's lips twist a little.

"Maybe," she replies. "Maybe not. Are you..."

"Am I what?"

"Talking to anyone? About this stuff."

Foggy bites his lip. Then takes a long drink just to hold off answering for a second or two. It really is pretty fucking terrible coffee. Like he didn’t think it was possible to mess up the instant stuff. Didn’t Karen once mention she used to work in a diner? If this is anything to go by, the place must’ve gotten some shit Yelp reviews.

And you know, Foggy’s a progressive sort. He’s all for a world where mental health is an open conversation. But it’s still - hard. Hard to talk about. Hard to admit to. Trauma is such a heavy word.

“I’ve been seeing a therapist since I got shot,” he admits - Karen’s eyes widen a little - “It helps, some, but… can’t exactly talk about Matt in there, can I? Or at least, not the whole story.”

Karen nods, lips pressed together tight. After a moment she reaches out and folds her hand over his on the table; Foggy goes very still, watches her thumb rub gentle circles against the back of his hand.

“I’m glad you’re getting help,” she murmurs. “You know if you want to talk about anything I’m always here too, right? No pressure, just - it can help. Having other people at least know what’s going on in your head.” She looks down, hair hanging across her face for a moment. “Being alone, keeping it all in, it doesn’t get you anywhere. I learned that the hard way.”

“Thanks,” Foggy whispers, and she looks up at him with a sympathetic smile.

“After Fisk tried to kill me the first time, I was terrified. You never really stop being scared. But you learn to cope with it.”

“You’re the bravest person I know,” Foggy blurts out, without really thinking about it - Karen laughs, her cheeks flushing.

“Not really.”

“Yes, really.” He clasps his hand in hers, squeezes tightly. “You’ve been through so much shit and you keep going.”

“Haven’t really got a choice,” she begins, but Foggy shakes his head adamantly.

“Yes you do. You could’ve run from this city a long time ago. But you’re still here. Trying to do some good in this shithole.”

“Yeah, well.” She shrugs, smiles a little. “Can’t leave the entire city on Matt’s shoulders.”

“Where is he, anyway?” Foggy asks, sitting up a bit and peering out his office door.

“Went to see a client.” Their eyes meet and in that moment Foggy knows he’s noticed it too; that things with him are just off-centre. Once again, relief rushes over him in a warm wave. Just to not be shouldering this all alone… it means more than he can say.

And Karen - he can’t think of anyone he’d rather be doing this with than her. And sitting here now - under her kind gaze, holding her warm hand - he feels suddenly very close to her.

When Matt was dead, they used to meet for drinks. She was the one person who understood his grief, the one person he could lean on in the whole thing. They’d spend long nights together, just talking - or sometimes just sitting in silent solidarity.

Suddenly, right now, he’s glad it’s just her here. And glad she’s the one to witness his moment of vulnerability.

He realises he’s sort of just - sitting there, gazing at her, and shakes himself with an awkward laugh.

“Anyway. How are you going on that case about the landlord?”

Karen stirs too, looking a bit flustered.

“Um - good, yeah, good. I’ve been doing a lot of research, just - there was a lot of reading, a lot of stuff to look through. I’m still not as familiar with all this as you two are,” she admits, and he squeezes her hand.

“Hey, you’ll get there!”

“There was some stuff I wanted to run past you, actually - I just need to read up on it all a bit more first.”

“How about you come over to my place tonight?” The invitation’s out of his mouth before he even really thinks about it, and he instantly feels awkward - but when Karen smiles he gathers the courage to keep on. “We could talk about it over some takeaway?”

“I’d like that,”  Karen murmurs, and the grin Foggy shoots her is probably way too wide and eager and embarrassing, but he doesn’t care - she smiles back, and looks over her shoulder at him when he leaves, and he tries to ignore the way his stomach’s suddenly alight with butterflies.

It’s good to distract themselves with work - good, for a little while, to focus on something normal for once. They order in Italian and drink probably a little too much wine, and after they’ve finished discussing the case they watch some truly awful reality TV and Foggy doesn’t think he’s laughed this much in a long time; it reminds him of the old days, back when the three of them used to go out for drinks and pool. He remembers how happy he used to be, seeing the other two let loose for once.

As the night winds down and they sober up with a little coffee, the conversation turns back to what they were discussing back at the office.

“I was telling Matt the other day I want to learn some self defence,” Foggy admits. “I know I’ll never be able to kick ass like he does, but I’d like to have something up my sleeve.”

“A gun,” Karen says instantly, “Have a gun up your sleeve.”

“I don’t think I could bring myself to shoot someone,” Foggy admits. Something flickers in her face and he reaches out and presses her wrist. “Not judging! I just genuinely think I’d freeze up and then the baddie would snatch the gun and I’ll be the one on the other end of it! No sir, give me a hockey stick any day. Something long range. Maybe a spear.”

Karen laughs a little. Some of the tension leaches from her shoulders.

“At the end of the day, there’s only so much any of us can do,” she admits. “You should see the state of the art security system back at my flat, though. I spent far too much money on it, but it’s worth it to at least be able to sleep a little easier.”

“That’s an idea. You know what I was thinking of getting? A really big dog.” He’s not even joking. Just not being alone at night would be something. Karen’s eyes light up and she’s cooing immediately. “Thought you’d like that idea.”

“You’ve made me want one now.” She takes another sip of her coffee. “Single woman living alone, I probably need one anyway, just for when I go out walking.”

“You’re still single then?” It comes out rather clumsily. In fact it’s a stupid comment, of course she’s still single. With just the three of them in the office all day long, they know everything about each other’s dating lives, i.e. the fact that they’re all non-existent.

Karen looks startled, and he backpedals.

“Sorry - sorry, that was weird and personal and-”

“It’s fine, Foggy.”

“I was just curious is all, since-”

“Foggy!” She laughs, reaches out and squeezes his leg. “It’s fine! Yes, I’m single. Everything’s just been such a whirlwind. I mean, I’d like to start dating again, but it’s… hard.”

“You and Matt,” Foggy can’t help saying - because he’s noticed how much closer they’ve been lately. Not like, together-close, not like they were once. But they sit together for lunch sometimes, talking quietly over their sandwiches, and it always seems weirdly intimate in a way Foggy doesn’t want to interrupt. And Matt seems - softer around her, less closed off.

But Karen shakes her head.

“I… we’re not back together. I still don’t know the whole story about what happened with Elektra,” she admits, “And I… I don’t think he’s ready to start anything. I don’t want to push too hard.”

“Fair enough.” His chest feels tight suddenly.

“I don’t want to be alone,” Karen admits, “But I can’t exactly just hop on Tinder. I need someone who understands all this.”

“That’s why me and Marci didn’t work out,” Foggy replies, “I couldn’t keep lying to her, even by omission. It wasn’t fair. And the second you tell someone about all this, they get dragged in. It’s not fair to do that, either.”

“Exactly!” she cries, and they swap a look of shared understanding, and the next thing he knows she’s shifting a little closer to him on the couch.

“What happened with us?” she asks suddenly, and it takes Foggy’s brain a second to catch up.

“What?”

“We were dating and then we weren’t,” she says, and Foggy swallows a lump in his throat at the thought of Elena, of that strange, confusing period of their lives right before everything changed forever.

“Things escalated so fast. We couldn’t keep up with it. It wasn’t a good time,” he replies, carefully.

Karen hums agreement. Foggy feels shy to look at her suddenly, but he forces himself to. She doesn’t look embarrassed or reserved. Just thoughtful.

“Karen?” he prompts quietly.

“I enjoyed tonight, Foggy,” she says - slowly. Testing the waters. His heart races. “I like being around you. I like having you on my team. I think… you’re the only person who really gets this. I mean, everyone else who knows… Claire’s never around any more, and Matt, it’s different with him. He’s in the middle of it all, we’re the ones who are forced to sit by the sidelines and watch.”

“It’s hard,” Foggy says.

“It is. But it’s worse alone. Maybe,” and now she seems shy, “Maybe now’s a better time? I don’t know, I-”

“You’re right,” he blurts out, maybe too eagerly, but it’s worth it when her shoulders slump in relief and she turns to him with a smile, “I mean, things didn’t work out then, but we’re all on the same page now. If you want, we could - pick up where we left off? Take it slow, maybe, just try and see what-”

“I’d like that,” she cuts in, and he gives another silly, wide grin, and she laughs and leans in and kisses him on the cheek. Her hand in his is small, warm, but calloused rough from writing, and the smell of her perfume washes over him, floral and familiar, and for a moment it wipes everything else from his mind - for a moment, for once, he truly feels peaceful.

Two days later he shows up at her door on a weekend morning with flowers and a bag of bagels.

“Foggy.” Her eyes are soft, face flushed with pleasure, “You didn’t need to-”

“We’ll take it slow,” he reassures her, “Is this okay?”

“More than okay.” She ushers him in and they spend the morning channel surfing and occasionally lazily making out and he has no idea, no idea how this will change things, how it might shift the fragile dynamic they’ve all built, but for once he’s not scared of change. For once he’s excited about something. It’s nice, after everything.

“At work,” he begins later that morning, “Are we-”

“Matt will know,” Karen says, “There’s no way we can hide this. Just don’t rub it in his face.”

“You think he’ll be okay?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Karen replies, “We’re not together, I told you.”

This is true. This is true, just - Foggy has no idea what goes on in Matt’s head sometimes. But he swallows his uncertainty and tangles his hand in her hair and rests their foreheads together.

“Let’s not fuck this up,” he breathes, and Karen laughs and puts a hand on his chest.

“I’ll try my best,” she says, and closes her eyes and nuzzles into the crook of his shoulder. “This is good, though, right?”

“Yeah.” And he doesn’t know how to put it into words, how steady he feels here, how anchored. I feel safe with you. And he knows on Monday they’ll have to figure out how these new pieces all fit together, but if they can make it work-

They’re stronger together, all of them, always have been, if they can all just stay - everything might be okay.

Together means with Karen. Or at least he thinks it might. He just needs to try not to think about how Matt, too, must fit into things - scared that if he starts messing with that loose end this whole thing might unravel.

4. KAREN AND HER WORLD-CLASS COPING MECHANISMS

So Karen will murder Frank if he ever tells anyone about this, but when he knocks at the door of her flat it’s very possible that - after a moment of stunned silence - she bursts into tears, throws her arms around him and bawls into his shirt for the better part of ten minutes.

Look. It’s been a very stressful couple of months, alright?

She doesn’t know why it’s the sight of him that makes her snap, makes it all come crashing down on her. Her brain is a muddle of I’ve been so scared and I wish you’d been here and I’m so fucking glad you’re okay and if I’d died I would never have seen you again. It’s not nice, delicate little tears either. It’s full on fucking sobbing, complete with red face and runny nose.

Frank, bless his weirdly chivalrous heart, manages to steer her inside and to the couch, and rubs his hand down her back and holds her close and murmurs all sorts of reassuring things like “It’s alright, sweetheart. You’re fine. We’re fine.” He very graciously does not mention the fact that she’s absolutely destroying his t-shirt.

Anyway, the really embarrassing part is when she calms down and sits up and realises she’s managed to get her foundation all over his clothes. Curse you, shitty drugstore setting spray!

“Oh my God,” she says - her nose is so blocked now that it comes out all tinny - “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I don’t know why I freaked out like that.” And then, inanely, “At least you aren’t wearing white.”

“It’s fine, Karen. I’m already covered in dog fur. You okay?” he asks, and he sounds so tender that she could cry all over again, but she takes a deep breath and pulls herself together.

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry. It’s just…” She trails off, helplessly, and Frank’s eyes flash for a moment.

“Fisk.”

“You heard?”

“I’ve been out of town for a while. But I’m caught up now. I’m glad you’re okay.” His hand comes up, brushes her cheek for a second and sends that electric spark shivering across her skin, and she struggles not to lean into the touch.

There’s something about Frank - some sort of raw, magnetic energy that always pulls her in. She knows he’s dangerous; she couldn’t care less. He’s never laid a hand on her. She feels protected around him, drawn to him in a way she’s never felt with anyone else.

“We took him down. For good this time. How have you been?” she adds. “Can you stay for a coffee?”

He nods, and they end up sitting for hours.

She knew about his pardon, but he fills her in on the rest of it. David and Billy and everything that went down. How he’s been working the last few months, how he’s been out doing some soul-searching. How he’s doing okay now.

She drinks in every word and even as she’s sitting across from him, she can’t stop staring.

There’s always been something a bit feral about Frank, a wild-animal energy in his eyes, like he could snap at any moment. But that’s gone now - or at least, faded a little - and she can’t help but gaze at him in admiration. He seems settled in a way she envies, but is also so, so proud of. He looks, she thinks, far closer to how he must’ve looked when his wife was alive. There is some hurt, of course, that doesn’t go away, but he seems - calmer. All she can think of is how strong he is.

God, she is so, so glad he’s back. It feels like a missing piece has settled back into place, one she’d been aching without but hadn’t been able to put her finger on.

“Tell me how you’re doing,” he says eventually, and she hesitates - there’s so much, and she doesn’t know if he knows about Matt - but then he adds, “Before you freak out, yes, I’m aware that Murdock runs around the city at night in the world’s stupidest fucking Halloween costume, so don’t feel the need to spare any details.”

She breaks down laughing, and relishes his crooked, almost mischievous grin, and it’s so easy to spill everything to him - so easy to rest on his strength for a bit.

“Hell of a time,” he says when she’s done, “Understatement of the fucking century, I know. Wilson Fisk is a cancer. With any luck someone’ll shank him in prison.”

“Matt could have killed him,” Karen says, “But I’m glad he didn’t.”

Frank nods, and she knows he gets it - knows after everything he told her about Billy that he’s not about to walk out of here and find some way to get at Fisk himself.

“It all hurt so much at the time, but I don’t blame Matt for any of it,” Karen continues - slowly, trying to sort out her thoughts as she goes. “I did at first, but now… it’s just messy. Messy and complicated. I was so angry, angry that he ran, that he shut us out. But I know he was hurting, too. Either way, we’re all doing okay, now. Doing better, at least.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Frank says, and does sound like he means it.  

At the door she hugs him again, carefully this time. For a moment, with his arms folded around her and his heart beating steadily under her cheek, she wishes she could stay there forever. Then feels embarrassed for thinking something like that; they’re close, and she knows Frank cares about her, but it’s… it’s not like that. He was married, once, he’s still mourning his family.

“Am I gonna see you around?” she asks.

“Maybe.” He holds out his hand and after a moment she passes him her phone. “I’m here if you need me.”

She nods, and watches him go, and closes her eyes, relishing the lingering warmth of his body against hers - then shakes herself for being so silly.

Okay, so it’s possible that she has a crush on Frank.

Maybe most people would see the Punisher and realise the sensible thing to do is run screaming in the opposite direction. But Karen… Karen’s always felt herself able to see under the surface. Beneath all the violence and single-minded determination, she can see how damaged Frank is. How the mad quest for vengeance stemmed from raw pain, how he loves his family so fucking much that what happened to them tore him apart.

There’s something admirable about it - to feel so deeply. To be so driven. And for all his bad qualities, all the things she finds terrifying or dangerous or sad about him, she knows he’s passionate and loyal and fiercely protective of his friends. What’s not attractive about that?

Anyway. It’s not like anything’s gonna happen.

Then, of course, there’s Matt.

Things with him are different. They were a slow burn from that first night he took her into his apartment. She’s always felt safe around him, and always found herself unable to pull away from what at first had been the mystery of him - that funny, quiet confidence undercut by a darkness she’d wanted to figure out. She’d seen something of herself in him - the hurt, abrasive parts - and thought maybe they could smooth out each other’s edges.

It was the lies that pulled them away from each other, and she’d given up any hope of them fixing things. But when they were taking down Fisk, when she’d set aside her anger…

Maybe those old feelings haven’t quite gone away.

But now there’s Foggy.

And if there’s one thing she’s gotta be perfectly clear about, it’s that he’s not a second choice or a fallback plan. Foggy’s sweet, and kind, and funny, and stable. She never feels like she doesn’t know where she stands with him, not like she does with Matt, who keeps his feelings all locked up close to his chest. She gets why, she really does, but it doesn’t make it any easier trying to be with him.

But Foggy - dear, gentle Foggy, Foggy who loves so deeply and openly, Foggy who’s a hero in his own way, who’s so selfless it almost hurts at times…

There’s one night she’ll always remember.

It was the night after Midland Circle came down. The night they realised Matt wasn’t coming back and it felt like someone was punching her in the heart, again and again and again. The two of them went back to her place and neither of them could speak. She’ll never forget the look on Foggy’s face - sort of desperately shell-shocked.

They’d laid in bed together - bodies curled close, occasionally shaking with silent sobs, just holding onto each other. Everything laid bare, raw and vulnerable and real. She remembers how tightly she held him, and how he was trembling so hard that it made her body shake, too. It felt like the longest night in the world.

She’s eternally grateful that she wasn’t alone, then. And she thinks it must have been the morning after - that terrible, terrible morning after, when the sun rose and she realised that this was real, that Matt wasn’t coming back - that she realised how much she loved him. When he got up and made her a cup of tea and came back and stroked her hair, and his eyes were swollen from crying, hers too, but he looked so strong - so brave - and the words he said stuck with her all the rest of those long months before Matt walked back into their lives.

“Just keep breathing.”

Now they’re lying together again, her head on his chest. Moonlight’s spilling through the window and she can feel the panicked fluttering of his heart against her cheek. Another bad dream. They woke each other up with their screaming.

A soft snort makes her turn to look up at him.

“We make a fucking pair, don’t we?” Foggy says, something self-deprecating in it.

She has to laugh. It’s laugh or cry. She presses a hand to his bare chest and he wraps his arm around her waist. His eyes, in the dark, look wide and haunted. She knows hers are the same.

“I’ve been held hostage so many times by now that you’d think I’d get used to the idea of dying,” she says. Even as the words come out of her mouth she realises, hey, your life is really super fucked up, Karen. “But I’m still not. I’m still scared.”

“I mean, it’s human instinct,” Foggy points out, but he leans down and kisses the top of her head. “I’d be more worried if you weren’t.”

“I know. Just. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of being scared all the time, I’m sick of being exhausted from constantly looking over my shoulder. I’m always worried that it’s only a matter of time until the next one.”

“I get that,” Foggy murmurs. “I just - try not to think about it. Take life as it comes. It’s that or fall apart.”

“Every time I think I’ve learned how to do that. And then the next idiot with a gun or a bomb or an army of undead ninjas comes along and I feel like we’re back to square one.”

“We’re not,” Foggy says, firmly, “Square one was the three of us alone with our secrets. We’re never gonna be like that again. We’re a team now. You and me and Matt. Things are different now. You don’t have to look over your shoulder twenty-four seven when we have each other’s backs.”

Her eyes widen. She… actually hadn’t thought about it like that before, and it makes a lot of sense, and hit with a sudden affection for him, she twists to press their lips together, relishes the little, pleased noise he makes, feels his heart grow steady under her palm.

“Your ex sounds like an asshole,” he tells her, on one of those nights; their deepest conversations seem to happen after midnight and usually after one or the other of them wakes them both up by accident. That’s less often, now. Sometimes they even get through the whole night without a bad dream. Just having another warm body in the bed seems to help.

Karen snorts a little. Her face is sticky with tears; the dreams tonight were about her brother, about the crash, and she’d spilled everything to Foggy when she woke up.

Part of her had been terrified, expecting judgement. But none came, and his hand is a steady grip around her wrist, thumb gently stroking the inside of her arm. She feels safe.

“That’s one way of putting it. But he didn’t kill my brother. That’s all on me.”

“No, it’s not,” Foggy says fiercely. “It was a messed up time and you made mistakes, sure. But you couldn’t have known what would happen. You were young and, and scared, and hurt, and maybe it’s not an excuse, but it’s not like you wanted any of it to play out like that.”

“You’re right,” she says, “It’s not an excuse.”

“Karen.” He grasps his face in her hands, thumbs smoothing across her cheekbones, wiping away damp tear tracks. “Your brother sounds like a good guy. He’d be proud of how you cleaned up your act, made something of yourself.”

“Foggy…”

“You can’t spend your whole life trying to pay back one mistake,” he insists. “That’s not how it works. How much is enough?”

She falls silent, unsure. Her heart feels sick inside, same way it always does. Her family is a wound that just keeps reopening, one she doesn’t think will ever heal. But she lets Foggy pull her close, lets herself bury her head in his chest, and tries to forget about it, at least for a little while.

“I know you and Foggy are dating again, you know,” Matt says one day. They’re eating lunch together because Foggy’s out visiting a client, and Karen goes very still. Stares at him carefully, trying to interpret his tone. “You don’t have to hide it.”

She lowers her sandwich, licks her lips nervously. She and Foggy’d had a hushed exchange outside the door right before he left about their plans for the evening. It’d been a bit awkward because she knew Matt could hear shit like that, but also it seemed rude to talk about plans in front of him that he wasn’t invited to.

“Sorry. We weren’t trying to hide it. We just felt - awkward. Making a big announcement seemed a bit weird.”

“Fair enough,” he replies. “Well, it’s fine. It’s good, actually. You two shouldn’t have to be alone.”

He picks a piece of lettuce out of his sandwich, pulls a horrible face at it for some reason, then puts it in his mouth anyway. Karen stares at him, a bit unsure what to do or say.

See, the thing is, if she and Foggy aren’t okay - because it’s not okay, it’s not normal to have so many nightmares, to flinch at every sound, to still be taken over some days by panic and grief - she’s pretty sure Matt must be, like, ten times worse. Even if they won, it’s not like that’s gonna magically take away the fact that right after he came back from the dead, it was glaringly obvious to anyone who so much as looked at him that he was super fucked up.

But he never talks about it, and she’s got this weird vibe like he’s trying to… not prove himself, not exactly, but - try not to upset them, maybe.

“You know,” she says, slowly, “It’s not the two of us together and then you off to the side, right?”

Matt goes still. He doesn’t even pretend to look up at her, eyes fixed sightlessly down at the table between them.

“Matt,” she prompts.

With his glasses on, it’s hard to read his face. He leans back, tugs at his collar a bit awkwardly. Karen catches a flash of a yellowing bruise on the side of his neck, mostly hidden by his clothes. She reaches out and presses his arm.

“Talk to me,” she says, insistently now.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he replies.

“Come on. Don’t be like that. What is it?”

Matt swallows. She can see the effort it takes him to get all personal, but waits, patiently. It’s like pulling teeth with all of them sometimes. What matters is they get there in the end.

“I guess,” Matt says finally, “I still feel a bit - out of it. Occasionally. I was gone for a while, Karen, things… changed. And I’ve always been used to working alone, to keeping secrets. But this,” he adds, and gestures around the office, “This is good.”

“Okay,” she replies. He doesn’t sound too upset, just resigned. “Just - if you ever want to talk about anything, you know we’re here, right?”

“Of course.”

“And you know it’s good to, right? ‘cause there aren’t many other people out there who would really get it.”

“I know,” he says - and after a moment he lifts his head a bit, meets her smile, folds his hand over hers.

There’s things the two of them have talked about. Especially immediately after they took down Fisk, there were nights she’d stay over at his place. Crash on his couch after a lot of late drinking. It was nice just not to be alone. They talked about Wesley, about Fisk and Dex and Ray, about all the shit they’d done, all the things they regretted. It’d been… nice. She’d finally felt close to him again. It’d all been so raw, it felt like they could say anything and it wouldn’t matter.

“I mean,” she continues now, “There’s shit in my past I can’t get over. I’d’ve gone crazy if I hadn’t been able to get that off my chest. But not many people can relate.”

Except you, she thinks, suddenly - because he does get it, and she loves Foggy but it’s one thing to listen and another to understand.

Guilt. Atonement. The sort of devils that people like them carry around. Their fucked up pieces just - fit together.

Stop that, she thinks, and tries not to stare at him - the clenched line of his jaw, the corner of his dark eyes that she can only just see behind his glasses. You can’t have him, you’re past all that, you have Foggy now, anyway. What are you even doing?

Matt swallows, throat bobbing sharply.

“I get it,” he says, quietly. “And I want to be there for you, too.”

“Oh, Matt,” she says, and squeezes his hand. “You are. I’m really glad you’re back. You know you can tell me anything, right?” she adds, and sees something flicker in his face. “I’m the last person who’d judge.”

Matt nods. He smiles a bit, but there’s something distant in it, and not for the first time Karen wonders exactly what sort of psychological beasts are eating at him.

“Can I hug you?” she asks instead, and Matt scoffs out a laugh. He nods, and she reaches out and pulls him in. His hands come up, slowly, pressing against her back; she tugs him close, cups the back of his head, fingers curling into his hair. Remembers, with a sharp pang of nostalgia, a time in this very office - before all this, when they were falling, falling apart, remembers how his voice broke. I can’t do this alone. Remembers how her heart ached for him.

“We need you here,” she whispers in his ear, “We want you here. So don’t go anywhere, okay?”

“Not intending to,” he replies, and she squeezes him tight and closes her eyes and-

And she loves Foggy-

And it’s kind of fucked up, how easy this feels. The two of them, together. How much it feels like if she could just let go of… of something, some last inhibition or insecurity, all the pieces would fall into place. She doesn’t know what that would even look like. What she does know is that Foggy and Matt, too, are close in a way she can’t even begin to touch. Even when she was with Matt, she was never his first port of call. Foggy was.

She might not know what’s going on. But here, now, she just needs him to understand that - even if it’s unspoken - what Foggy said-

You-

And me-

And Matt.

It feels weightier, now, than he probably meant it to at the time. But all she wants, one way or another, all she needs Matt to want too, is for all of them to stay.

Sometimes she wakes with a start in the night, scrabbling for the gun in her bedside drawer, closes her hands around it, needing the touch of cold metal to ground her, just until she feels like she can breathe again.

Sometimes she stares into her own eyes in the mirror, doesn’t think she can see a soul behind them.

Sometimes she’ll catch a glimpse of someone passing - a blond boy, about his height - and for a second her heart will squeeze so painfully that she’s quite sure it will burst.

But, you know, that’s nothing new.

She was fucked up long before she arrived in Hell’s Kitchen. But the more things keep falling apart, the better she’s gotten at sweeping all her broken pieces under the rug. Just keep going. Just - keep going.

So it’s some big, unspoken secret - she looks at the four of them, herself, and poor sleepless Foggy, and Matt who’s desperately holding himself together, and Frank who’s trying so hard - she looks at them and sees them all wavering along that dangerous tightrope trying frantically not to fall, and thinks, we’re all not really fine, but we’ll just keep stumbling on.

But this is where our story really starts; with Karen, and a single, snap decision that she has no idea will be the catalyst for all of their unsteady paths careening into one another.

It’s Father’s Day.

She’s been dreading it for weeks, as their fucked up consumerist society started up with the ads and the Hallmark Cards and the ‘For Him’ gift catalogues. Every year this is a sore spot. And every fucking year she can’t stop herself making the same mistakes.

Foggy invites her to his parents’ place. They’re having a big family lunch, but she knows she can’t go - knows it’ll only make her resentful, the sight of everything she can’t have. So after sleeping in until the afternoon, trying to waste as much of the day as possible, she finds herself sitting alone in her flat staring at her phone.

Every year she calls him.

Every year she can’t stop herself, and every year he either doesn’t pick up, or does and then hangs up on her, and it feels like it shatters her all over again. Even now, as she thinks about it, tears well in her eyes because can’t you see, can’t you see we’re all each other has left-

Can’t you ever forgive me-

And the worst part is, it’d be easy if she didn’t care. Easy to cut him off, think you asshole and forget about it.

But she does care. She wants to be close to her Dad again, she’s desperate for his affection, his forgiveness, and that makes it so much worse, and she gets halfway through dialling his number before she forces herself to throw her phone against the wall, get out of bed and go to make a pot of very strong coffee.

The afternoon wears on. She goes for a run, just to burn off some of her energy, but still feels like shit, and she’s sitting in a morose silence googling different mixed drinks trying to decide what will most efficiently get her fucked up when she suddenly thinks, Frank.

Today’s gotta suck for him as well.

Probably even more than it sucks for her, and the more she thinks about it, the more it’s enough to bring tears to her eyes - the thought of him wallowing somewhere, in so much pain, and probably alone - to be a father, then not, to have the most precious thing in the world ripped away from you-

She picks up her phone again.

His number’s still there, unused. A few times she’s been tempted to text him, but she always feels a bit silly. All the previous times they’ve talked it’s been when Frank was in some sort of trouble. It just feels weird to suddenly be like, ‘what’s up’ out of nowhere.

And even now - she doesn’t want to be alone, wants to at least offer for him not to have to be, either. But a phone call, even a message, seems too forward. Too much. Because Frank doesn’t know about her father, and their messed up relationship. He might think she’s just offering out of pity.

After going back and forth about it for about ten minutes, she finally puts the phone down. Can’t bring herself to do it; it seems too much. But instead - instead, just in case he is still watching her, she goes and puts the vase of flowers from Foggy in her window. If he does see it, he’ll know what it means.

It feels a bit weird. Using the flowers Foggy gave her to summon another man - especially because Foggy doesn’t know Frank’s back in town. Karen probably should’ve told him. Maybe it’s cowardly, but she just - knows Foggy doesn’t like him. Doesn’t wanna start that drama.

Anyway.

He’ll come or he won’t, she thinks, either way, I tried.

She sits back down, but a second later thinks, Matt, and feels another pang.

If today’s shit for her, it’s just as bad for him, because by her count that’s three father figures he’s lost now - his dad, and Stick, and Father Lantom - she’s suddenly quite concerned, because it’s been radio silence from him all day and she doesn’t like the thought of him sitting around somewhere wallowing.

With Matt, it’s easy. They see each other every day; it’s no big deal to shoot him a message - hey, come over if you want - and not twenty minutes later he’s knocking at her door.

She doesn’t know why she pauses, why she runs a hand over her hair to smooth the flyaways and straightens her shirt, because it’s not like Matt can see her anyway. She pulls open the door and it’s not until she actually lays eyes on him that she actually fully realises, oh, he’s here, he came. A big part of her hadn’t thought he actually would, but the sight of him now sends a rush of warm relief through her.

She really, really didn’t want to be alone today.

“Hey,” she says.

It’s probably really obvious she’s been upset. Even if Matt can’t see it, he can probably, like, smell that she was crying earlier. Or hear the strain in her voice. But he just lifts his head, and smiles at her.

“Hey,” he replies, sounding just as worn-down.

She reaches out and pulls him into a hug. Matt doesn’t resist; the hand that isn’t holding his cane comes up and wraps around her back. She closes her eyes, lets her head drop down against his shoulder for a moment.

They pull apart and she ushers him in. It’s always a bit weird seeing him out of a suit - in jeans and a hoodie he seems softer somehow. He takes off his glasses as he enters, setting them down on her coffee table, and Karen fights back a smile. She knows Matt trusts her, but it’s still nice to see those little signs that he’s willing to open up around her.

"You okay?” she asks, as she moves to grab glasses from the kitchenette.

“Surviving,” Matt replies, with a little huff. He rubs his knuckles with his opposite hand and she glances down; they’re red and scuffed, and it’s not hard to figure out that he’s probably been going hard at a punching bag. Maybe next year she should spend the day at the gun range; it’d certainly help her blow off steam.

She sits next to him and sets down two glasses and a bottle of whiskey.

“Today’s shit,” she says, flatly, and Matt barks out a laugh.

“You can say that again. Okay, but Mother’s Day - that’s going to be weird next year.”

“Oh my God. I didn’t even think of that.” She hasn’t seen Maggie since the shit that went down with Fisk and Matt never talks about her, but she assumes they’re still in contact. Hasn’t wanted to pry. “Good weird or bad weird?”

“Both.” His lips twist. “It’s complicated.”

She rubs his arm sympathetically and pours him a drink, sliding it across the table. He takes it and pauses a moment - hands wrapped around the glass, a thoughtful look on his face. She suddenly wonders what hundreds of little details he must be picking up around her apartment. The flowers, a few days old now, just starting to wilt. What she cooked for dinner this week. The fact that Foggy was here last night.

But all he says, after a moment, is “Thanks for inviting me over.” His voice is quiet and sincere, a little vulnerable, and she bumps her shoulder against his.

“It sucks, but it’s better when you’re not alone,” she whispers. His head lifts and they smile at each other, and maybe Matt can’t see hers, but she thinks suddenly he must be able to tell - if not that she’s smiling, then how she’s feeling. A sudden warmth, an intense closeness, that special connection that always seems to hang between them.

She opens her mouth, suddenly desperate to say something - not quite sure what, not yet, something about him, about how glad she is to have him, to know him, some sappy declaration of their friendship-

When there’s another knock at the door.

Matt nearly jumps out of his skin. It’s that which startles her; she nearly spills her drink.

“Shit,” she hisses. Then, “You okay? You didn’t hear them coming?”

“I heard someone coming upstairs but I thought it was your neighbour. I was distracted,” he admits, and Karen’s heart nearly skips a beat - by me? - but he’s frowning, now. “Okay, why is Frank Castle at your door?”

“You can tell it’s him?”

“Heartbeat, size, the smell of his clothes, it all adds up,” Matt says, “And his breathing is familiar.”

She’s not sure if that’s creepy or impressive.

“I invited him,” she admits, and Matt’s head snaps towards her.

“What?”

“Sort of,” she admits, flustered now. “Sorry, I didn’t think he’d actually show.”

She gets up and moves towards the door, only to pause and look back at him.

“Is this okay?”

God, she hadn’t been thinking. She’d literally had zero expectation that both of them would turn up, given their rather uncommunicative track records. Matt hesitates - but then his face softens, and he nods. He knows why Frank’s here. They both do. Karen heads to the door, and then pauses - scrubbing her hands over her face for a moment before she pulls it open.

Frank lifts his head. Shadowed eyes meet hers. He looks like shit - something a bit too defensive in the way he’s looming there, one arm resting against the doorframe. His clothes are rumpled and there’s already whiskey on his breath. His knuckles are bloodied, she notices. So he’s been punching things as well, but probably more in the vicinity of a wall.

“Hey,” she whispers, “I didn’t think you’d come.”

Frank’s eyes meets hers. There’s something a little helpless in them, under the burning anger and pain, and her heart nearly breaks for him - after the last time she saw him, she knows what it is. I thought I was doing better. But oh, Frank - it hasn’t been that long. How many Father’s Days without them? One, two? It doesn’t get easier. Not that soon, probably not ever.

“Not like I had much else to do,” he growls, but there’s something animal-scared, something so sad under it all, and before she really knows what she’s doing, she’s reaching out. Her hand cups his cheek, thumb stroking over rough stubble and the raised bump of an old scar. Frank leans into it, taking a deep, steadying breath. In the look that passes between them - a little too close, a little too intense - a lot is said. Their different flavours of pain.

She drops her hand and sees him shiver a little.

“Matt’s here,” she says, carefully. “Is that okay?”

Frank glances up. His face is unreadable, but after a moment he nods. He starts to step into the flat, and that’s when Karen notices the bigass German Shepherd he’s brought with him.

“Oh my God, you brought a dog. This day just got ten times better,” she exclaims - Frank’s lips twitch a little. “Is it friendly?”

“Yeah.”

“Fantastic. Come inside.”

She leads him into the living room. Matt’s standing up off the couch; he takes a step towards them and Karen watches, a little nervous, as the two of them pause for a second, taking each other in.

“Murdock,” Frank grunts finally.

“Castle,” Matt replies.

From where she’s standing Karen can see Frank’s face pretty well. There’s something a bit - surprised about it, a bit unsettled, his brows all screwed up. It takes her a second for her to realise why - he’s probably never seen Matt without either glasses or a mask covering half his face. It seems to have rattled him - Matt’s facing Frank, but his gaze is way off-mark, fixed just over his left shoulder. His face is stonily unreadable.

There’s something wary in it - but weary, too, she thinks. They all know why they’re here.

It’s the dog that breaks the tension, pushing its way past Frank’s legs and promptly trotting around the entire room sniffing everything. It picks up a shoe, throws it across the room - ignoring Frank’s indignant, “Behave yourself!” - and then scampers back over to them. When Karen crouches down, it happily shoves its head in her lap to be petted, and not gonna lie, for a second she’s pretty wrapped up in just giving the thing a cuddle.

“Who’s a good boy? You are! Yes! What a good - wait, is it a boy?” she adds, looking up at Frank. He’s staring down at them with a fondly amused look, and he nods.

“What’s his name?” Karen asks.

“Pie.”

“That’s so cute,” she says, which are three words she did not expect to ever direct towards the fucking Punisher, “I love pets with food names.”

“No, Pi, no ‘E’.”

“Like the maths?”

“Like the book about the kid and the tiger!” Frank says. He sounds exasperated, but she can see some of the tension has leached from his shoulders. A second later he throws himself down onto the couch, watching the two of them. Matt’s still standing off to the side. Frank has rather inconsiderately monopolised the very middle of the couch and due to his man-spreading it is impossible to sit down without touching him. A weird tension fills the entire room.

“You saw the flowers then,” Karen says eventually, when the silence gets a bit too awkward. “Still keeping tabs on me?”

“Of course,” Frank says, his eyes flicking to the window. “Figured either way we should keep some sort of emergency signal set up. My friend set up the camera for me so I can keep an eye out. We’ve got the same system with his window.”

“Camera?” Matt cuts in with a frown.

“Long story,” Karen replies, and shoots him a sheepish glance. “We needed a way to stay in touch back when Frank was on the run.”

“Ever heard of a burner phone?” Matt says, and Frank shoots him a scowl, useless as the gesture may be.

“I’ve just spent months working with a hacker. Any phone can be tracked, so don’t get smart with me, Red.” He throws one boot aggressively up onto the coffee table and folds his arms. Then seems to remember it’s Karen’s coffee table, sheepishly lowers it again, and proceeds to help himself to some whiskey.

Matt doesn’t reply, but his shoulders are tense, and Karen swallows a lump that’s suddenly risen in her throat.

“Guys…” she starts, quietly, glancing between them, and Frank pauses, shoulders hunched.

“We talked a couple weeks back,” he offers, “We’re all caught up. He knows I’m done with the Punisher shit so - I just don’t need the preaching, alright? ‘m not fucking stalking her, I’m just keeping tabs.”

“It’s fine, Matt,” Karen adds, “We have a system. I promise.”

“Okay,” Matt replies, stiffly.

Another silence falls. Matt’s still hovering to the side of the room, hands wrapped around his glass, fingers drumming anxiously. He’s so quiet that Karen feels a bit guilty for suddenly springing this on him. Like, it’s not like he’s shy, but he’s also certainly not about to get personal now - not with Frank here. And Frank is not currently looking particularly disposed to conversation either.

But they’re not here to make conversation, she realises, and rises, heading over to her drinks cabinet and flinging it open.

“Let’s not fight,” she declares. “Today’s a shit day for all of us and arguing’s only gonna make it worse. We’re not here to discuss our various extracurricular activities, so…” She turns, and waves a bottle of vodka. “Let’s focus on forgetting.”

“No arguments there,” Frank grunts.

After a moment, Matt nods. He gingerly sits down next to Frank on the couch. Reaches for his glasses on the table in front of them - then hesitates and drops his hand, seeming to reconsider. Frank notices, and stares at him for a long moment, then shifts over a little bit so that Matt has more room. Two small offerings, but they seem to break the tension between them a bit.

“Excellent,” Karen says, and grabs the shot glasses. “Let’s get super fucking drunk.”