The last body dropped to the floor.
He takes a deep breath, wincing a bit as he turns around assessing his work; making sure no one is alive.
He holds his side as he clicks the safety on his gun and puts it back on the holster.
Fucking Irish, don't know when to stop. He thinks to himself.
He leaves the shipping docks, dragging his feet. He feels the adrenaline leave him only leaving him to feel the pain. The bruises that are marred across his body. His nose is bloody, his ribs are bruised and his knuckles are sore. At least with feeling the pain, he knows he is still alive.
Once he is a safe distance away, he finally hears the faint police sirens.
Before he realizes it, he is approaching her building. He climbs the stairs of the fire escape slowly, he realizes belatedly how dangerous this is. The danger he is putting her in by simply making an reappearance. He hisses as he sits on the stairs, letting the cold metal soothe his heated skin. He is tired, broken. A man whose world has been rendered to ash. But somehow in the fog, she, she makes it better. Bearable. He taps her window, almost immediately his nostrils take in the scent he has learned to associate with her, lavender.
For someone who writes about the absolute worse scum of the earth, she sure knows how to paint a target on her back. He is almost sure she doesn't give a damn.
"Jesus, Frank." Her voice is soft full of concern.
"Ma'am," he greets in a whisper.
He wants to tell her his injuries are not serious but he is too tired to talk. He wants to sleep. Feel at peace, if only for a moment before his pleasant dreams turn into nightmares. Where he is relieving the day at the park and he is wondering why he was left alive and not killed viciously as...
"Frank, can you hear me?" Her soft voice tears to his rattled mind and gives her a soft nod. Somehow she managed to bring him back to the present. He doesn't dwell on that. The power she somehow possesses over him. The one she’s always had on him.
He opens his eyes a little more and he is sitting on her couch. He doesn't remember walking through her window.
"I'm going to clean some of these cuts and leave the gauze out in case you want to tend your bruised ribs later."
Later, that's the word that catches his attention. He had no intention of spending the night at her place. Hell, he shouldn't even be here.
As if sensing what he was thinking, she huffed in annoyance, "there's no way in hell I'm letting you walk out that door or window, so help me God."
He grunted, she was a feisty one, Karen. He respected the hell out of her. With her it was simple, yet complicated. For a dead man, she sure made him feel alive. Quieted the rage. There was a moments peace in his war-riddled mind. He was delving into dangerous territory. There was no way in hell, he could be the doting man he once was. That all died when his family was brutally murdered.
She tended his wounds with outmost care and precision. She was humming a tune he'd never heard before. He studied her face. She was a beauty, clear blue eyes, shoulder length blonde hair, he wanted to, his fingers itched, but refrained from touching it. Those pink lips, lips that...
"You're staring, Castle."
He could apologize but he isn't sorry. They're, if anything, honest with one another. No bullshit.
She is cleaning the cuts on his hand and he feels that itch to curl is fingers around her hand and entwine his finger through hers. Pull her close and...
"Ease up on your breathing. Relax before you give yourself a panic attack." Her voice is soft and again full of concern.
He wants to tell her how she fucks him up. Distracts him, but then again, he was the one that showed up at her apartment after he left her in the forest six months ago. He wants to throw caution to the wind and he does.
"I thought I was dead to you."
He hears her breathing hitch. A slew of emotions cross her face and then she lets out long breath. She surprises him by caressing his face. Her expressive blue eyes shining with unshed tears. He leans into her touch, wanting to bury himself in her palm.
Perhaps she, she can be the sedative. Perhaps...
He almost feels guilty for making the statement.
Until he hears the response that absolves him, "You have never been dead to me. Never, Castle."
She exhales, “That night, I thought I could be your voice of reason. Keep you from doing something you would no longer be able to escape from. But I was wrong. I mean, in a way it had to happen. You had to do what you thought was justified. And, God Frank."
He expected judgment. For her to yell and damn him. For everything he expected, he didn't expect her to understand.
“Did it solve anything? Help you?” She whispered.
He shakes his head still reeling from her response, “It needed to be taken care of.” Is all he says, voice rough.
She hums and nods. He keeps studying her, something inside him shifts. That itch, that need, that want, intensifies.
Fuck it, he thinks to himself.
He stands and he swears that in that moment he doesn’t feel an ounce of pain. He never breaks eye contact with her, who is looking at him a little confused. He smiles at her and caresses her cheek, he feels something tug at him when she leans into his touch.
“Beautiful,” he whispers and her blue eyes widen, her porcelain cheeks taking on a rosy hue.
He is supposed to be dead. But dead people can’t feel a thing. But she, she makes him feel. Makes him want to...
He brushes his lips against hers. A silent prayer, don’t push me away. She doesn’t. Her hands settle on his chest as she reciprocates the kiss. A hum from her. A groan vibrates deep within. He deepens the kiss, his hands on her waist.
She breaks the kiss, resting her head on his shoulder. He feels at ease, the war is quiet in his mind. His focus on her, Karen.
"Please stay," she whispers sometime later when they are on the couch with her on his lap. It isn't lost on him that this time she isn't making the decision for him, she's giving him a choice.
He is keenly aware that if he accepts her offer, there was no turning back. He would stay, indefinitely. At least until she realized how insane it was to be with 'The Punisher.' The ball would always be on her court. He would never be able to walk away, not unless she told him so.
He looks down at her and she's looking at him expectingly. He caresses her cheek again, as if he can deny her anything. The realization of that is not lost on him either.
"Frank?"
He smiles and gives her a small nod.
She smiles. His heart clenches.
He stays. She holds on tightly with two hands with no intention of letting go.