Chapter Text
The way back to my apartment was silent. Every now and then, I thought I was about to start crying again, but apparently, I’m too dehydrated to produce any more tears. The adrenaline faded, leaving me with a throbbing headache. Frank drives calmly, slowly—I think he wants to give me time to process everything that just happened.
Foggy is dead. Matt is missing. Or at least, missing to me, because I haven’t heard from him since the chaos at the bar started. I know he fought as Daredevil and was still in the suit when everything happened. Was he the one who threw Poindexter off the roof? I think so—it’s the only plausible option. But why didn’t he come down? Why didn’t he come to me? Matt has this terrible habit of disappearing and leaving me alone in the dark, consumed by all my doubts and uncertainties. Then he shows up again like his absence didn’t leave a mess too big to fix.
I’m so lost in thought that I don’t even notice when the car stops. I know Frank is going to come up with me because I told him I didn’t want to be alone. I also think he wouldn’t leave me by myself without being absolutely sure that no homicidal maniac is following me.
Proof of that is that he searches the entire apartment, the lounge, the fire escape, and any other place someone could possibly hide.
“Can we go in now?” I ask sarcastically.
“All clear, ma’am.”
And here we are. Me and Frank. Alone. In an apartment. I let out a small chuckle when I remember years ago when we were in a similar situation.
“You joined the hipsters again?” I give in to the urge to tease him.
Frank looks at me confused, but I see the smile forming when the memory hits him too.
“Having a man-bun is harder than I thought it would be,” he teases back, and his playful tone soothes some of my pain. “You should take a shower, K. It’ll do you good.”
“Are you saying I stink?”
“Far from it,” he says, a bit too seriously.
That’s when I really look at him for the first time tonight. Frank’s wearing a pair of regular, slightly faded jeans, a black hoodie, and I know there’s a long-sleeved black shirt underneath. Now, with my mind a little clearer, I realize I was a bit unfair calling him like that in the middle of the night. I don’t think he was sleeping, but I don’t know if I messed up his night.
“I would’ve come.” Frank interrupts my thoughts. “I would’ve come anyway.”
“Can you read minds?”
“You’re not as subtle as you think you are… Not to me.”
His confession catches me off guard.
We have this unspoken agreement: Frank and I don’t lie to each other. Frank has always been honest with me, no matter how much his honesty might hurt. I’m transparent too, though the clarity of my feelings scares him. It’s all too raw and intense; it’s not hard to conclude that neither of us knows how to deal with the naked truth of what we feel for each other.
But there’s no point reflecting on that now, so I just sigh heavily and run my hand through my hair. When I look down, the blonde ends are stained with blood.
“Maybe a shower isn’t a bad idea,” I mutter awkwardly.
“Go. I’ll still be here when you’re done.”
“I know,” I murmur.
The jet of hot water from the shower is truly a blessing. Maybe it’s too hot, but I don’t care. The burning pain on my shoulders is nothing compared to the pain weighing down my chest.
I make no move to grab the shampoo or body wash. I just… stand there, staring at the wall of the shower. I know time is passing because steam starts to fog up the glass and drip down the cold tile in little droplets. My stuffy nose finds some relief—it’s almost like the white steam cocoons me in a protective shield against the outside world—but every time I close my eyes, it’s Foggy’s body that comes to me.
I open my eyes to escape his ghost, but I see blood running from my hair. The hand that held his shirt still has dried blood under the nails. I grab a forgotten bar of soap and start to lather and scrub my hands in a mechanical, rushed gesture. I scrub harder and harder, as if by washing off the blood, the memory would drain away with it. But no—it’s all still there, echoing in my mind and chest.
The blood. The sharp sound of the gunshot. Foggy’s confused, terrified look. The sirens. The photographers.
It all comes back like an avalanche.
Hello, Karen.
It should’ve been me. It should’ve been me. Or both of us. Why?
My chest heaves painfully, like breathing is no longer an automatic act. Did Foggy have trouble breathing in his final moments? I know he did. Did he feel pain? Or did his body numb it all? Thinking about Foggy in pain is suffocating. So suffocating that I curl up on the floor.
The steam in the shower no longer feels protective. Now it feels like the smoke Poindexter threw at us after shooting Foggy.
Everything blurs together—memories and reality. I can’t tell what’s real or not anymore. Whether Bullseye is going to emerge from the steam in the shower like he did on the street. A siren wails outside. Did he escape? Did Matt not run, and now they’ve found his body?
The image of Foggy, bleeding out on the ground, flashes before my eyes and I start to scream and choke.
I try to find the shower handle to turn it off, but everything is blurry. It’s hot, like it’s burning. I start shaking as the air leaves me and my body succumbs to coughing. I don’t know if I start yelling for help or if I just take too long, but suddenly I hear the loud sound of Frank bursting through the door and rushing into the bathroom.
He crouches beside me and pulls me into his chest. My rational side wants to push him away, say I’m fine. That he doesn’t need to hold me and I’m going to soak his shirt. But he doesn’t seem to care.
Of course not. It’s Frank.
“It’s okay,” Frank whispers in my ear. “It’s okay, it’s not real. I’m here with you.”
I try to find something to anchor me to reality. Something to pull me out of that room where Foggy’s death plays on a loop.
“Breathe with me,” Frank says. “Breathe in… and breathe through… breathe deep… now breathe out.”
I follow his instructions as best I can.
Slowly, my senses begin to return to normal. I feel the wet cotton of Frank’s shirt. His fingers on the back of my neck. His chest rising and falling as he breathes. I cling to the calm tone of his voice and the comforting scent of coffee and cream that seems embedded in him.
It takes a few moments for my breathing to settle and that invisible hand to stop suffocating my chest.
“Do you want help?” Frank asks. “To finish it?”
Finish. Yes, of course.
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay.”
With incredible gentleness, Frank picks up the shampoo and begins massaging my scalp. I don’t know if I’m crying from grief or gratitude. Because that’s what I feel—grateful that Frank is here.
The shower isn’t so hot anymore; the water feels refreshing, and together, it and Frank wash away the blood, the dirt, the sweat, and the remnants of that dreadful night. They can’t wash away the pain and guilt gnawing at me from the inside, but I think Frank knows that. He’s not telling me it’s going to be okay. That it’ll pass. We both know better than that.
When the sound of the shower stops, I know it’s time to face reality again. My eyes still burn and my head aches, but I can’t hide in here forever.
“Can you walk or should I carry you?” the sweetness in Frank’s voice surprises me.
I’m so used to the rough, combative version of him that I forget how he knows other ways to protect me.
“I can walk out on my own,” I answer, “But I need a towel,” I add, realizing how stuffy my voice sounds.
“Okay.”
Frank gets up swiftly and leaves the bathroom. I take those few moments to get my head straight.
Foggy is dead. Matt isn’t here. Today was bad, but dealing with the funeral prep will be worse. Telling his family will be devastating.
Is Matt with them now? Or did he leave it to the police to inform them of the death?
Whatever happened, I have to be better tomorrow.
Frank comes back with a thick, dark blue towel and hands it to me.
“Found this in your closet,” he says, setting a pair of red flannel pants and a thin cotton shirt on the counter.
“Thanks,” I mouthed.
“No problem. I’ll let you get dressed, but please don’t take too long.”
I understand instantly what he means. Please don’t take too long—to the point I think something happened to you.
“I promise.”
I keep my promise and don’t take more than five minutes to dress, comb, and dry my hair. Not just because I don’t want to worry Frank, but because there’s no reason to linger. There’s nothing for me in hiding in a bathroom.
When I return to the living room, I’m greeted by a fresh, calming smell.
“You made me tea?” I ask, half in disbelief.
“Normally I’d go with coffee, but you need to sleep, and caffeine won’t do you any favors.”
Frank sets two steaming mugs of orange, cinnamon, honey, and fennel tea on the counter, along with two plates of “everything-left-in-the-fridge” sandwiches.
“You’re not very good at grocery shopping,” Frank teases.
“Well, I learned from the best,” I mock.
To his credit, the sandwich is delicious. And the fennel tea manages the temporary miracle of relaxing me.
Obviously, it helps that I feel safer with him here, but I don’t want to think about the effect Frank has on me right now.
“Where’d you learn to make sandwiches?” I ask.
“Isn’t it an inherent human skill?”
“I think anyone can throw cheese and ham on bread, but a sandwich is a different science,” I argue as I take a generous bite of mine.
Frank laughs quietly, and I notice the cute way his nose wrinkles when he does.
“Appreciate it,” he says.
A comfortable silence settles between us as we eat our improvised meal. Now and then, I catch Frank staring at me—but it’s balanced by how often he catches me staring at him. It’s funny. I notice how he runs his tongue over his bottom lip when he’s nervous or deep in thought. I’m sure he notices when I look down and let my hair fall over my face so he doesn’t see me blushing.
I don’t know why we’re like this, but we are. It’s pure. Peaceful. Totally different from the chaotic state we usually find ourselves in. A very welcome break from the cruel reality I face now.
I want to get up. Hug him. Bury my face in the crook of his neck. Run my fingers through his hair.
He’ll never know that deep down, I like the hipster hair. That I’d give anything to run my fingers through those thick strands he let grow.
“Okay, you’re awkwardly staring now,” Frank teases.
I laugh awkwardly in response, but deep down I’m not embarrassed. Just a little.
“Guess it’s time for bed, then,” I reply in a low tone. “Leave the dishes. We can deal with them tomorrow.”
“We?” Frank questioned, a bit suggestively.
I look at him with a sly smile playing on my lips.
“Are you gonna be gone by the time I wake up?” I challenge.
I can’t decipher the way he looks at me—half hurt, but understanding. Frank takes two steps toward me, and it’s enough for him to be close enough that I can hear his shaky breath.
“I’m not going anywhere… unless you want me to.” It’s his turn to provoke me.
“I want you here,” I declare. “But that was never enough to make you stay before.”
I regret the words the moment they leave my mouth. Stupid girl. I hate when I let my sadness spill over and hurt others. Frank came to help me, and here I am lashing out at him. I know I’m right, and it’s something I’ve felt for a long time—but this wasn’t the time.
“Frank, I’m sorry. I—”
“No, it’s okay.”
“It’s really not. I shouldn’t—”
“Hey.” He cups my face with his hand. “It’s okay. I deserved it.”
“No, you didn’t,” I say softly, but looking straight into his eyes. “Not after today.”
It happens so fast—suddenly, he takes two large steps and is on the other side of the room, pacing like he’s lost. Frank bites his lip. Runs his hands through his hair, looking around like he has too many things to say and not enough words.
“I’m sorry I pushed you away. In the hospital, I shouldn’t have treated you like that,” his broken voice echoes through the room. “I left you alone… and I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Frank—” I try to speak, but he cuts me off.
“No you…” I see he’s struggling not to cry. “You don’t understand… I… I went to find you and there was all that blood. And then you started choking in the bathroom, I thought you were hurt and I hadn’t noticed and now it was too late and you were dying and…”
Frank stops. Swallows hard and takes a deep breath. I walk toward him slowly, wanting to respect the space he clearly needs.
The silence between us is heavy.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he breaks. “A million thoughts raced through my mind. I tried to imagine a world without you, and it wasn’t a world I wanted to be in… Because I can live in a world where you hate me. It would be hell, but I’d survive… What I can’t do, K, is live in a world without you. That’d be too much.”
Somehow, we gravitate toward each other until our hands touch, and I feel the warmth of his skin against the back of my hand.
“You’re right. I pushed you away,” Frank continues. “But what I felt today… I never want to feel that again.”
“Then don’t disappear.”
“I won’t.”
Our foreheads rest against each other. I lose track of time because all I can focus on is Frank. His breath against my cheek. My fingers caressing his muscular arm through his shirt.
In rare moments like this, I feel time freeze. Everything around us becomes static—nonexistent. No problems. No chases. No death. Just one single glimpse of relief, and although brief, it makes everything else bearable.
I close my eyes, and for the first time tonight, I don’t see Foggy. I see me and Frank. The two of us in the elevator. And then in the hospital. Foreheads pressed together just like now.
I don’t know how long we stay like that.
“I don’t wanna be alone in my dark room… Actually, I don’t wanna be there at all.”
There’s a photo of me and Foggy hanging in there. I don’t want to look at it tonight.
“Guess we’re gonna share the couch then,” Frank teases, and it makes me laugh.
“Guess we will.”
And we do.
And when I wake up in the middle of the night caught in one of my nightmares—Frank is still there to hold me.