Chapter Text
He meets her for coffee the last Friday of every month.
He's not sure how this happened, how they fell into this habit that they shouldn't have, but they did. And they do.
Friday. 6pm. Like clockwork. An old and surprisingly good coffee house on the outskirts of Hell’s Kitchen, hidden down a dingy alley and wedged between a sex shop and an abandoned movie theatre.
The truth is he's not really sure how it stays open; they're usually the only ones here, the phone never rings and there's no walk-in traffic. But it does. And there's always something halfway decent baking in the ancient oven and the waitress is pleasant and generous with refills… and he finds there's some things he doesn't really want answers to.
Things like why Karen comes, why she never misses a day, why she always looks happier than she should to see him.
Things like what will happen when one of these things isn't true anymore.
He tries really hard not to think about that too much.
He always arrives first, manages to slip in just before she gets there, orders something black and bitter for himself, something sweet and light for her. She’s not fussy and he thinks on some level she might find it amusing that he uses her as a guinea pig like this, letting her test whatever fucking salted caramel syrup frappuccino with raspberry chocolate fucking sprinkles they're flogging on any given day.
It's all bullshit. They both know it. He's never going to change from the dark roast long black to something easier. Smoother.
Sillier.
Still, there's something about the idea he finds endearing; even if there's something about her smile when she sees what he bought her that hits a little close to home, breaks a little too deep into his heart.
It's doing both those things now as she's standing next to the table, dusting snow off her shoulders, undoing her coat and tossing her purse into the booth, glancing briefly at the steaming Venetian mochaccino in front of her, the ridiculously tiny pieces of shortbread arranged in the saucer.
For a terrible, wonderful moment he lets himself believe the smile - and all that comes with it - is for him.
But only for a moment.
And then she's sitting down, pushing her hair out of her face and he's looking up from his newspaper, catching her eyes briefly, and he can feel his mouth quirking on the side; sees hers doing the same goddamn thing before she looks away, down at her hands, the coffee, the gouged wood of the table.
“Was nearly late,” she says as she pulls off her gloves and he’s suddenly wildly distracted by the slimness of her fingers, the blue veins he can see under her skin.
“That right?” he asks as he folds the paper neatly and slides it to the edge of the table.
She nods.
“Someone…” and she leans on the word long enough so that he looks up at her, catches her eye again. “Someone sent Mahoney enough evidence to put Julian Montaigne away forever. When they got there to arrest him he was basically waiting for them and begging them to take him in.”
He shrugs, makes a small sound in the back of his throat. “Is that so?”
She narrows her eyes and again he finds himself completely enthralled by that little smile - the way it gives nothing and everything away at the same time.
“Yeah. So strange don't you think?” Her tone tells him she doesn't find it strange in the slightest.
She takes a sip of her coffee - it must be good because for a second she seems to forget he’s there - and he realises he could spend every goddamn waking minute of his life watching Karen Page drink coffee.
“Very strange," he agrees. "Heard Montaigne was an ass, that he had it coming…”
“Did you now?”
He shrugs again. “People talk.”
“Mhmmm, I’m sure they do.”
It’s not a lie. Julian Montaigne was an ass. He owned a dodgy strip club on ninth that violated pretty much every health code in the state and that was before anyone even so much as scratched at the grime and semen stains to look below the surface and see what was going down behind the scenes.
Drug smuggling, dog fighting and girls disappearing far too regularly to just be drifters or runners.
So he took matters into his own hands. Or fists, as the case may be.
The truth is he doesn't do this often. Not anymore. But sometimes - like in the case of Montaigne - it just gets too bad and he can't ignore it.
For the most part though, he's content to sit back and let the law take care of its own. After all, he's got another shot, a second chance most men only dream about and for the first time in years it feels like he's got something he doesn't want to lose.
He looks over at Karen and wonders if that something isn't bigger than he first thought.
“Anyway…” she pops a piece of shortbread into her mouth. “So Mahoney called it into the paper because he thought I might know something, which of course I didn't, and Ellison made me write it up before I could leave.”
“Your boss is an asshole.”
She chews thoughtfully, nods.
“He is,” she agrees. “Also might be nice if Hell’s Kitchen vigilantes were a little more considerate of publishing schedules.”
And he can’t help the shy smile that spreads over his face, the way she manages to make him feel both appreciated and put in his place at the same time.
“I’m sure they’ll keep that in mind ma’am,” he says.
“Would just hate to have to cancel on you because some angsty crusader has an ax to grind in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
She’s flirting. He wasn’t sure before but he is now and he’s not even sure she knows it.
“If someone did that, I’d have to go have a long talk with him. Your time is important.”
It's true. It is. And even if she only gives him a few moments of it every month, it's more than he deserves and he wouldn't want to squander it.
She gives him another smile, pushes the hair out her face again.
“So Frank, why don't you tell me about your day?”
He does.
~~~
They talk about everything and nothing. She tells him about her job, about how her boss is generally a good guy but also knows how to push her buttons. He tells her about Curtis, sometimes about David. He talks about his family, about Maria and the kids and he notes she never talks about hers but he doesn't ever press. They avoid the topic of Murdock and he doesn’t really know if that is by design or simply because there’s not much to say. She’s lonely though. He knows that for sure. She doesn’t see as much of Foggy as she’d like because he’s always working and when he’s not, she is. She confesses that sometimes she finds it hard to make friends, to open up. And he thinks this is important and understands that she’s trying to tell him something even if he doesn’t really know exactly what it is yet.
The truth is though, he doesn’t really mind what they talk about or whether they talk at all. He just likes being with her, sharing these stolen moments together. It’s peaceful and he thinks they could both do with a little peace.
And it always ends too soon. It always seems that only minutes have passed before one of them looks at the time or the sky and realises that staying any longer might mean more than it should. And then it's a reluctant gathering of belongings and a generous tip for the waitress before they step out into whatever hell - or in some cases, heaven - Hell's Kitchen has waiting for them before they see one another again.
Sometimes he kisses her goodbye. It's become one of those things they do as they're standing in the street waiting to take their leave. He never plans it, never really thinks about it, but every now and then he’ll just cover her shoulders with his arm and press his lips to her cheek or her temple. It's always slow. It's always gentle and he finds he lingers longer than he should. Her cheeks are soft, plump, flesh pliable under his mouth… while her temple is harder, skin pulled taut over bone. If he kisses her temple he has a moment to smell her hair but with her cheek his lips can graze the corner of hers.
He hasn't decided what he likes best. He doesn't think he needs to choose.
He doesn't kiss her today though. Part of him feels certain things should be savoured, taken in small halting doses, stretched over time until he's had his fill.
Or maybe he's just a coward.
She's not though.
She turns to him on the sidewalk and before he knows it her arms are around him and her face buried in his neck, the tip of her nose icy against his skin.
This is her thing. Her little attack hugs he never sees coming but always relishes when they do. He thinks she likes to take him by surprise, show him he's not all vigilance all the time. And with her, letting his guard down doesn't feel like the anathema it should.
He hugs her back, maybe a little too hard, maybe a little too tight. Her perfume is fresh and citrusy but he's more interested in the smell of her skin as he turns his face into the crook of her shoulder, that gentle powdery smell of rose and vanilla.
She sways. She always does. It's like the first steps of a dance and he wonders for the hundredth thousandth time what it would be like to do that with her. How it would feel to hold her close, his hands on her skin and know he doesn't need to let go until the song is over.
And maybe not even then.
When she pulls away it's also slow, not the half-shocked, half embarrassed wrench she did the first time they did this. This is easy, comfortable, a gentle slide backwards and she keeps her hands on his shoulders, so he keeps his at her waist.
“Same time next month?” she asks.
It feels very far away when she says it like that. It’ll be April. The snow will be gone, turned to slush on the sidewalks, blocking the drains, shops will be advertising their summer ranges because everybody needs a fucking swimsuit on the first day of spring. It may as well be a different world.
But, like the kisses and the touches, the long lingering looks, he wonders if this isn’t also something to be stretched and savoured - not run into recklessly. He almost wants to laugh at that. The idea of the two of them not running headlong into danger, not throwing caution to the wind is laughable. That’s never been them. Not for a second.
Until now.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it’ll be good to see you.”
She regards him for a few seconds and his fingers twitch on her hard enough that he sees the flare of something a little reckless in her eyes.
Maybe she sees the same in his.
Maybe.
“You be careful,” she says.
“You too.”
And then she's gone and he thinks she takes part of his heart with her.