#pete if we ever cross paths again i hope u remember even just a little

[lyekisses]

sometimes i’m like “pete doesn’t remember me he never thinks about me” other times i’m like “he literally visits me in my dreams”

[calleyincali]

After. A Kastle Fanfic. 

What does ‘after’ mean for a marine turned vigilante who has lost everything. What happens when you are given the chance to have an ‘after’--a fresh start? 

Kastle fic. More than likely going to end up being a multi-chapter fic that will be an M (18+) rating. Chapter 1 below. Will also be uploading to FF.net. 

Word count: 1675

David Lieberman followed his wife into the kitchen of his house, dumbfounded yet again by the fact that he was actually home and this was actually happening.

He’d spend the last year in a basement hoping for this very moment, but had doubted that it would ever happen. Then, a very scar man with a lot of very scary guns came and changed everything and--oddly enough--for the better.

“So, where’s pete?” Leo asked again as she passed him the plate of steaming green beans so that he could serve himself. His wife and son look at him expectantly and David smiled.

“Pete wanted to come tonight, he uh told me to tell you that.” David watched their faces fall a little bit and he sighed, Frank Castle had become a part of his family despite his bloody past (and quite frankly present). “But, I think that he has someone waiting for him.”

“Pete has friends?” Zach asked incredulously but after a sharp look from his mother he shrugged sheepishly.

“Yes he does. Lots more than he thinks.”

------------

Karen Page sat at her desk, tapping her pen up and down as she stared at the blinking cursor on her computer screen. The rest of the Bulletin was gone for the day--it was Thanksgiving after all--so hers was the only light on in the building.

Foggy had invited her to Thanksgiving dinner at his house but Karen didn’t much feel like spending the night chatting with a bunch of lawyers. Besides, it wasn’t like she would be very cheerful anyways.

The past year had been one of the hardest years of her life--and she’d had some pretty bad years. Six months since Matt. Two since Frank. It didn’t feel right to be where she was, at the peak of her career as a journalist (something a lot of journalists would never reach). But the path to getting where she was constantly threatened to destroy her.

Karen looked down at the article she was writing, a puff piece on the newly elected Senator Matthews. Matthews had won the election that bumped Senator Ori from his seat--much to Karen’s satisfaction. After all of the chaos of the Lewis Walcott attack, Ori had gone on any and every news station to blame Frank Castle for the attack even though Frank had taken a bullet for him.

Karen had called him out publicly and she was grateful that the general public put enough trust in her that they knew she wasn’t lying.

With a weary sigh Karen pushed her laptop a crossed the desk and away from her and leaned back in her chair. She was starting to get another tension migraine, something that had become all too common in the past few months. Pinching the bridge of her nose she closed her eyes and let the darkness on the inside of her lids soothe her.

Her cell phone chimed on her desk and she groaned, opening her eyes and looking at the message.

‘Sure u don’t wanna come? Turkey delish. :(‘

Attached was a photo of Foggy in the ugliest sweater vest that she had ever seen holding up a cooked turkey with the pride that could only be described as fatherly.

Karen’s resolve quickly crumbled as the silence seemed to choke her and she unlocked her phone to send a quick ok text.

That is until the sound of soft footsteps caught her attention. Karen told herself that it was probably someone from the office grabbing something that they had forgotten the day before, but something inside her told her that that was not the case.

Slowly she reached down into her bag and pulled the tiny pistol from it’s depths, her finger resting on the safety.

“Who’s there?” She asked from her seat, her limbs tense and ready to move if need be, for an added measure of movement she kicked off her heels under the desk and planted the balls of her feet firmly on the ground.

“Just me.” A familiarly rough voice said from the inky darkness of the office and it took a moment for her brain to catch up with her memory.

“Frank?” She asked, surprise filling her voice as he stepped into the light with a sheepish half-smile.

“Hey Karen.”

Karen felt dozens of emotions course through her body all at once and eventually anger won out.

“I thought you were dead.” She said tightly “I put out the flowers on the windowsill everyday for eight weeks. When those flowers died I got new ones. You didn’t come so I figured ‘well I guess Frank finally got himself killed.’”

“I’m sorry… I wasn’t in any shape to come to you and I didn’t want to put you in anymore danger than I already had.” Frank still stood in the doorway awkwardly.

“Come in, you don’t need to hover over there like that.”

Frank entered the office and sat down heavily on the old couch that sat against one wall. His features were illuminated by the lamp on Karen’s desk and she finally got a good look at him for the first time in two months. His face was free of bruises, she noted with shock, and his jaw had a shadow of stubble growing already--telling her that he was growing out his hair to help conceal his identity.

After a few moments of silence Karen leaned forwards and planted her elbows on the desk “What happened?” She asked with a sigh.

“I’m surprised that Karen Page, New York’s favorite investigative journalist, doesn’t already know everything.” Frank commented with a low chuckle and Karen felt her lips twitch upwards but she kept her face impassive.

“I didn’t actively look for you. I didn’t want to tip the authorities or media off if I found anything. The less I stirred the pot, the better. It was giving you a better chance to disappear--if you were alive that is. I wasn’t even sure if you were alive and I doubted that anyone would ever tell me if you were.” Karen opened her desk drawer and withdrew a manilla file folder and opening it, sliding the articles within out one by one.

“Central Park terror: Two held hostage by Anvil Executive Billy Russo.”

“NSA Analyst turned whistleblower of military corruption. Operation Cerberus.”

She pointed to the last one “Punisher. Vigilante, criminal or terrorist. Where is he now?”

“These.” She made a sweeping gesture at the pages that now littered her desk “Are all that I had to go on. I thought about contacting Lieberman, but honestly Frank? I was scared of what I would find--what fears he would possibly confirm.” Karen pressed a shaking hand to her mouth as she realized she’d let her emotions get the best of her--again. “So, I ask again. Please tell me what happened.”

So Frank told her. Karen could tell he left out several particularly gory parts since, as usual, he was trying to shield her from everything. Then, they sat staring at each other in the dim lamplight.

“Frank, what does that mean--what did Marion James do for you exactly?” Karen finally asked, pushing her hair over her shoulder in a nervous gesture.

“It means that she gave me an ‘after’. Or rather, she gave Pete Castiglione an after.”

“Does that mean I have to call you Pete now?” Karen asked incredulously “Because you don’t really look like a Pete.” Karen finished, laughing for what felt like the first time in days.

“In public yes. But if it’s just the two of us I’d like for you to call me Frank still.”

The two of us. The words sat warmly within Karen for reasons she was still afraid to voice. Her mind flew back to that day in the elevator after he’d ‘taken her hostage’. She still remembered the smell of burning and the ringing in her ears from the two explosions that had rocked the hotel that day. But she also keenly remembered the feeling of his forehead pressing into hers as his shoulder drew up and down heavily in ragged, desperate breaths. She had wanted to say something--or do something. But how would that sort of thing ever be possible? Why did she always have connections with men who were so deeply tied to others?

“Karen?” Frank’s voice cut through her jumbled thoughts, he was now standing in front of her she realized with a jolt.

“Sorry.” She apologized sheepishly as she put all of the papers back in their folder and slid the folder back into the drawer. After she had finished she chanced a glance up at him and found his eyes boring into his.

Her throat tightened and she stood and moved around the desk and pulled him into a tight hug, “I’m really glad you’re alive.” She whispered before pulling away “And if you make me have to say that anymore times after this I’m going to kill you myself.”

Frank laughed a quick loud laugh which surprised them both and Karen followed his gaze down to her bare feet. “I was just making sure I could get away from the desk in a hurry.” She explained with an embarrassed smile.

“Karen Page always ready for anything.”

Karen chuckled and move back around the desk to slip her shoes back on and slide her laptop into her bag. “So, Pete Castiglione. What is your ‘after’?” She asked as she slipped her coat on.

“I think, Ms. Page, that it starts with some great coffee and possibly some pancakes. Care to join me?”

“You think that we’d really find a decent dinner that is open after six on Thanksgiving?” Karen asked incredulously.

“I think that we will never know if we don’t try.” Frank replied and Karen turned off the light of the office and they headed out, their voices fading into the distance.

Once things were completely silence the inky blackness of the office shifted as the office light of one Karen Page was turned back on and a figure dressed in black stepped inside.