Foggy
can never know. Neither can Karen, for that matter. The things they already do know
complicate matters enough without contradiction, and there are no words that
help bridge what the Punisher’s does on the streets and what Frank Castle does
in the sheets.
Besides, Matt understands. Put
her in a court of law and spell it out for her, she’d have no defence. The words
would undo her. The evidence would crush her. But put her and Frank in a dark room,
let them speak with their skin, with their teeth, with their hands; let them speak
their own damn language, and they make perfect sense.
Neither of them know who
initiates, and neither of them ask. It doesn’t matter. They come through the
door of her loft making war; they reach the bottom of the stairs making
something else. Not love, not exactly. They’re still aiming to bruise, to maim,
but amidst the mad tango of their hands, Frank’s shirt comes off. Her mask is
thrown to the side. She bites down on the crack in his lips and Frank pins her wrists
above her head, and they could both leave, they could, if only they wanted to.
The suit comes off. Frank’s pants
drop. They explore each other with pinches and pushes, with palms that don’t
know how to caress and bodies that don’t know how to be held. He grabs her and Matt
grabs him back, and they land on her couch in a revolving tangle: Matt flipping
Frank flipping Matt, a fight punctuated by grumbles and, “Fucks,” and threats that
give way to moans and groans and finally blessed silence.
A lot like their fights,
actually.
They haunt every corner of her
apartment. They consecrate the landing where it all began, the stairs; they wash
blood off each other in the shower, worrying at each other’s fresh wounds with their
mouths. They demolish her kitchen one night, then it’s back to the couch, the bedroom
doorway, and finally the bed, where Frank tries to cuff her only to end up
cuffed to her.
The things they say to each other,
it’s the same crap they spew at each other from rooftops, but here, in the dark,
surrounded by silk, skin to skin, scar for scar, it’s different. Their lines
are laid bare. So they say what they want, they hurt what they will, but Matt
rubs the back of his neck while Frank lets his hand warm her lower back. What
they have only looks like hell.
Thank God no one’s watching.