I, of course, do not own any part of the Marvel Universe. If I did I wouldn't be refinancing my mortgage. Explicit Warning: This is a Frank Castle/ Karen Page pairing fic that contains explicit sexual content. If this isn't your thing; turn back now. You have been warned.

Frank Castle had been too tired to take his wife to bed when he came home from The Shit.

He regretted that now.

Well, maybe not now, as he was strapped to the sterile white hospital bed with soft nylon - cotton blend restraints, but, in general it would become one of his life's regrets.

That night he went home with his family and forewent eating dinner to curl up in his King sized bed. He told his Maria that he would be better tomorrow; 'jetlag' he'd said.

He'd laid there, heavy and cold, sweating slightly as he listened to the sounds of dinner, then the TV, then Lisa begging to have him read to her.

The features on Maria's face had bunched up in concern when she'd come to their room and found him with her pillow pulled to his face, his eyes open, staring at the wall.

"Babe," he'd refocused on her features and gave her his best smile, "I'm fine, just, tired." He'd reached up then and gently pulled her down into bed with him. Replacing her pillow with the source of the smell he loved. He'd bowed around her body and banded his arms across her midsection and he'd held her like that until she'd released that tell tail sigh of relaxation and he'd felt her muscles uncoil and sag back into his. He'd slept then; waking when he felt her leave his side and, then, falling back into oblivion when she'd returned; hair wet and smelling faintly of mint.

His last thoughts before falling asleep, with his hand softly cupping her right breast, were of desire. He wanted to pull her close to him. He wanted to rake up her nightgown and play her sex like a long ago mastered instrument. He'd wanted to be with her, inside her, until her frantic whispers turned into lip biting in an attempt not to wake their babies. He'd wanted to know if it was still the same; if he could still make her shatter underneath him. But, he was too tired. Too bone deadening, lead muscle, mother-fucking tired and, as the blackness overtook him, his last consoling thought was; 'I'll have her tomorrow.'

Frank Castle never got another night.

He'd awoken late that next morning, after nine on a Saturday, and found, to his dismay, that he was still tired. Pulling himself from bed he'd showered and briefly thought about shaving before deciding that it was better left for some other time when his arms didn't feel like lead. In the kitchen he'd found Maria and the kids with the Bulletin open on the table to an article about the historical restoration of the carousel at Central Park. Frank Jr. had declared that red horses were his favorite and Lisa admonished him for a choice so ordinary while declaring, in sharp contrast, that lions were her choice for conveyance and, by default, the best option. He'd smiled then; a real honest to God smile, as he took his seat at the head of table and tucked into a plate of eggs, bacon, and wheat toast. A sudden jolt of energy ran through his nervous system as he watched Maria do dishes as his babies argued and, just for a moment, he thought that this would be the way he got to be better, less tired, be himself again. He would stay as close to this as he could for as long as he could.

"What do you youngins' say we go?" He'd asked. Their faces had lit up. "We'll do a test run on all the animals; ride them as many times as you like."

And the rest;

The door to his private hospital room banged and Frank's eyes snapped open; harshly jerking him back to reality.

There was a blind man there, a man with shoulder length blondish hair and rounded features, and woman with skin the color of sweet cream. The blind man said his name and the other one with the hair mumbled something about tape. 'Of Course,' Frank thought, 'the tape on the floor. I'm dangerous now.' He'd forgotten for a moment, just a moment, while he lived in the past at his kitchen table. But, that was ridiculous. He'd always been dangerous. It just wasn't hidden anymore.

The blind man spoke about their firm. Nelson and Murdock defenders of the city's trash. Frank felt bile rise in the back of his throat and, just as he was starting to tell them off, telling them not to bother with him, she rushed forward with a picture of his family.

It was from a happier time. Before his last deployment he'd taken the kid's and Maria to Central Park; to say goodbye. They'd asked a Japanese tourist to take their picture. They'd laughed. They'd ridden the carousel until Frank Jr. got sick. He'd hadn't been so Goddamned tired then. He'd let Maria drive him home so Lisa could sleep in his lap and that night he'd made slow love to his wife like he'd had all the time in the world. The picture the sweet cream woman held to his face had only two copies. One had been in Maria's purse and sustained a bullet hole clean through it the day she died and then other had been in his house.

"Where'd you get that?" Frank grunted.

The sweet cream woman, 'Karen' the blind man had called her, looked a bit ashamed suddenly but, she didn't lie. "Your home."

The blind man, Murdock, was pulling her away now and there was yelling in the hall. Frank reached forward, as best he could in the restraints, and he felt his fingertips brush hers, Karen's, and then glide along the slick sheen of the photograph as Murdock pulled her back. Frank started to speak but, the yelling increased and the door banged open for a second time as the Lady DA filled up his room with anger and venom ordering Nelson and Murdock into the hall. Frank looked on with mild panic as Karen was pulled along with them like a tide headed out to sea taking his precious photograph with her.

Frank was left alone with the Detective now who simply crossed his arms and made a non-descript poker face that landed somewhere between disgust and exhaustion. "I want them," Frank said after a time. The Detective blinked but, didn't respond. "I want them to be my lawyers," Frank repeated; raising his voice just a notch and coughing as the gravel from his bruised larynx caught in his throat.

The Detective leaned forward and rubbed the bridge of his nose, remained silent, and left the room.

She came back, Karen, with the lawyer who had the hair, Nelson. Nelson said some things about his case. Frank wished he could pay more attention but, his sniper senses were focused on Karen. The shame was still evident on her face. The fact that she'd been his house. Violated his privacy. Violated the last place that was him; or used to be him. Frank doesn't really think before he speaks but, he knows that he has to get her alone and so he says what he has to get rid of Nelson. He knows, deep down, Nelson will have to be gone before Karen will admit going through his things. He doesn't know for sure yet but, he can tell she's the kind of woman who would have gone through every room, flipped pages in Maria's photo albums, touched his children's toys, and noted every stray jacket or children's sock forgotten on the floor and, the honest truth, is he can't remember anymore. It's killing him. Frank Castle is bruised and beaten with broken ribs and large bore hole through his left foot; he's killed and killed and killed and the monster inside him still will not remain quiet. Yet, the thing that's killing him is not knowing if those breakfast dishes made it back in the sink that morning. She was washing dishes but, did Maria clear his plate? Did she take the children's juice glasses off the table?

Nelson leaves and Karen nervously picks up and replaces a legal pad several times. Frank can tell she's not scared of him. It's something else; shame. She reads to him and he lets her know the DA's police report is utter horseshit. He may not remember everything but, the sickening, off-kilter tempo, of the Carousel music while he held the meat that used to be his little girl is something he'll never forget.

Karen thought as much, that the report was fake. He doesn't tell her about his faceless baby girl. That would be too much.

Frank asks her questions and somehow Karen knows the answers. She knows about the jeep he bought Frank Jr. She knows about the plastic dinosaurs. She even knows about the damn dishes. The monster inside seems to be momentarily sated at this news. He's grateful for the respite; even if it is short lived.

Frank answers Karen's questions then; legal this and that. He watches the way she darts her tongue across her lower lip during the natural break between questions. She crosses and uncrosses her legs and pulls at her skirt. When he's answered all she's asked she gives him a sincere, yet tight-lipped, smile. "I think I have all I need," She states matter of factly as she stands. "I'll go talk to Foggy, er, Mr. Nelson, and see what he wants to do next." She turns then, away from him, and Frank would have to be dead to not take notice of her perfect heart shaped ass. He feels guilty, instantly.

"Thank you Ma'am," Frank says.

It startles her, as Karen didn't see that one coming, and the honesty of the statement paints an icy pain somewhere in the vicinity of her soul. "For what," she asks.

"Helping me remember," he says.

The icy feeling in her soul grows somehow sharper and she's at a loss for what to say but, Karen finds herself nodding and the words "You're welcome," come clumsily tumbling from her lips. As if she's trying to make up for her cumbersome inept words she moves forward with the photo of his family. She puts it between his upturned fingers and lets her palm rest on the pulsepoint of his prone wrist.

They stay like that for what seems like an eternity. Frank slows his heart rate savoring the touch; not in a sexual way but, in the basic way a human craves touch. To remind them of their own humanity.

Karen pulls her hand away slowly. She isn't ashamed she touched him; Frank can tell. "I'll go over these notes with Mr. Nelson now," she says as she gathers her files.

Frank nods in response as he fingers the photograph in his hand. He looks up when he hears the door open and they lock eyes momentarily as she's walking out the door. He tries to memorize her then. The soft cream of her skin, the flaxen sheen of her hair, and the way her lips pucker as her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip again.

She'll look different later. After she sees him explode at the venomous bitch of a DA. She'll look scared then. But, even as he vents his intent to watch the DA burn along with him he tries to remember her from before. She had kindness in her eyes, understanding, and recognition that there was still some spark of humanity in him; even if he didn't see it himself.

After they leave the night nurses come. They check his vitals under the watchful eye of the posted police guard and push more pillows under his bandaged foot under the sheet. The nurse mentions something about a scheduled bath and the guard asks flatly if that's medically necessary. The nurse shrugs and says she'll run it by the doctor. When they leave the nurse asks if he'd like the light off. He gives her an almost imperceptible nod and she flips the switch. The police uniform gives Frank a look and says 'be good," like it would make a difference, before he, too, leaves Frank to the beeping monitors and the relative darkness.

Frank is grateful for the darkness; the relative silence. He closes his eyes, slows his breathing, and his pulse. Taking accounting of his body one muscle group at a time he forces his limbs to relax and grow heavy concentrating only on allowing the pain to flow freely and let him know what was in order and what was not.

Eventually the pain ebbs, like it always does, and his heart reaches an impressively slow pace. Frank allows himself sleep then, setting his internal clock for only a few hours. He knows he'll wake when those hours are up to retake his internal assessment.

This is not the first time he's completed this routine.

This is wrong.

Maria is above him.

He's dreaming; he has to be.

But;

He can feel her. Goddamnit; she is tight and slick around him and he would swear he can smell her.

He can't move and he flails his head from side to side only to find his wrists bound.

This is wrong.

This was never their kink. He loved to touch his woman with fingers and tongue and teeth. It was wrong for him to be tied in his dream.

Frank tries desperately to lurch forward and take one of her pert upturned nipples in his teeth. He wants it so bad he can already taste her skin but, he can't get to her. Something is holding him in place.

Something turns in Frank's stomach and he realizes that this isn't just some dream. Maria's wearing blue silk around her waist. It's his favorite nighty on her. The one with the strap he ripped when he pulled it off her shoulders the last night he made love to her before he left for The Shit. This is the dream. The one he had in the coma. The one that ends with the mawing hole in her chest, blood on her lips, and lifeless eyes when she collapses against him.

Frank closes his eyes, within his own dream, only to hear his dreaming self chanting in rhythm to her canting hips. "Wake up. Wake up. Wake up," he orders his mind. This isn't real. "Wake up, Godddamnit."

"Frank," he hears Maria's voice whisper in his dream. "Frank, look at me."

Frank bangs his head against the pillow in his dream; eyes scrunched tightly shut. She feels so Goddamn good; so wet, 'only wet for you,' she used to tell him. He can feel her hands splayed on his chest; nails slightly raking his nipples.

"Frank," He hears her voice again, "Baby look at me."

He doesn't want to but, his body won't let him wake. He has to finish the dream. Fighting his own will Frank opens his eyes in his dream and gasps despite himself.

It's Karen.

"Look at me," she says.

And, he does, God help him, he does.

Frank Castle knows he's dreaming and, just for a second, he hopes he's thrown an embolism and this is his life now. To be stuck in this moment with her. Forever.

She cants her hips to the left a little and lifts off him just enough that she can get to her clit. He watches with greedy fascination as she rubs it and lets out a breathy moan. Frank pulls forward to get to her and finds that he can, now, move his hands. He grabs her hips and forcefully rights her back on his cock; pushing up into her at the same time. Her eyes squeeze tightly and her brow furrows as he feels her walls begin to flutter around him.

He slaps her hand away and forces his blunt fingers between them plucking at her clit until she comes, screaming, apart around him. Her body slumps forward against his chest and Frank grins; proud of himself. He's still hard and inside her; ready for round two. He laughs lightly as her rubs her back. "Don't pass out on me now doll. I'm far from done with you," he hears his voice say but, even as the words escape, he knows its wrong.

This is wrong.

When he lifts his hand from her back it's wet and sticky. The red is redder than it should be. Blood isn't really that color. He knows that but, it doesn't make it any less red in his dream. Frank's breath catches. "Karen," he whispers, not willing yet to believe this is where it will culminate. He shifts and her head lolls to the side; dark hair framing Maria's lifeless face.

The cold weight of her body is somehow suffocating and Frank wakes with a start.

Beeping machines and ambient light.

The room is cool. The temperature is made uncomfortable by the thin layer of sweat that lays beneath his hospital gown.

There is a sob in the room, a disembodied racking gasp, and Frank realizes, with a start, that it's him. He allows himself one more before he shuts it down, closes his eyes, slows his breathing, and his pulse.

Slowly, methodically he takes a secondary accounting of his body one muscle group at a time. He forces his limbs to relax and grow heavy concentrating only on allowing the pain to flow freely and let him know what was in order and what was not.

Eventually the pain ebbs, like it always does, and his heart reaches an impressively slow pace but, he knows there will be no more sleep tonight.

This is not the first time he's completed this routine.

Hope you have enjoyed.

More to come.

Cheers and Happy Writing,

Rev