Chapter Text
I don't want to know where you've been or where you're going,
but I know I won't be home and you'll be on your own.
You first see The Punisher on a Monday.
You’ve heard about him before, of course – who hasn’t? – but haven’t had a face to put with the moniker until now.
Buzzcut. Orange jumpsuit. Bruised face.
He looks like he’s been through Hell and somehow won.
You roll your eyes at the condemning headline above his photo.
You aren’t a lawyer – your shitty apartment can attest to that – but regardless of how very fucking illegal his actions are, they really ought to give the guy some credit.
Gun-happy serial killer or not, at least he gets shit done.
You turn the page and ignore the rest of the story.
You first see him in the flesh on a rainy Friday night a few weeks later.
You’re sitting in a dingy diner near the corner of 51st and 10th, nursing a semi-cold cup of coffee when he walks in.
It’s pouring down outside and has been for a while, so the dim lighting in the place makes it hard to see his face at first.
He’s got a ball cap pulled down low over his eyes and isn't really looking at anyone, so you avert your eyes back down to your book and take another sip of your bitter drink.
Nobody ever comes in here for idle chit chat.
They don’t come here to be stared at, either.
A few moments later, you hear him take a seat at one of the booths in front of you, in the far corner near the fire exit.
The waitress approaches a few seconds after that, and it’s his voice that makes you glance up from the tragedy of Robbie and Cecilia.
It’s so low, so gruff, that it sounds like his vocal chords have been sand-blasted.
But then he mutters a ‘thank you, ma’am’ as she pours him the steaming cup of the coffee he asked for and you have to hide your smile with your hand.
Manners.
You don’t see much of those around here.
He adjusts his ball cap, looks out the window, then brings the steaming cup to his lips.
He doesn’t even flinch.
Asbestos mouth.
That’s what your mom always called it.
You look down at your book and lose yourself in Ian McEwan’s world for a while.
He’s gone by the time you finally finish your coffee.
The second time you see him, it’s a Thursday.
You’re at the same diner, at same time of night, but it’s him who arrives first.
You clock him the moment you walk through the door.
Corner booth, nearest the fire exit.
Ball cap on his head and steaming mug at his lips.
You shrug off your jacket and sit in your usual booth, side on to him instead of facing him this time.
You don’t want to risk staring again.
In record time, Nancy comes over to you with a fresh pot and a smile.
“It’s not my birthday yet,” you joke as she pours you an almost-scalding cup of the good stuff.
The place is never busy enough to warrant a fresh pot this late in the evening; you’ve grown used to only having once-hot coffee from here. It’s part of the appeal.
Nancy simply tips her head in corner-booth-guy’s direction. “Ran out.”
“Damn,” you mutter, surprised. Corner-booth-guy must’ve drunk a lot of coffee.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Nancy reminds you, though you both know exactly what you’ll be ordering in half an hour’s time when your stomach starts to rumble.
Creature of habit, you.
Not that you really have anywhere else to go even if you wanted to.
Your landlord’s still not fixed the heating properly, and sitting on your ratty old couch wearing extra layers doesn’t quite cut it. Even sitting on your ratty old couch when the heating was working had exactly zero appeal.
The only time your neighbors aren’t screaming at each other is when they’re fucking each other against the wall. Unfortunately, that wall just happens to be the one between your apartments, and it stays thin full time. Any noise can travel easily through that fucking thing, especially at that volume.
Lucky you.
For the sake of your ears and your soul, you settle in with Robbie and Cecilia, and somehow still manage to let your coffee go cold even with the temperature boost courtesy of corner-booth-guy.
You mutter a curse under your breath as you gulp down the lukewarm liquid, then smile when Nancy comes over to refill your cup.
She does the same for corner-booth-guy, and you decide to try out his superior coffee-drinking tactic by taking a gulp right away.
You burn your tongue.
He doesn’t.
Five minutes later, he finishes his cup and you still can’t feel your mouth, which is probably why you notice when he gets up to leave instead of staying oblivious this time.
He throws a twenty on the table, adjusts his ball cap, and that’s when you finally see his face clearly enough to recognize him.
Huh.
The Punisher takes his coffee black and has an asbestos mouth.
You probably should’ve guessed that.
You finally talk to The Punisher on a Saturday.
It’s almost midnight when you walk in, flustered and soaked through.
You’re at the diner – of course you are, where else would you be – but you rarely get here so late, and even Nancy seems surprised to see you.
You smile at her when she starts to pour you a cup of coffee at the counter instead of letting you head to your booth first, murmur your thanks, then turn to your left as you wait.
Oh.
That’s why she started pouring early.
A couple has taken your spot.
They must be new.
You absently take a step closer the counter as Nancy finishes filling your cup – it’s the same one she always gives you, with a tiny chip in the handle – then glance over at The Punisher.
He’s sat with his ball cap pulled low, as always, but if anything, that makes you frown instead of feel reassured.
Call it an atmosphere, a vibe, an instinct, whatever… you know something’s not quite right.
The way the blonde half of the couple that has stolen your spot is shifting uncomfortably in her seat tells you why.
Unlike the regulars here, who keep to themselves, these two have taken too much of an interest in the man in the corner and are about three seconds away from putting two and two together, if they haven’t already.
You don’t hesitate.
Taking your too-hot cup by the chipped handle, you head straight for that corner booth, making sure to huff your breaths and bustle right past the oh-so-curious couple.
“Sorry I’m late,” you rush out as you slide into the seat opposite The Punisher – holy fuck, it’s definitely him, how did you not notice that first night? – and place your cup down with a clunk on the table between you. “This rain’s a fucking nightmare – Jonah kept me late again.”
He stares at you. Blinks.
You lean closer and tip your head back a little, giving him a pointed look.
“I did manage to ask Angie about dropping us off at the airport on Sunday, though,” you lie, letting your voice raise just a little so Romeo and Juliet can hear you and hopefully calm the Hell down. “She said she’ll be able to pick us up from home, so I’ll drop Harvey off at my mom’s and you can finish up packing once you get back from work, if that’s okay?”
His brow is furrowed when he tilts his head up to look you in the eyes.
His are dark, like the bruises that circle them, but not unkind.
You hold his gaze.
He gets the message.
“Great!” You breathe a sigh of relief, then manage to muster up the most flirtatious tone you can as you say, “So, Mr. Turner… as the soon-to-be Mrs. Turner, I’ve been thinking about our honeymoon, and...”
If anyone ever asks you why you do it, you won’t be able to answer them, but you ramble on for at least ten minutes, talking about everything and nothing while he shoots constant glances over your shoulder at the now not-so-curious couple behind you.
He grunts the occasional acknowledgement here and there, but that’s all you get out of him.
It's okay – you didn't expect him to do the talking.
You're fine simply covering his ass and drinking your coffee while it's still hot, for once.
Nancy comes over to refill his cup, but you cover the top of yours with your hand when she goes to do the same for you.
“I’m good, thanks, Nancy,” you tell her, smiling gratefully.
She glances behind you, then catches your eye and winks.
Yep, she knows who he is, too.
Like you, she doesn’t give a fuck.
She moves away and you hear her offer to refill Romeo and Juliet’s cups for them.
They decline.
Good.
That means they’ll be leaving soon.
You babble on for a few more minutes, watching him drink his coffee down, down, down.
With that amount of caffeine in their system, does a man like The Punisher sleep?
You mull it over as Romeo and Juliet finally get up to leave.
You’re still talking to him, just in case they linger, but your focus is on his eyes.
The way they stare. Assess. Monitor.
No, you realize.
The Punisher doesn’t drink to keep himself awake.
After what he’s seen, what he’s been through?
He does it to stop himself from sleeping.
From dreaming.
The moment Romeo and Juliet walk past the window The Punisher keeps staring out of, you throw a five on the table, get up, and leave him in peace.
It’s the least you can do.
He returns the favor on a Sunday.
Romeo and Juliet don’t show up again, but he avoids the diner for a while anyway.
A near-miss like that isn’t something he can afford, not with how his face has been plastered all over the papers and news like it has.
He’s recognizable by his bruises alone, now.
You head straight to the bathroom when you arrive, blotting away tears born from stress and frustration – god damn it you know better than to let assholes from work get to you like this – so by the time you emerge with a drier face and splotchy cheeks, he’s already on his way out.
The bell above the door chimes as he leaves, and seconds later you find a steaming cup of coffee and a crumpled five to pay for it waiting for you at your table.
For the first time that day, you smile.
The Punisher talks to you for the first time on a Tuesday.
You don’t even realize he hasn’t actually said a word to you yet until much later, but the events of the night go so quickly you decide to let yourself off for that.
It starts several days earlier, when he’s not at the diner, with a pair of men you immediately don’t like and give you the creeps every time you see them.
They’re stocky, but not in-your-face intimidating, and that makes them dangerous. It would be easy to dismiss them as two faces in the crowd.
Something about them gets your defenses up, so every night they’re there you sit facing them instead of the corner booth, keeping them in sight at all times and you find yourself leaving earlier than usual with your hand in your purse and your fingers wrapped around the knife you’ve taken to carrying ever since you moved to New York, just to be safe.
You feel silly every time you make it home without incident, but tonight you realize how justified you are to worry.
They’re sitting in your booth.
They know it’s yours – they stare at you constantly when you sit there – and the proof is in the smirks they send your way when you walk through the door.
Part of you feels like smirking right back.
They haven’t noticed The Punisher yet.
You have.
You turn away from them and approach the counter, calmly asking Nancy for a club sandwich and a glass of soda as you take your seat close to the door.
You want to be able to leave without having to walk past them first.
Sitting side on to them means they’re out of sight, but they’re not out of mind. You stay aware of them as you slowly eat your sandwich, pretending to read the book you’ve already finished, then wipe your mouth with the corner of a napkin when you’re done.
Once you finish your soda, you consider staying for coffee, but decide you’re best off just heading home.
Even with The Punisher there, you can’t relax properly while those men are staring at you like wolves hungry for a piece of meat.
You wait until Thing One leaves and Thing Two goes to the bathroom, give Nancy a twenty to cover the bill and a little extra, then gather your things and leave.
You haven’t got your purse with you this time, so you keep the book in one hand and shove the other into your pocket, holding the knife by default.
It’s a good thing too, because you hear the bell chime above the diner door a few seconds after you leave, and you don’t need to look behind you to know it’s Thing Two.
You increase your pace ever so slightly, but it’s not enough.
Thing One’s hands shoot out from a back alley and drag you into the darkness, with Thing Two close behind.
You scream ‘bomb’ because nobody ever pays attention to cries for help round here anymore and thrust your blade back into Thing One’s thigh, making him bellow in pain and drop you on your ass.
Your book falls to the ground, but you barely notice in the rush to get back on your fucking feet and strike out at Thing Two before he can grab you. He dodges your swipes and laughs when you kick at him instead, and then Thing One is rushing at you in a rage and you barely have time to think before they’re both on you at once.
They land their hits, but you catch them with your blade and a boot to the face before they can overpower you completely. You didn’t wear a skirt tonight for a reason. Thing One knocks your knife from your hand and wraps his fingers around your throat, so you press your thumbnails into his eyes and dig in as hard as you can.
He screams in agony as black splotches swim in your vision and your lungs start to protest the lack of air, distracting you from the sudden absence of Thing Two until red sprays across your face in a stream and Thing One drops dead on top of you.
Gasping for air, you push yourself up on your elbows and gawk at the scene in front of you.
Thing Two is dead.
Dead dead.
They both are.
You grunt as you haul yourself out from under Thing One’s corpse, heart pounding and adrenaline pumping, then gratefully take The Punisher's hand and let him pull you to your feet.
“I had it,” you pant as you stare up into his eyes.
His reply is low and rough, but it makes you smile anyway.
“I know, Ma’am.”
Thing Two’s blood is smeared on his cheek.
You wipe it away with your thumb.
You don’t make it to your bed.
You don’t even make it within a three-block radius of your apartment.
The Punisher fucks you right there, right then, against the wall of that alley.
His hands are rough, urgent, in your hair and tugging your clothes until he loses patience and hoists you up by your hips with strength that should scare you.
It doesn't.
Your back scrapes against brick and your nails dig into his shoulders under his jacket, then the nape of his neck. Grasping. Scratching. But not clinging on.
He won't drop you – his hips are pressing too tight against yours for that– it just feels so fucking good to mark him that you can't help yourself.
You've never imagined fucking him before, but if you had, you’re sure you wouldn't have done this justice.
His teeth latch on to your throat, your jaw, your ear, and it hurts as much as it sets you on fire, but you want more, need more, and you're determined to get it.
You hook your ankles behind his hips and pull him even closer. Grind against him. Rut.
He growls and shoves you harder into the brickwork, pins your wrists above your head with bruising force and rolls, but it isn't enough.
You arch your back to get closer, but all you get for your efforts is a sharp nip to your jugular that makes your head thump against the wall.
You groan.
He lifts his head to look at you, breaths coming out as pants against your mouth. It's the closest his lips get to yours.
You stare at him and raise an eyebrow in silent challenge.
You're okay.
Is he?
He lets go of one of your wrists and curls his fingers around your throat.
He is.
Your eyes flutter closed and you press into the hold, daring him to go for it.
He lets out a dark chuckle, tightening his grip.
You wonder how many people he's killed this way.
A moan escapes you, squeezed out of your lungs by his hand, and you open your eyes to find him staring intently at your pulse.
You tug at his barely-grown hair, smirk at the grunt it coaxes from him, then put him back to work.
As he sucks a throbbing bruise into your skin, you drop your legs down just enough to use his solid calf as leverage to slip your boot off. It'll only get in the way.
He shoves hurriedly at your jeans, barely letting you get one leg free before all but throwing you up higher against the wall and hooking his elbows under your knees, spreading you open, open, open.
You barely have time to undo his pants before he's thrusting his way inside you so hard that it burns.
He doesn't pause, doesn't wait, just unleashes it all on you at once.
You take it like a champ.
It’s dirty and it's raw, and it's fueled by the adrenaline that’s still coursing through you both and the unspent aggression from the fight.
No emotion. Just instinct.
It's exactly what you need.
You don't last long.
Neither does he.
You let your head tip back against the bricks and try to remember how to breathe as he drops his forehead to your shoulder and does the same.
He’s still holding you up by brute force alone, unwavering and resolute, but your hips are aching and neither of you can afford to linger so you press your cheek to his temple and pat his shoulder, signalling for him to put you down.
He does so carefully and you grip his shoulder for balance as he pulls your jeans back up and you wiggle your foot back into your boot.
He does up his pants, then bends over to pick up your book, which has somehow been spared from the growing puddle of dark red that's spread from Thing One's corpse.
He offers it to you along with the knife he'd borrowed to stab Thing Two and slit the other's throat.
You pocket the knife but chuck the book in the nearby dumpster on top of the bodies you helped him create.
Atonement.
Even The Punisher finds humor in that.
It’s not until you’re back at your apartment listening to your neighbors fuck each other through that god damn wall that you realize it’s now officially Wednesday.
Well.
Happy hump day to you.