Armor of Roses

by Ascian

In this battle we do not hold
a shield in front of us…
--Rumi

Frank Castle hated superheroes. Well, maybe it wasn't exactly real hate, which would have required hunting down every single one of the losers, and pumping their bodies full of holes, radiation, bleach, or whatever it took nowadays to kill the more-than-human types. No, if he sat down and really thought about it, he supposed what he felt was more along the lines of a visceral disdain.

After all, you never saw the Fantastic Four or the Avengers getting down in the dirt to take care of the real problems in the city -- rape, murder, drugs, organized crime. Instead, they took off to space or alternate dimensions, or battled other kinds of super freaks who made it their mantra to "take over the world." Well, fuck -- let 'em have the shit-hole. The problems sure as hell wouldn't change. There would still be the drugs and the murder, and the new management would turn a blind eye, same as the old, as something beneath their concern. Leaving it to him. To the Punisher.

Which was just fine.

Still, there were nights -- in his dreams -- when he remembered his life before. The flash of her hair in sunlight, the feel of her skin, their laughter -- all of them, the kids -- together -- and then everything would turn red -- red -- hot and bloody and so so still -- too still -- and God he would be alone forever --

But it never lasted long, and he made up for the blood, for everything that had been taken from him. He made up for it, every day.

And he was making up for it now, tracking some little fuck who had broken into an old lady's home, beating the woman to death with an iron when she wouldn't hand over her rent money. Little murderer couldn't be more than sixteen, but that didn't impinge on Frank's determination. He'd tracked the kid for the past two hours, and now he was close to finding him. He even had a name: Willy B. Word on the street was that Willy kept himself shacked up with some prostitutes in an old hotel. Friends with the pimp, or something.

Frank paused at the mouth of an alley; there were some cops just ahead on the sidewalk, and he knew his face was a wallpaper pattern for every station in the city. He waited in the shadows, patient, and for a moment he thought he heard music. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled at the eerie, haunting notes, but they disappeared and he shook himself free of the funk. The cops were moving on -- time to go.

But suddenly, another distraction. Across the street, walking with her head down. Joan.

Joan, with her chocolate chip cookies. Her sweet, timid smile. The shadows in her eyes and that fine, brown hair, and her voice, whispering, "You make me feel safe."

You make me feel safe. The only time I feel safe is when I'm with you, Frank.

Safe with him? He had just stared when she said that. Stared in disbelief, surprise -- emotions he thought he had forgotten. Until Joan, that is. A woman too afraid to walk down the street to buy groceries, who spent her days locked in a dark apartment, jumping at noises in the hall. But she had hid him from the Russian. She had protected him. Him.

And she was surprising him again. The last time he had checked on her -- and he did, on occasion, even if she didn't realize it -- she had taken the money he'd given her and bought a tiny house with a white picket fence. Living in a small, cozy town where most of the population was over sixty, and there was only one stoplight. He had seen her in the window of the local grocery store, a smile on her face.

She was not smiling now. He noted the press of the crowd around her, how she shrank from them. Closed in on herself, trying to be a piece of nothing on the sidewalk.

He put aside his mission to find Willy. The kid wasn't going anywhere -- Frank would catch up to him later tonight. But Joan…Joan wouldn't have come back to the city unless she needed something bad, unless she was in trouble.

And she was the closest thing to a friend he'd had in a long, long time. Even if friends weren't a luxury he could afford.

He crossed the street, using his finely honed reflexes to both dodge oncoming rush hour traffic and give drivers the finger. He caught up to Joan, but did not touch her. He merely fell into step with her quick pace, a shadow against her side. She noticed his presence after only a moment -- the paranoid are quick like that -- and he watched as she gathered her courage and tightened her fists in her pockets. When she lifted her head to look at him, he could tell she was already prepared to glance away, to run from the stranger walking beside her.

But when she did look into his face, her eyes widened and she stopped dead, staring at him like he was God's gift.

"Frank?" she whispered, and Frank gently took hold of her arm and steered her into an empty space just off the regular sidewalk traffic.

"Hello Joan," he said, drinking in her reaction. "What are you doing here?"

She blinked. "I -- I've been living outside the city. I took the money you gave me -- and oh, Frank, that was so kind of you -- and -- and I bought myself that perfect little house I told you I wanted. It's so safe there, Frank. I walk to the store. I go to the library."

"Joan," and he tried to remember how to sound soothing, and settled for lowering his voice. "What are you doing here? You hate the city. It frightens you."

She looked away, chewing her bottom lip. "There's a doctor I have to see. I…I found a lump. In my breast. It's not big or anything, but…"

"Cancer," he said, and he felt the shadow of death at his shoulder.

"Maybe," she said, but there was still the light of hope in her eyes. A desperate need to believe that whatever was growing in her breast was benign, harmless.

He found himself hoping that it was.

"Are you going to your appointment? It's late for that."

"N-No," she shook her head, fingers tugging at the sleeves of her coat. "I wanted to take a walk. I -- I wanted to prove to myself that I could be brave inside the city."

"You are brave, Joan. Braver than anyone I know."

She smiled shyly. "Why would you say a thing like that?"

"Because you're the only person in the world who can have a real conversation with me and not be afraid."

"You're forgetting Spacker Dave."

"He never made the Punisher cookies."

She laughed, and he realized just how much better she really was. When he and Joan had been neighbors, she had never laughed. Barely smiled, either.

"Did you ever eat those cookies? I…baking made me feel good, and you always seemed to be the sort of person who would like them."

Frank shook his head, bewildered. He would never understand this woman.

"I ate the cookies," he told her. "And I did like them. No one…no one had baked me cookies in a long time."

She bounced on her toes a little, some color appearing in her cheeks. "I'm so glad you're here, Frank. I was hoping I'd see you, but I didn't really count on it. I know you're very…busy."

Busy killing people. Busy gunning them down in their sleep or in blind alleys. Going home to a shit-hole, wiping off the blood and trying to get a few hours shut-eye so the whole process could start again with him fresh, ready.

Frank didn't tell her all that. He was sure she already knew. He glanced around them, at the lengthening shadows of evening. "Are you staying at a hotel?"

"It's two blocks away. I was thinking about trying to eat out, in a restaurant, but after it started to get dark I thought I would go back to my room and order dinner."

You have a murderer to find, he told himself. Business to take care of, and this is dangerous for her -- to be near you, to be seen with you. Too many enemies who would hurt her. Yet, he found himself touching Joan's elbow, guiding her back into the movement of the sidewalk. "I'll walk you to the hotel," he said.

"Thank you," she smiled, and as they walked, he marveled at how she stood straighter, how there was a bounce in her step. Most of this was her own doing; she'd overcome much of her agoraphobia through sheer will and a place of her own away from the city. But this comfort she felt with him; it was irrational and strange, but it was honest. She truly felt safe in his presence.

They did not talk as they walked, but Joan did not seem to mind the silence. Her arm occasionally brushed up against his own, and the contact startled him each and every time.

He watched the street, the people -- fought past the distraction Joan was causing to keep alert for danger. So much danger…and this was stupid, letting her be near him. Making her a target when she might be sick.

Might be dying, he thought.

Despite his best efforts, he remained slightly distracted by her presence, by thoughts of cancer and cookies and large brown eyes. So when a little child burst from the shadows, straight into the busy road and oncoming cars, it took him a moment to realize the danger to himself and Joan. Cars swerved to miss the child, crashing into each other with screams of sheared metal and shattered glass, spinning out of control onto the sidewalk, hitting and scattering pedestrians.

Frank grabbed Joan around the waist and hurled the two of them away from the moving wreckage, which seemed to chase their heels for one breathtaking moment. He pressed her against a cold store window, body spread against her own, and felt her take deep, shuddering breaths that rattled both their chests.

"You okay?" he asked, and went very, very still as she leaned into him, cheek pressed against his shirt. He imagined he could feel her, even through his Kevlar vest, and her closeness suddenly frightened him.

"Joan?" he tried again, swallowing as she gazed up into his face.

"I'm fine," she whispered. "Just scared me, that's all. Are you hurt?"

"No," Frank rasped, and took a step back from her. He looked around them. Some of the cars were on fire, and there were people yelling, crying.

"There was a child," Joan said, and Frank glanced at her and then looked back at the road. For a moment he thought he heard music -- that same eerie tremble of notes -- and then he spotted the tiny figure, standing in the middle of the chaos. A dark haired slip of a girl, watching the cars, the people. Uninjured, unaffected. Joan saw her too, gasped, and surprised Frank by heading into the danger, towards the child.

He waded after, never taking his eyes off her back. By the time he caught up she was already in the middle of the road, crouched beside the tiny girl. No one else seemed to notice the girl, which Frank thought was strange. He knelt beside Joan.

The child had large eyes, black with shadow. She did not respond to Joan's questions, but turned her gaze upon Frank.

"You need to find me," she said, an odd hollow quality to her voice. "Where the music plays in the moving circle. Hurry."

And then she vanished.

Joan gasped, and Frank fought the urge to rub his eyes. He didn't need this kind of shit. Not tonight.

"You're not crazy," he automatically told Joan, when she looked at him with startled, questioning eyes. Frank heard sirens, and he pulled Joan to her feet. "Come on. We better get out of here."

She did not argue, but allowed him to lead her away from the accident scene. Only when they were near her hotel, did she bring up the child again.

"You've got to help her, Frank."

"What?"

"She asked for your help. You need to find her."

"How do you know there's even a kid to be found? She could have been the practical joke of some mutant smart-ass."

Joan shook her head. "No, Frank. She was real. I touched her, just before you got there. She was warm and alive. And that was no joke. You don't given children eyes like hers in a joke."

"So what do you want me to do about it?"

She looked at the ground. "You help people, Frank. You…you take care of them when things go bad."

"I kill people, Joan. I punish them. That's all I do."

"No." Her voice was firm. "You're more than that. You're a hero, and you help people."

"Joan -- "

"Please, Frank. She asked you for help, and I'm -- I'm asking you to give it. Please."

They were at her hotel. It was nice and well lit, probably expensive, but she had money. They stood there, outside, Joan tugging at the hem of her sleeves, chewing her bottom lip.

"All right," he finally said, and Joan smiled with relief.

"You'll find her, Frank. I know it." She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, shocking him. He did not have a chance to say anything more to her; she darted away from him, blushing, but paused long enough to call over her shoulder the number to her room.

Then she slipped through the hotel's revolving doors, a tiny woman in a large coat.

It was a long time before Frank moved. His cheek tingled, and the wind whispered secrets that he could not understand.

***

He was still thinking about Joan when he caught up to Willy and put a bullet through his brain. The kid pissed himself right before the hit, and Frank stepped wide of the body when he left. He didn't care much for the smell.

He walked for a couple of blocks, running Joan's words through his head, trying to make sense of why he'd agreed to look for the little girl. This wasn't his type of deal. He killed people -- criminals -- but he didn't save shit. Or at least, he didn't go out looking for people to save. Maybe *that* was a superhero thing. Spiderman and his fucking web, or something.

Still, he had said he would find her -- and really, was saving some kid that different from hunting down the kidnapper and killing him? Two for the price of one. He'd still get to use his guns.

And of course, if anyone had ever touched his kids --

He stopped himself, stilled his mind. In the past, he told himself. That's done and gone. You took care of it.

Took care of it. Yes.

So he started looking for the girl. The problem, of course, with finding missing children in a city like New York was that every child -- every person -- was in some sense 'missing'. So many people, so many places to live or hide. It helped if you knew where to start looking. Criminals were generally easy to find. Local gangs kept tabs on each other and on their own members, prostitutes could always be counted on to hear something, or at least know who was spending money, and certain crimes were just easier to trace than others. Keep your ears open, spill a little blood, and be relentless -- the combination worked every time.

Except now. He had no name, just a face. Better than nothing, but worth about as much as a pile of crap.

You need to find me. Where the music plays in the moving circle.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Frank shook his head, watching the near empty street. Not many people out at this time of night, in this part of town. Anyone walking was either desperate, crazy, or fuckin' dangerous, and generally, no one was ever too eager to find out which category a stranger belonged to.

He spent a couple of hours moving from one informant to another, asking questions -- breaking fingers and noses -- pressuring the very worst of the best (those he hadn't quite marked yet to kill), and not one of them knew about a dark-haired girl, possibly a mutant, who had been kidnapped. Nothing about music or moving circles, either. Frank wasn't terribly surprised. Kids usually didn't make the radar, generally because the smart criminals tried to stay away from messing with them. Hurt a kid, your ass would be a steak in prison. It was a lesson quickly learned.

It was three in the morning when Frank finally got his first real lead. He was leaning near the entrance of an underground rave house, feeling the music in his feet, in his legs and chest. Standing there, because for once, he had no idea what to do next, and it was as good a place as any to collect his thoughts. For the third time that night, something made his neck prickle. Inside his head, above the rumble of the rave, he heard another kind of music. Dark and twisting.

"You're wasting time."

"You didn't give me much of a lead," Frank replied, slowly looking down at the little girl. She stood just off to the side of him, staring with those luminous eyes. "Who are you, really? I thought you were kidnapped, but you could flick yourself off to a police officer, couldn't you? Why me?"

"Because I've been punished enough," she said, in that childish, hollow voice. "You need to hurry, though. There isn't much time."

"Where are you?"

"Where the music -- "

"Moves in circles. Yeah, I got that part. It doesn't tell me anything."

"Music, moving. You ride it, and go around and around. I don't know the name."

"That's okay," he said, straightening. "I think I finally got an idea of what you're talking about."

"Hurry," she urged.

***

He hurried.

When he reached the abandoned warehouse, he saw the demolition trucks, the taped off areas and chain link fence. The sign, saying that removal would begin in only a day. There was a taxi waiting just outside, engine idling, and Frank slipped into the warehouse without the driver noticing him. Inside, the carousel -- and just in front, gently stroking an old gilded lion, was Joan.

She shrieked when he said her name, jumping in the air with her hands over her heart.

"F-Frank," she gasped, and he went to her and did not protest when she touched his arms with her fingertips. She was breathless, trembling, and he could not imagine how she had found the courage to come here by herself, no matter what sort of progress she had made.

"What are you doing here, Joan? This place -- "

"I f-found it, Frank. There was a n-newspaper in my room, and I was reading a -- a story about how an old landmark was going to be destroyed. A c-carousel, and -- and I thought, music moving in circles, and so I had to come. I just had to, Frank. The little girl -- if she was down here…"

"You could have gotten yourself killed," said Frank harshly. Joan swallowed, but her voice was firm when she responded.

"I might already be dead, Frank. Every day is a little death, for me. It doesn't matter if it's cancer or f-fear, it's all the same. But if I have cancer, I'm still going to fight it. And fear? It can't compare to what a little girl must feel, who needs help."

He looked at her, not sure how to answer, and settled for: "All right."

The warehouse was empty; no signs of the little girl or anyone who could have taken her. Frank prowled around the carousel, while Joan clambered about the gilded animals. They called out, hoping to get a response, to hear anything that could be a sign of some living, hidden person. Nothing.

The music in his head was all the warning he had. The little girl appeared at his side, and pointed at the floor. "It's a dark place," she told him. Joan sidled close, staring. Frank took a closer look at the warehouse, and his eyes fell upon a bump in the floor. He walked over, crouched, and ran his fingers over what turned out to be a sliding lock. Conscious of Joan's presence at his shoulder, he undid the lock and pulled. The girl was already gone.

The darkness that revealed itself under the trap door was absolute and filled with presence. Frank called out, but no one responded. He had a flashlight in his belt; he shone it into the hole, and saw a ladder and a hard dirt floor.

"You can stay here if you want," he told Joan, but she stubbornly shook her head. Nodding, he went down first, holding the flashlight between his teeth. Joan followed, a little more hesitant, but taking each rung with deliberate determination. Their breath sounded loud in that place, and the stillness was off-putting, even by Frank's standards.

"Hello?" he called again, turning the flashlight on the room.

"Over here," the girl called, the air echoing music. Frank and Joan turned to look; there was a gasp -- Joan -- and Frank felt her arm snake around his own. The little girl -- the little girl was there, but at her feet was a skeleton.

Joan released Frank the moment he moved, but he put a hand out to her. She took it, wrapping her fingers around his palm.

"I waited as long as I could," the girl said, watching the two adults crouch over the remains. "But this place will be gone soon, and I wanted to leave before I got all torn up."

"This is you?" asked Joan, eyes filled with sorrow.

The little girl nodded. "They put me down here to punish me. I was a bad girl, and they said that this would teach me. But they never came back."

"They?"

"Mommy and daddy. They said it was the only way I would ever learn to be good."

"Where are they?" Frank asked, staring at the bones. The little girl shrugged.

"I don't know. I couldn't find them, or else I would have asked them to let me out."

Joan leaned forward, fingers braced against the dirt floor. "Why did you ask Frank?"

The girl turned her eyes upon him, swallowing his face with her gaze. "Because I was punished, and I thought…I thought only someone who punished people would know how to set me free."

"I am the Punisher," he told her, and the words sounded bleak even to him.

"I know you are," said the solemn girl. "I could feel you."

"I don't punish people unless they deserve it," he said.

"I deserved it," said the girl. "I must have, or else I wouldn't have been put here."

Frank said nothing. He bowed his head, closed his eyes. "You didn't deserve this," he whispered. "You couldn't have deserved this."

"I suppose you might know," she said. "I chose you because you're an expert in this sort of thing."

He took a deep breath, and Joan squeezed his hand. "What do you want us to do?" she asked the little girl.

"Take me out of here. Tell me I can go."

"You can go," Frank said, and he reached out with his free hand to touch the girl's cheek. She felt real; warm and soft. "Punishment's over, kid. We'll take care of you. Just rest now."

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you."

And then she was gone, and they were left with her bones, and each other.

***

The next few hours were a terrible blur. They wrapped the little girl's remains in one of the old discarded sheets covering the carousel animals, and carried her out to the cab, which was still -- in Frank's mind -- miraculously waiting. The cabbie eyed the two of them rather suspiciously, but smiled when Joan passed him a hundred dollar bill.

They got out at Central Park; it was five in the morning, still dark, with the last vestiges of starlight glistening in the sky. They walked off the beaten path, Frank cradling the little girl's body to his chest. When they were far enough in, deep in the wood, they laid the child to rest amidst a stand of trees, piling large rocks over her body to form a cairn.

"We never even knew her name," Joan said, wiping at her eyes.

"We don't really need a name," Frank replied. "We won't forget her."

Afterwards, they slowly wound themselves back to the main trails. It had been a long time for both of them; Joan had not been to the park since she was a teen, while Frank had bad memories of the place, and tended to avoid it as much as possible. It was quieter than he remembered, and he decided that the best time to come was in the early morning, in that place between dark and light, when only the birds were beginning to wake up.

Joan's doctor appointment was at seven a.m.. She did not have time to return to the hotel to clean up, and so they took a cab straight to the hospital. Frank said nothing as he followed her to the front door. He stopped, just before the entrance.

"Go on," he said. "I'll wait."

And he did. He waited for a very long time, and while he sat on a bench, half hidden by foliage and the general disregard most people have for strangers, he thought about the little girl and what she had said to him. Why she had asked for his help.

I can't change my life, he thought. I can't change who I am. There has to be someone like me, out there, getting rid of the scum no one else can touch.

And if he ever punished someone who didn't deserve it? Could he really be trusted to make that sort of judgment?

"Yes."

Frank looked down; the little girl was seated next to him, legs swinging.

"I thought we set you free," he said.

"You did. I wanted to see you one last time."

"Yeah? Any words of wisdom?"

"That you can trust yourself. That you're a good man."

"How do you know?"

"Because someone good loves you."

She smiled at him and slowly faded, her presence lingering long after he could no longer see her. Frank had a feeling she would not be coming back.

***

He was still waiting for Joan when she left the hospital, and there was a smile on her face that made the tired, worn part of his heart ache.

"It's benign," she said. "They're going to remove it, but I have nothing to worry about."

"That's good," Frank said. "I would have had to go out and shoot someone if they had given you bad news."

She almost laughed, saw he was deadly serious, and settled for a sigh.

"How do you do it?" he suddenly asked. "How do you accept me, when you know the things I do?"

Joan looked at the ground, and then his eyes. "I don't know, Frank. I just…those were bad days. I felt like I was suffocating, something worse than dying, because it wasn't physical. It was all in my mind, and I knew it. I just couldn't control the way I felt. I wasn't strong enough. But I was never scared of you. Shy, maybe, but I always knew you wouldn't hurt me. There wasn't anyone else who made me feel that way."

"And now?"

"You're still the only one, although there *are* some nice older ladies in my new town that I can t-talk to without wanting to curl up and hide. It's a start."

He said nothing. They walked down the street for a little way, Joan remaining close to his side. Other pedestrians steered clear of them. He felt a little exposed, but decided it could not be helped.

"It's dangerous for you to be around me," he told her. "In case you've forgotten."

"Would you believe me if I said I didn't care?"

He glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. "I trust you, Joan. I would believe you."

Her cheeks flushed red. "I don't care, Frank. Maybe I c-can't leave my home without feeling scared, but when it comes to you, I don't feel afraid."

"I was married once," he said, and the words sounded strange in his ears. Like they were part of a secret even he had forgotten about. "I had children. They were all killed, shot to death in front of me. Because I did something that made people angry. Their deaths were my punishment. All I did was tell the truth, Joan. They died for that. Think of the risk you face."

"You can't protect yourself forever, Frank. There are no shields, no walls, strong enough to keep you safe from heartbreak. Trust me…I know. And I -- I've lived too long alone. I don't want to be alone. Being with you -- being your friend -- that would be w-worth the risk, Frank."

"Worth the risk," he murmured. He looked down at her, taking in her earnest eyes, the stubborn set of her mouth. He reached for her hand, and slipped it into his own.

"All right," he said.

The End

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