The Punisher: Time And Love Heals All Wounds (Athene/ImaginaryMuse & baadbaarbie)

[LadyAthene]

Frank Castle ​

July 6th, 2018
23:48 PM EST
New York City, New York
Exact Location: A small, local café

It was hard to believe everything had finally come to an end. For better or worse, it seemed like everyone linked to this past had been appropriately dealt with. The last of the gang members who killed his wife and children got their share of karma and were deceased. Of course, getting to said individuals had been quite the wild goose chase for Frank. Not that he regretted the path he walked down; far from it. But there were times, much like tonight, where his mind tried to haunt him with a now all too familiar question.

Was every drop of blood he'd spilled worth the revenge? Were all the sacrifices he'd made, all the people he killed ... was it really all worth putting his own life on the line so often? Let alone to avenge his dead wife and kids?

That was exactly what made the new sense of peace and serenity incredibly odd, if not a bit nerve-wracking. The answer to the rhetoric question seemed to be yes, and it furthermore appeared to offer him chances he was certain would be kept out of his reach for the rest of his life. A chance to start anew. Maybe - just maybe - he could finally settle down with someone else?

But every time those thoughts tried to comfort him, he mentally slapped himself.

Even if Maria would want that, it doesn't feel right, he chided to himself, his feet continuing to land rhythmically upon the concrete streets of New York City. Now that there were no more culprits for him to chase down, he was at least moving on in some aspects of his life. Just not quite his intimate one, but his daily routines? Yep, definitely.

Frank had been partaking in a new custom daily; one that always occurred after the meetings Curtis Hoyle hosted came to an end. Granted, the actual therapy sessions only lasted about an hour or so, but Frank tended to stay afterwards and talk with some of the other vets for a while longer. Afterwards, though, he opted to go to a small, but quaint, café nearby and sit. Meditate. Relax with himself, his thoughts, and the traditional cup of Joe. As helpful as Curtis' meetings were, they didn't always get his mind to be silent. Maybe Frank was just over-reacting; in fact, there was a very high chance that was possible.

Still, he couldn't deny there truly did seem to be something calming about the atmosphere ... or maybe it was just the fact all his 'work' seemed to be done. Whatever the case was, he found his feet subconsciously guiding him there. And sure enough, as Castle walked calmly through the front doors, there she was. The sweet, young waitress that had been serving him since day one. He didn't often speak or pry into her private life, but they had talked every now and again.

One particular fact he'd noticed about this girl - and perhaps what intrigued him the most - was she didn't recognize him. Or, if she did, she never made a fuss.

Either way, Frank appreciated it. He got more than enough attention when he had been on his personal quest of sorts over the past ... how long had it been now? About a year, give or take?

Something like that, he internally thought to himself, hastily dismissing the thoughts as he took a seat in the closest booth. Once the waitress got nearby, Frank gave her the simplest but most civil greeting would offer anyone; a nod.

"Kindly get me my usual if you don't mind, miss."

 

[luminesse]

NAOMI RIVERS

They called it the Broken Hearts Diner.

In actuality, the establishment had originally been named Maggie’s-- still was, according to the yellowing licenses nailed into the tile that laminated the back wall-- but no one in Hell’s Kitchen had called it that since the late eighties. There was a story to it, but Naomi Rivers had only ever heard bits and pieces at time, spilled mostly over drunken midnight breakfasts and in the trace whispers of schoolgirls who likely shouldn’t have been out at that late an hour anyways.

It had begun on Valentine’s Day nearly three decades ago, or so the urban legend went, when a couple not but a few hours wed celebrated their first and last meal as husband and wife in the corner booth. While a young woman had walked in a blushing bride, she would soon walk out a widow when her groom was made a victim of a fatal drive-by shooting.

While Naomi had never found any record of such a violent death at Maggie’s when she’d scrolled through the public databases at the library, it was certainly a better reason to keep the back booth empty than the mold in the lining of the cushions.

It was difficult to imagine how such a story had even come to fruition, being that most of her shifts were terribly, horribly, mind-numbingly uneventful. That particular Friday night was no exception; Naomi had kept herself occupied by remaking the same pot of coffee over and over again and counting taxi cabs as they ambled their way past the steep pot-hole that was carved into the center of the street.

Her regulars were all well taken care of, her rounds completed in the hurried first hour of her shift. Barbra, a bus driver, was fast asleep against the window, fork still clutched in her liver spotted hand. Alice, who ate her stack of blueberry pancakes one by one each night, had made it to her fourth pancake and had gleefully begun the process of evenly distributing a pat of butter across its surface. Miles, a college student much like her, burger in one hand and pen in the other as he struggled over the contents of his algebra homework for the third semester in a row.

And then there was just one more.

He was later than usual, but Naomi recognized him the second he ducked beneath the low-hanging doorway. She’d have known him anywhere, she thought, but it was difficult to imagine him outside the comfort of the diner and his regular order-- coffee, black, and keep it coming the whole night long. He had a crooked nose which drew a perfect path to surprisingly soulful eyes, rare as it was for her to catch his gaze too long. He always sat at the same booth, facing the door.

Her brother had done the same thing when he’d come back from war.

She didn’t have to pry too much to know that this stranger had seen war, too.

Naomi quickly scooped up another dishful of butter packets to deliver to Alice who had desperately begun to scrape the remainder from the bottom of the plastic while she’d been distracted. By the time she’d collected all of the scraps off of Alice’s laminate tabletop, her sad stranger had settled into his regular seat, beckoning her with little more than a nod.

“You know, someday I’ll convince you to have more than just a crappy cup of black coffee.” She said, tucking the trash into her apron before setting both of her palms flat on the table and leaning in ever-so-slightly. “I have it on good authority that we’ve got the best pancakes for… I don’t know, at least two blocks. Can’t I get you something to eat, too?”

Before she could get an answer out of him, the bell hung over the door tingled cheerfully, a haunting accompaniment to the familiar footfall that followed. Naomi didn’t push away from the table so much as she jumped back, hands immediately balling into fists at her side.

Her sad stranger wasn’t the only one who she knew at a glance.

Ivan-- better known to his friends as Van-- Poole had once been the type she might have described as her better half, but she hadn’t known that version of him since her freshman year of college. Where once the promise of him had stirred butterflies low in her belly, now she only felt a pit of dread, growing ever more present as the scent of his cologne wafted through the diner.

Dressed in track pants and a blazer, he looked less fit for Hell’s Kitchen than she’d ever seen him, owing no doubt to the group of equally-ridiculously dressed idiots lingering behind him. Ivan smiled at her from around the toothpick he nursed between his molars, gaze flitting quickly between her and her patron before he urged her to hurry over.

“Think on it, yeah?” Naomi said hurriedly, a nervous smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “I’ll be right back with that coffee.”

Ivan greeted her with a kiss that she was less than enthusiastic to return. When she swatted her hands out to keep him from grabbing her anywhere obscene, he caught her wrists, squeezing once before settling her hands against his chest and pulling her in close to whisper.

“Got a favor to ask sweetie, but first I’m gonna need you to show my friends around back so we can bring in those ingredients I’ve been telling you about.”

 

[ImaginaryMuse]

Frank Castle ​

As Naomi started coming over to him, Frank's eyes scanned around the restaurant. He didn't necessarily know the story of the other 'regulars', but he did know their faces. Besides, their actions at least hinted what their background. Well ... Miles' did the easiest, anyway. Same with the waitress. There was literally no other reason to take a job up at a place like this except because one was in a financial struggle, and who better fit under such a category than college students? The poor kids ... too many either wasted their lives away or were forced into devoting themselves to small economical workplaces like the Broken Hearts Diner.

To its credit, though, it was a shit ton cleaner than Josie's Bar. He could appreciate and respect that much. And the staff, particularly Naomi, certainly made very good efforts to at least be polite. Not only that, she attempted to encourage him to get more than his daily cup of Joe.

A ghost of a smirk just barely tugged at his lips as he finally glanced back up and looked right into her eyes. "Who knows?" he mused. "I very well may take you up on that offer. But not tonight. I'll make it worth your trouble, though."

Unlike a lot of other individuals, Frank did believe in tipping people like waitresses, delivery drivers, and so on. It wasn't anything too large, but it was definitely more than the measly single Washington bill.

His head started to go back down to the floor, but stopped as the bell elicited a ding, signaling someone else had walked in. Already, that grabbed his attention. Aside from the others still lingering in the restaurant, few people - if any - came in here. So what was different about tonight? His eyes found him glancing at a man that was very, very clearly looking for trouble. That's what his outfit, looks, and overall demeanor screamed, anyway. He was one of those kids; the type that were easily in with the wrong crowd.

It might not be his business - not yet - but Frank at least tucked this man and his 'crew' away. If only because he looked like the same type of 'trouble' he'd dealt with in the past.

Ingredients?

The boy may have been whispering, but it was close to midnight. No one was busy nor making too much noise, unfortunately for him. So Frank most certainly picked up on that word. In his experience, it tended to be a code word linked to drugs ... which would make sense for the boy. But not for the waitress. She seemed smarter. She had an actual head attached to her shoulders. Even if working in a place like The Broken Hearts Diner was a financial struggle, it was at least smarter.

But what more immediately grabbed his attention - yes, more so than the possible code word - was the forced physical contact. Him laying his hands on a worker. He cleared his throat, shaking his head in disdain at the sight of him squeezing onto Naomi's wrists.

"Look. You two ... if you are anything outside of here, that's fine. But let go of her wrists and allow the young lady do her job, yeah? You wouldn't want her interrupting your own job, I doubt, so keep your hands off her. May wanna go wash them while you're at it. They reek ... even from here."

Frank knew and understood from the moment he spoke that this would very likely lead to trouble. He was at least somewhat betting on it. Not hoping, mind you, but he wouldn't be surprised if the boy took so much offense that he wanted to try to fight him. It was what every idiot whose frail ego got so wounded attempted to do. It was always stupid, of course. They never bothered to think that he may have been a Marine, or at least more of a fighter than he looked. Nah, they always tried to talk him down as little more than 'an old man'.

It wasn't completely wrong, though. He definitely was getting too old for some things. And one was a group of kids causing his cup of coffee to be delayed any longer than was deemed necessary.

Hopefully, the boy would just sit down and order if he really wanted to pester Naomi. But he was already tensed and ready to react if push came to shove. He'd also at least be generous enough to take it outside to avoid ruining the tables or even the windows. Of course ... that was assuming Ivan would allow him that courtesy. If nothing else ... he'd help make up for that.