The shotgun discharge was still going off in his ears, filling the room with more than the bright sunlight that streamed in through the farmhouse windows. He hated these dreams. And they came so frequently -- not that he would admit it aloud. A rough hand palmed at his face, scrubbed over his beard and dismissed the visuals of the night terror from his eyes. This was not then. This was not war.
Outside birds sang. He didn't need an alarm clock to wake him, never mind to know that it was just after six in the morning and he could hear the roosters from their coop. When his ears stopped ringing he looked beside him to ensure he hadn't disturbed his bedmate. His wife.
No, that ring was still on his right hand, safe from being snapped off of a chain from around his neck. The new ring, the shinier one, was on his left. The polished onyx of it felt heavy, almost unfamiliar, but the warm body laying peacefully was anything but.
The sun, gold as it was, had nothing on the spray of her hair against the pillow. Frank -- no, Pete -- let himself look at her as long as it took to fully vanquish the memory of the dream from his mind. She was so beautiful.
It was a good thing she was asleep, too. Surely she'd razz him for how long he watched the rise and fall of her back from sleep-cadence breathing. He had her face etched into his mind forever but it still didn't detract from seeing it whenever he wanted. Tongue wet his lips and after a while, maybe five minutes, he quietly excused himself from the bed.
The house was old. He didn't mind it. The floorboards creaked with every step down the hall, down the stairs and into the kitchen. That old country wallpaper sprayed the decor here, a kitchen too big for him alone and maybe in another life he and @kataireo would have filled this house with rugrats of their own. Instead they had farm animals: horses, chickens, sheep, pigs, cows ... the works. Instead they had acres of fields and farmhands and all sorts of neighborhood kids (where the closest house was miles away) to keep them company. Bumfuck nowhere New Hampshire was good like that.
Their coffee pot was an old percolator that Frank had seen copies of in his grandma's house once upon a time. He started it and waited, ass pressed against the counter top as he stared out the window.
Who the hell was this man?
To the world, Frank Castle was dead. This was Pete Castiglione -- an honest farmer and his wife. This was their land, their life together, away from the chaos of the city. It didn't feel like the happy ending Karen wanted for him ... but it sure was nice regardless. Knowing life, the way it liked to pull the rug from under him, a storm would be coming sooner or later. The Punisher would reappear and do what he did best. But for now ...
For now he could enjoy this respite. He could smell when the coffee was ready. The burbling of it pulled him from his reverie, and without thought he grabbed two mugs and poured them near full. Once more the stairs creaked on his way up, the hall. He reappeared in the bed room and set the drink on the bed side table before kneeling back onto the mattress.
He hated disturbing her. She'd be pissed if he didn't.
Gently, so gently he reached forward with the tips of his fingers and brushed gold strands from her cheek. Then he leaned down and kissed the apple of it, brushing his beard inadvertently as he did so.
"Karen," the sound of her name was rougher than usual -- the first speech of the morning. Another kiss, this time to the corner of her mouth. "Karen, baby, wake up. It's past six."
