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The force of the explosion surprises her - Frank tackles her out of the way, but she can still feel the blast in her bones.
It’s like waking up slowly, the way she comes back into her body in bits and pieces. Becomes aware of the steady throb of pain; the cold of the floor tiles leeching her body heat; the dust in her mouth that turns to mud as she gasps for air. Becomes aware of Frank, shifting beside her, reaching for her; his hand, gentle against her face and in her hair; the quiet, concerned rasp of his voice asking her "Are you okay?" Her hands on his chest, his side. The vastness of the relief she can't help but feel. They are still alive.
They help each other up and both stare for just a moment at the stain of blood and brain matter that used to be Lewis Wilson before Frank starts to move toward the door. She feels like she's wading in molasses, her body and brain stupid and slow, but there's an alarm sounding in the back of her mind and she manages to listen to her instincts and calls out to him as the sounds of the police radios filter in from the hall. "Hey!"
He stops and turns to face her - she's pulling the gun out of her purse, the beginning of an idea taking shape. She holds it out to him and can see the hesitation in his face. "Take it," she demands. "Let me help you get out of here." For a moment, something raw and wounded flashes in his eyes, and she can't hold back the tears that well up in her own. "Frank, please. Please. You know how this looks to them, right? They have to think you - think you helped him and I can't -- I can't, Frank, you took a bullet for me, we just - we just got blown up, okay, you aren't in any condition to -- will you please let me do this?" Her voice breaks as she pleads and she knows it's not her most eloquent argument but it's all she's got.
He takes the gun.
She watches him empty the chamber and tuck the magazine in his waistband. His voice is gruff, “Not gonna point a loaded gun at you, Karen.”
She bites back her arguments, knows how to pick her battles and doesn’t want to waste her time on a fight she won’t win.
He's wary as he comes close, slow and deliberate with his movements like a farmer with a spooked horse, so careful it breaks her heart. It couldn't be more different from the violence of Wilson's hold, the unpredictability of his touch. Despite that, she has to breathe deeply to bury the instinctual panic that flares when he first presses the gun against her. He apologizes quietly as he pushes harder, the gun at an awkward angle to hide the missing magazine. She doesn't say anything because she knows he won't believe her, won't accept that she'll gladly take the bruises she'll have later if it means they're both safe. Instead she tries to relax into his hold and telegraph her trust with each steady breath.
He’s warm and solid behind her, his arm heavy across her chest. His scent surrounds her, the co-mingling of sweat and iron and gun oil that shouldn’t be comforting but is.
This is going to work, she thinks. He is going to be okay. She is going to be okay. They are going to be okay.
Then he's guiding them down the hall and she’s making herself as tall and wide as she can, shouting “Don’t shoot!” as they approach the elevator.
----
Her apartment is cold and dark when she finally gets home.
It’s autopilot to plug in her long-dead phone; when she turns it on, it buzzes with missed calls and frantic text messages and she ignores all of them. Figures she has earned a night to figure out exactly what she’ll tell people about today. She grabs a beer from her fridge, opens it against her counter-top and drains half in two long pulls. She drinks the rest in long, slow sips, leaning against her counter staring into nothing.
A wave of exhaustion hits almost at the same time as she empties the bottle, and she starts to unbutton her blouse as she walks to her bathroom. It has blood on it - more from Frank, she thinks, than from her, and is torn in places. A write-off, then. At least the skirt looks salvageable, dusty and dirty but without major damage. She strips down and leaves everything pooled on the floor for now, looks at herself in the mirror, tries to catalog the damage.
She looks like shit. Tired eyes stare back at her, rimmed with red. Her cuts have been cleaned but are still inflamed and angry-looking and there’s a bit of blood on her cheek that escaped the cotton swabs. There’s a bruise on her upper arm from Wilson’s grip and if she closes her eyes for long enough she can still feel him pressed tight to her, breath fast and heavy against her cheek. She opens her eyes and hates that he's still there, lingering until her gaze reaches the marks Frank left on her and suddenly Wilson's gone and it’s Frank behind her, Frank’s hands clutching her close. She looks at the bruise on her breastbone and the irritation under her chin, presses her fingers to them and feels nothing but the same relief she felt lying on the floor with Frank next to her.
She runs her hands through her hair and remembers the warmth of his palm on her cheek and the play of his fingers against her scalp; remembers the press of his forehead against hers and the way the world disappeared for a moment. She remembers the weight of his arm against her breast, too, and her cheeks flush.
She’s too tired to think about what that means, that bit of self-reflection tomorrow's problem. She’s too tired for anything but crawling into bed, so that’s what she does. Slips between her sheets, face unwashed and teeth unbrushed, and closes her eyes.
(She dreams of hands in her hair and brown eyes that look at her like she’s something precious and “Take care” whispered like a benediction.)