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Frank can tell as soon as Karen comes in the door, leaving it banging open behind her, that this is not a good day.
There was a time, years ago, when he wouldn’t have believed that she was capable of bad days. Despite everything they’ve been through, the times he’s made her cry, the times she’s been covered in blood and dirt and darkness, she always carried that light for him. She was always somehow above the pettiness of a bad day.
But now, he knows. He knows how she takes her coffee and which of her pencil skirts is her favorite and what it looks like when Karen Page has a bad day.
Her brow is furrowed, blue eyes fierce when they meet his. God, she’s so beautiful, even like this. She’s like a thunderstorm cracking open with fire and water and unstoppable power and Frank could be happy just to watch her forever.
There was also a time, months ago, when Frank wouldn’t have known what to do when she’s mad like this. He would have blamed himself, burrowed inside, tried not to make it worse. But he knows now that that’s not what Karen needs. It’s not what she wants.
She’s stepping out of her shoes, kicking them into the wall with more force than strictly necessary, and Frank slides behind her to retrieve the bottle of her favorite wine from the fridge. He pours her a glass and presses it into her hand, fingers trailing over hers gently.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she sighs, melting instantly at even this barest of touches.
“Okay.” He takes her free hand and leads her over to the couch. “Then we won’t talk about it.”
And they don’t. Frank sits beside her, arm around her shoulder, while she drinks her wine. He can feel the tension ebbing out of her the longer they sit. The TV is off and there’s no sound but the muffled noises of life in the apartments around them.
Frank thinks, sometimes, about what it would be like to take Karen away from all this, to get a house in the country and just be .
But that’s not Karen, and Frank’s not interested in anything but her, these days.
He can feel her heartbeat thundering strong under her skin, slowing until she fully relaxes against him.
She sets her glass down and peeks up at Frank, those eyes still full of emotion, but not frustration this time.
“Thank you,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to his jaw.
“Anytime, sweetheart.” He kisses her forehead. “Anytime.”