Archive of Our Own

Karen would never get used to intruding on Frank’s space. 

He’d never had a space to intrude on before, not really. She’d met him in hospital rooms and courthouse holding cells, on park benches and her own front stoop. She’d never associated Frank with one particular place — not even the one she’d broken into — and it felt odd to have an address stored under his ‘name’ in her phone. 

It still wasn’t much — couch they’d found along the road, pile of books stacked up in the corner. Nice kitchen, if a little messy. Safe, from everyone but Dinah. And David. But no one was safe from them. 

She’d only meant to drop off a housewarming gift. Nothing too dramatic — one of those silly, mug-sized plants you can buy at the corner store. Small enough not to scare him. A pleasantry to pair with a hug and a “hicongratulationsbye” at the door. She had work to be doing, deadlines that needed to be made. The world didn’t stop, so neither did she. 

And yet, she lingered. Wandered around his space aimlessly, examining the kind of place The Punisher called home. What counted as home for someone who’d become unused to having one. 

She’d tried to convince him to stay with her, but he’d never relented. Insisted she didn’t need him in her space. Insisted she’d get sick of him after a while. 

If that were the case, she wouldn’t be idling around, rifling through his things, would she?

Rifling was the wrong word. Perusing . That sounded better. Observing the kind of house he kept, what he chose to furnish this new space with. It was neat, near spotless — he was a marine, of course it was — so it wasn’t like she had much to choose from. At least, not much that would count towards perusing. 

She’d call him old-fashioned if she didn’t know any better. 

“Only you’d still have a cassette player laying around.”

Her hand rested on the clunky, old box on the side table, the kind of thing better suited to a teenager in a John Hughes film than someone like Frank. One of those combination things, that once upon a time had played CDs but still clung to the idea that people gave a shit about cassettes. Clearly he’d scavenged it, picked it up from one of the many yard sales people in this area seemed to obsess over. It was in fine condition, if as old as her — all the knobs were still there, and the various brewery labels stuck to the side didn’t seem to be doing any significant damage. 

She wondered why this, of all things. Old, outdated, heavy enough to be a pain in the ass to haul home. A relic from a different time. Much like him. 

Frank grunted from the couch, some noncommittal noise that meant he couldn’t be bothered to explain it to her. Karen shrugged; she was used to it. Drawing anything out of him was like fishing with a five dollar children’s rod — damn near impossible, and probably not the best idea, but rewarding on the off chance that it worked. 

She hummed to herself, inspecting the pile of tapes sitting next to the old thing. Some had obviously come with the player: kids’ soundtrack compilations, obscure country albums, some mid-90s Prince that she knew he wouldn’t listen to. The kind of junk he hadn’t gotten around to throwing out yet. Remnants of other peoples’ lives. 

It was odd, to see that connected to Frank. Something so personal, the flotsam and jetsam of a normal life. Even if it wasn’t his, it felt out of place next to him, so minimalist and self-contained. Frank wasn’t the kind of guy to leave things hanging, let sleeping dogs lie where someone could take them out back and shoot them. If it didn’t serve him, he didn’t keep it. 

So it was odd to find what was clearly a homemade mix CD stashed in the pile of old junk. 

Karen picked it up gingerly, avoiding the places where the plastic had thinned and cracked. It was one of those master CDs, the blank kind you could buy and stuff full of photos or music or whatever else struck your fancy. It looked well-played, shiny and slightly scratched from use when she flipped it over, with a hand-written list of songs in purple Sharpie on the front. 

The writing was worn, faded where no one had bothered to fill it back in. Half-smeared pieces of loopy letters, the kind she’s always envied having. The tracks were listed haphazardly, jammed into the small space afforded by the front of the disc. Mostly country, it looked like. Some Dolly Parton, a song or two of Johnny Cash. A bunch of names she didn’t recognize.

She wondered if it had been abandoned along with the other tapes. Frank wasn’t one to keep mementos — he wasn’t that kind of guy. If she’d wanted sentimental bullshit, she would’ve stayed with Matt. And he didn’t necessarily read as a Dolly kind of guy. 

She wondered if it still played. At best, she’d figure out where it came from and tease Frank about his inability to live in the twenty-first century. At worst, she’d make the fatal step from perusing to rifling and leave Frank’s place with her tail between her legs. 

Anything was better than the silence, at least. 

“You mind if I…?”

She waved the disc in Frank’s direction, pinched between her thumb and forefinger. He took half a glance at it, barely tossing a glance as he looked up from his book. If she didn’t know him, she wouldn’t have been sure he’d even seen it before he hummed another noncommittal noise, the kind she knew meant sure, whatever. 

Not the explicit confirmation she’d been looking for, but it worked. She wasn’t sure she’d get much else out of Frank anyway. 

It took her more time than she’d liked to admit to figure out the machine — David was the techy one, not her. She hardly even used Spotify, and God, why did they need so many button settings on these things? Everything looked the same to her, all the labels faded away over time. It was one big, confusing box, and the shuffling noise of the disc sliding into place nearly scared her to death. 

She feared for a moment she’d broken it, until the tinny sound of a female voice came spilling out through the ageing speakers. 

Not Dolly, and certainly not Johnny Cash. Less guitar, more synthesizers. Distinctly 90s, the kind of sound that played when she was grabbing toothpaste at the pharmacy now. Out of place, even for this odd, homemade thing, like an afterthought even its creator had forgotten about. 

“ Hold On ,” she said aloud to no one in particular. The name lived in the back of her mind, a faded memory like an old poster. Wilson something or other, that's who sang it. She’d listened to it in middle school — one of those tracks on a compilation CD she’d played until it broke. She still knew all the words, surprisingly enough, the melody unlocking a memory as it crackled out over the speaker. 

It didn’t really seem like Frank’s bag — not that he’d ever shown any interest in music, that is. He seemed content with silence, as much as that worried her. Content to sit with his own thoughts. Live in his own head, with all the demons that refused to pay rent. He’d never given any indication otherwise, and she’d never seen any reason to ask. 

“Where’d you get this?”

A decent enough question. She figured she’d get another shrug, another noncommittal noise before she shut the player off. She’d chuck the mystery disc in the trash along with the others, and that would be the end of that. Another question to join the millions she asked as a journalist 

She glanced back at Frank, and before she could quirk her signature eyebrow at him, her stomach dropped. 

His shoulders were locked up in that posture that made Karen anxious, and he looked far away, giving the window the kind of thousand-yard stare she knew meant trouble. Hardly the face of someone who hadn’t given a shit two minutes before.  

“Maria….she, uh—she liked that kind of thing.” 

Ah . 

Shit. 

The handwriting made sense now. The worn edges of the case, like it had been carried around for years in someone’s bag or back pocket. The fact that none of the songs seemed like they fit Frank’s personality.

“Is this her tape?”

He nodded, curt and sharp. 

“Mmm.” It was hardly a response, more noise than word. “She liked this one.”

The words dug between Karen’s ribs like a knife. Had he bought the player just for that? For some chance at a memory, at hanging on to something already long gone? Or had it falen into his lap, some morbid coincidence bringing out memories he’d buried under six feet of dirt and a pile of bodies? 

They were odd things, the interests of a dead person. She knew plenty of them — the kind of movies her brother liked, the way some of Matt and Foggy’s clients took their coffee. The things strangers listened to on the train. The reading habits of the old man who used to live in the apartment above her. They lingered, like the scent of rain after a storm. Things you can never seem to forget, no matter how little you think about them. 

She imagined Frank wasn’t the kind of person who particularly wanted to forget, in this case. But what was she supposed to say to that?

Frank shuffled, the stiffness in his shoulders loosening only to tighten again when he stilled. 

“Never bothered to get rid of the damn thing.” 

Never bothered, or could never bring yourself to , she wondered silently. It was in-character for him either way.

She wanted to say something, wanted to apologize. Rewind the last two minutes like she could the disc, retract her own damning sense of curiosity in an attempt to save face. 

I nstead, her voice stuttered like a skipping track as she stared at Frank, drowning in some memory while she looked on.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice quiet under the music. “If I’d known, I would’ve—” 

He cut her off, mercifully quieting what she knew was starting to sound like blubbering. 

“‘S okay.” 

His voice dipped, quieter than before, and Karen wondered what he was thinking about. Whether she should be worried. 

“Y’didn’t know.” 

_________

He’d been a miserable shit that day. Something about shitty traffic, or his next deployment, or the phone company being bastards again. Maybe he’d just woken up on the wrong side of the bed. He didn’t remember. 

He remembered the migraine though. Pounding, nuclear bomb of a thing. Pain on both sides of his head like a hydraulic press. Digging into his brain and threatening to crush it to bits. Stress induced, they’d probably call it. From all the goddamn teeth grinding he did. Manifestation of his nerves, or whatever the fuck the psychological term was.  

He’d played it off like it was nothing, like he always did. Like they’d taught him to. Pain is weakness leaving the body, or whatever the stupid, hackneyed phrase was that they used. 

They were wrong about that. 

Pain is guilt. Pain is fear, the sensation of every muscle tensed in anticipation of the worst. Pain is grief, mourning what could have been. Pain is a sharp reminder of what it feels like to live, to keep moving when everything else says to stop. 

Pain isn’t weakness. It’s endurance. 

And endure he did, through the too-bright lights and the too-loud noises of modern life outside. He couldn’t force himself to sleep, but didn’t want to stay away. It was a hellish limbo, broken only by the sound of a door knocking and Maria’s voice like a light through the painful darkness. 

Made of fucking sunshine, that woman was. Barely been dating two months and she’d already become the best thing in his life. Best thing he’d never deserved. 

God, she was still so young then. They both were. So young it had scared him. Terrified him, how much he loved her. How much he was capable of it. How willing he was to throw everything away for it. 

It was before the kids. Before everything. Before he’d decided she was it for him. But he’d known it then, down deep in his bones. There was no avoiding it — a crash course in fate, as little as he believed in that kind of thing. 

He couldn’t remember why she’d been there, or when she’d come. Maybe she’d stayed over — no, she’d been too put together for that. She’d had that lipstick on that she liked. Maybe he’d promised her a date. Something nice, in the park or at the movies. It was too fuzzy a memory, everything blurred out except for Maria. 

The details didn’t matter, he knew. Just her. 

She’d known he was down before he’d told her. (Not that he would’ve.) She’d sensed it, frowned in the way that kicked him straight between the ribs and resolved to fix it before they’d said two words to each other. 

She didn’t have to. She could’ve left, rescheduled whatever it was for when he wasn’t frowning at her like a pouting child, bitching something about regretting not running to the store. Could’ve decided he wasn’t worth her time, told him to suck it up and call her when he wasn’t acting like a dick. 

But she wouldn’t have been his girl if she had. 

She’d grabbed the tape from her purse — back when it was brand new — and waved it around, like some kind of magic wand that could fix all of his problems. 

(All she really needed for that was herself, but only he knew that.) 

“You can’t be sad with music playing.”

That’s what he remembered her saying. Maybe not those exact words, but the sentiment. She’d been adamant about it. Stubborn, in that way that made him putty in her hands. Like she knew she couldn’t be wrong to him. 

He’d stuck it out anyway, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards where he was laying. Made some half-assed attempt at a smile that didn’t make it to his eyes, ran his thumb over her palm and spoke up with as much as he could muster. 

“Thought that’s what Billy Joel was for.” 

Her eyes rolled, bowling balls into the flimsy pins he’d called his own resilience. Perfect strike, straight down the middle. Cracked his resolve like an egg. She smiled, bright as the sun but with the opposite effect on his head. She knew she’d won and it made her cocky. 

Anyone else and he would’ve chewed them out. With her, though...

She could get away with murder if she wanted. 

She’d dragged him off the couch — or he’d let her think she had, with those skinny arms of hers. She’d pulled with all her might, mumbling words he didn’t remember about not being grumpy on such a beautiful day. He’d followed her lead, powerless when she looked at him like that. Up on his feet, in the middle of that shitty apartment he’d had before they had Lisa. Following as she pulled him along, away from the too-bright sun to the little nook of a kitchen. 

The poor counter was dominated by his shiny new CD player, the one he’d spent a scary chunk of change on when he discovered she liked music. Replaced that god-awful guitar playing of his; that had been his logic. The logic he told his friends, at least, rather than the truth — that Maria’d been so proud of making him that damn mix that he couldn’t bring himself to tell her he had nothing to play it on. 

She’d slipped putting it in the player. He remembered that. Dropped the case in all of her excitement, chipped the nail polish she’d just gotten done. Bright red polish, with little stars on it — Fourth of July, that was it. She’d come over for the fireworks, the ones they shot off down on the pier. Matched her nails to her dress and everything, and she’d chipped them over his stupid migraine. 

That song — the one Karen played — was the first track. The first thing that sputtered out when she started the machine. Painfully 90s, a snapshot of life long before they’d met each other. Cookie cutter pop star shit, the kind of thing he usually wouldn’t be caught dead listening to. 

He remembered it from other places — their first home, in the car on the way to her work — but that was the first time he’d heard it. The one that stood out against everything else 

She loved it, if the grin on her face told him anything. Enough that she was dancing in place, bobbing and smiling brightly enough to block out the damn sun. Like this was their own personal party, with no one else invited. 

He didn’t know the words, but he figured he didn’t need to. They spilled out of her mouth without a second thought, more than loud enough for both of them. Like she could feel it in her bones. Like all that mattered in that moment was the song. He figured that was the point. 

She swayed to herself, like a palm tree. The kind he wished they could’ve seen on the honeymoon he never gave her. The one that was just out of reach, with his measly pension and all the money she’d just managed to save. She was a paradise all to herself, a breeze on a scorching day. 

Don't you know, things can change—things'll go your way…

She’d wrapped her arms around his neck, and suddenly the quality of the song was the last of his worries. She’d forced them both into a slow dance, a hardly graceful waltz as she kept one hand anchored to his neck and brought the other up to his face, palm against his cheek as she continued to sing.  

It was cool against his face, against the burning feeling he’d been suffering through all day. A grounding line back to reality, through the searing headache that was slowly fading to the back of his brain.

(That’s not how it worked, he knew that much. But he could pretend, for the sake of a memory.)

Can you hold on for one more day?

The lyrics felt oddly appropriate, the cynical part of him thought. Life was a cycle of ‘one more day’s, a promise of rest continually out of reach. One more headache, one more sleepless night, one more, one more, one more. Building towards nothing, a castle in the sky made of nothing more than wispy clouds and dreams. 

But none of that mattered when he felt Maria’s hand against his neck, running her fingers through the hair there. She did it absentmindedly as she sang, looking at him like he was the only thing in the universe.

It’s ridiculous. She’s ridiculous. Part of Frank knew he’d wither into the ground if anyone saw him like this — the tough guy, the Marine, dancing in his own kitchen with some cheesy-ass pop song playing. 

But fuck that. 

She was worth more than any stupid crack they could come up with. 

So he’d swayed with her. Cracked a smile as her voice came out enthusiastic but off-key, circled her wrist with his hand and locked the both of them in place. Couldn’t decide between looking at her and closing his eyes, standing there and just feeling as much as he could. 

He had no idea what had happened after that. The rest of the memory had been wiped, the tape recorded over with something less sappy. He didn’t remember the afternoon, or the fireworks, or if they’d even bothered to go. Maybe they’d said to hell with it, stayed right there in his kitchen and danced along to the rest of that ridiculous tape. Maybe he’d kissed her, or thanked her, or something else hardly worthy of the praise she’d deserved. 

He didn’t remember, but she’d been right. He couldn’t have been upset if he’d tried. 

_____

“‘S been a while.”

The words came out a little choked, a little hoarse. Frank sounded far away. He was far away. Buried in a memory he’d never be able to commit to words. Some moment in time lost to the ether. 

Karen flinched, the rasp of his voice sandpaper in her ears. It felt rude to pry. 

“Want me to turn it off?” 

Her hand was already reaching toward the player, eyes already flitting between Frank and where the ‘stop’ button was. It was a courtesy more than a question, and she was certain her eyes betrayed her shock when Frank shook his head softly. 

She couldn’t tell whether she should be surprised or annoyed. Maybe he was just being stubborn. Too concerned about what she wanted to think about himself, even though his feelings were already plastered across his face. 

“C’mere.” 

The word floated between them, a shot in the dark that neither of them quite understood. Karen didn’t move, feet still stuck to the floor in front of the player. The word didn’t make sense, didn’t feel appropriate. Like he was so out of it he was speaking nonsense, the opposite of what he really wanted. 

It took him waving a hand at her to understand what he meant. To hear him, really hear him, beyond the blood roaring in her ears over the music. He’d discarded the book, left it spine-up on the side table as he looked at her. 

He was standing now, moving. More than he had in the last twenty minutes she’d been there. Towards her, while she was still standing, frozen, CD case still in hand. Looking like a fool, surely. Guilt turning her blood to tar, even as the distant look faded from Frank’s eyes. The most ‘deer in headlights’ she’d looked since he’d scared the shit out of her in that hospital with Grotto. 

His approach was slow, and she noticed the way he held his hands out in front of him — always visible — as he stepped into her space. Creeping, like he still had the ability to scare her. 

(Well, he did, but only when he tried to get himself killed.)

His eyes glanced from the player back to her, and then to the floor. He was moving, just the tiniest bit, shifting his feet to the beat of the music. He seemed overly interested in the floor between glances at the player, and it took Karen longer than she’d like to admit to draw the right conclusion. 

Dancing, she thought. He wants to dance . 

A floorboard creaked over the music — the one they’d both complained about when they’d moved the couch in. Karen startled mid-thought, just the slightest bit, and Frank hesitated, like he was the one in the wrong. Like she hadn’t just reminded him of a painful memory, digging through his things like he was another one of her subjects. A thing to be researched, not a person to be cared about. His arms floated in that distinctly un-Frank way of his, the way they did in the rare moments when he was unsure of something. 

I just pulled an old wound open and he’s worried about touching me. 

She almost wanted to laugh at that. 

He was old-fashioned, without a doubt. 

Everything felt a little slow as she nodded — not the music, but them, like they were moving through molasses. Like seconds were hours as he waited on her response, her consent. Toeing a strange line as they wordlessly gazed at each other. She could hear her heels squeaking over the sound of Wilson Phillips, awkward little additions of percussion to the song. He didn’t seem to hear them, though, as he returned the favor.

He was solid — in a safe way, not an uncomfortable one. The security of a weighted blanket wrapped around her waist, anchoring her until she no longer felt like her head was spinning. They settled there with what felt like practice ease, hands used for so many unspeakable things holding her like she was something breakable. Like she’d shatter if he made one wrong move.

She hadn’t broken yet, but she felt dangerously close to it as she placed her hands on his chest without thinking. 

She hadn’t danced with anyone since college. Not properly, anyway. She’d never had an occasion for it, really. None of her friends were married, and on the off-chance there was a wedding, it wasn’t like she’d ever had a date. (She’d tried taking Matt to one once. She would’ve had less of a disaster on her hands if she’d lit a dumpster on fire.) Dancing was out of the question, mostly — at least with other people. 

But it wasn’t like Frank had many occasions to do it either. 

She didn’t know where to look. She’d hugged him before, but this was different. Conscious. Born out of something other than relief at knowing he hadn’t washed up on the Hudson shore somewhere. She knew she looked stiff, her hands resting against the tops of his shoulders like a teenager on her first date. An awkward prom photo, ten years late. 

She resisted the urge to fidget with her hands, mess with Frank’s shirt or look anywhere but at the frayed edge of its collar. She was more than tall enough to make eye contact, but not nearly brave enough to meet whatever gaze was waiting for her. Whatever gaze she might leave disappointed if she met it, with an unsure one wavering enough she wasn’t sure she’d be able to—

“Hey. ‘S just me.” 

Frank’s voice was quiet, only just audible over the music. Steady in her ear, certain as ever. A welcome addition, unlike the sound of her still squeaking shoes. A graceful bass part, right next to her temple. Just loud enough to block out the thoughts swirling in her head, to clear them away and focus on just what the hell she was doing with Frank. 

She wasn’t sure if the way he squeezed her hip was intentional, or just reflex. 

“You like this too?”

He tilted his head toward the player, toward the soft, tinny voice still singing about heartbreak and redemption. Too . The qualifier struck Karen, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it. Being considered next to Maria, at least. She nodded, not sure she could quite muster the right words in response. 

Frank hummed. 

“Mmm. Figures.” 

He made what Karen thought might be a chuckle, that she could feel more than hear, in the rumble of his chest just under her hand. It was a nice sound, though one that made her frown. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

It was half a joke, the kind of curiosity that made her good at her job. Tinged with a smile, even if he wasn’t looking at her to see it. Frank hummed again, and when she pressed with a raised eyebrow — “Seriously, what?” — he laughed again. The kind of thing that shook him to keep in, that finally cracked a smile across that somber, unchanging face of his. 

“Nothin’.” 

A word she’d learned never to believe when it came to him. 

She rolled her eyes, gently pulling away until she could meet his eyes. He had bruises on his face, she noticed. Mostly healed, from something he’d never bothered to tell her about. (“Don’t want to keep scaring you,” he’d said, though she was afraid of so little now.) Yellowing around the edges, covering the better part of the right side of his face. It was a rare occasion if she ever saw him without them. 

“Don’t believe me?” 

Frank tracked Karen’s eyes as they moved over his face, a curious expression buried somewhere underneath watercolor-looking splotches. She scoffed, a tiny, amused sound reserved only for the likes of him. 

“When do I ever?” 

Frank rolled his own eyes at that, clearly amused at how stubborn she could be, how easily she could stand toe to toe with him. It wasn’t easy, that kind of thing — he threw himself into danger and here she was, chasing after him, digging up pieces of him she never thought she’d see. Tripping over her own feet to keep his ass in line, as Foggy had put it. 

She’d probably have better success if she didn’t wear heels, but at least they made it easier to look Frank in the eye. 

“Didn’t think you liked dancing.” 

It didn’t seem entirely impossible to her, to be fair, but she never exactly looked at Frank and thought about dancing. She’d never considered him in the context of relaxing , taking a moment that wasn’t burdened by the outside world to just be . He’d never had that air to him, not as long as she’d known him. 

But she knew she’d never know everything, as much as it pained her.

“Maria...she did it a lot. Loved dancing.” 

Frank smiled to himself, a ghost of a thing as he spoke. 

“Liked to make me do it,” he said. “Kinda got used to it.”

“So what, it’s a Pavlov’s tape thing?” Karen asked. “If I keep playing this, will you keep dancing with me?” 

She hadn’t meant to make it sound hopeful, but she did. The tiniest lilt to her voice gave it away, and something in Frank shifted. His expression moved; for a moment she feared she’d upset him before he squeezed her hip again. Her heart jumped in her chest. 

“If you quit steppin’ on my feet with those shoes of yours,” he mumbled, “Sure.” 

Karen laughed — a real laugh, not a nervous one, one that bubbled up from the pit of her stomach and spilled out before she could stop it. Before she could think better of herself, remind herself of how this moment had spawned. 

She couldn’t help herself — she brought a hand to his face and ran it over the bruises, where something or someone had marred the skin and taken away from the warm expression he now wore. Ran her thumb over his cheekbone, the place a deep scar now lived from some accident or another. It ran right below his eye, curving along the orbital and up onto his temple. It creased when he smiled, though he rarely did, marring the face she’d come to know so well. The one she’d committed to memory so strongly it appeared in her dreams. 

“No promises.” 

She said it with a smirk, half-expecting a stern comeback or something equally as worthy of the ways he’d shepherded her out of danger before. The way he’d put himself in the line of fire for her, frequently swore under his breath at how much bullshit she intentionally got involved with. It was always ‘no promises’ with her; it came with the territory. She was stubborn. It was what kept her in a job, and perhaps the only thing keeping Frank in her life. 

But nothing came of it. No scoff, no mumbled sarcasm, no more eye rolls. Just a look in his eyes that Karen couldn’t place, and a stutter in the way they were swaying quietly. Barely noticeable, if not for the way his hands shifted against her waist — loosening, scaring her that she’d upset him, until one rose to his face to curve around hers, infinitely large compared to her tiny, writing-worn fingers. 

She tried not to tense, not to resist as he pulled it away, keeping whatever apology her brain wanted to form hidden away. He didn’t seem upset, or even perturbed at her words. Calm was the best word she could come up with — a rare occurrence for him, even now. At peace, as much as he could be. 

Maybe she was imagining it. Maybe she’d deluded herself into thinking that’s what this was, that he wasn’t just trying to distract her from something else so she wouldn’t pry. That she hadn’t just stepped over a boundary she couldn’t retreat from.   

But if she’d imagined it, would she be able to hear his heart thumping in his chest? 

“Of course not.” 

He whispered it against her temple, a replacement for a more explicit type of affection. He kept his hand where it was, wrapped around hers against his chest. Karen didn’t dare move, didn’t dare shatter the sugar glass-constructed moment she found herself in. She didn’t know what would happen if she did, how they would come out on the other side of it. 

Like two kids at their first dance, they were. Her, still in her work outfits, the skirt that needed mending and the shoes that killed her feet. Him in his construction clothes, worn jeans and that hoodie he wore everywhere in place of a real shirt. Swaying to a song barely remembered, As mismatched as could be. Antiques cherry-picked from a pile, clashing in everything but this. Whatever this was. 

For all she got paid to write them, Karen was lost for words. 

The song faded out after a while, the melody having gone to white noise the second Karen stepped into Frank’s arms. She’d stopped paying attention a while ago, in her defense. It wasn’t until the voice from the speaks changed to something else that she really perked up, tore herself away from the strange cocoon of Frank’s arms. 

She didn’t recognize who it was this time, what the song was. Someone twangier, slower. A guitar and a voice. Maybe Dolly. Karen didn’t particularly care. 

But perhaps Frank did, the way he stilled. Muscles freezing, free hand rising a fraction of an inch from her waist. Squeezing the hand that still held hers, he searched her eyes for something unnamed. That crease in his brow was back, the one that scrunched his nose and twisted the scar on his face. That frown that came with it spoke of concern. 

“Want me to…?”

Karen shook her head, probably faster than she should’ve. She could hear the word she’d cut off, floating in the air — stop. The last thing she wanted to do. End whatever this moment was, go back to the awkward reality she’d created for herself. Break whatever spell the music clearly had on both of them. Stop was in her vocabulary plenty when it came to Frank, but not for this. 

“No.” 

It was barely a sound. A tiny dormouse of a thing, solidly unlike her. 

But then again, hadn’t the dormouse stopped the elephant, once upon a time?

“This is nice.” 

‘Nice’ was an understatement. But it’d do for now. 

They’d figure the rest out later.