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The sleet taps relentlessly at the window in a faint, constant rhythm that fills the apartment. Karen moves about the kitchen, the sound of the storm mixing with the low hum of distant car engines. She’s finishing up the dishes after a late dinner — something simple she threw together, since it’s just her tonight. It’s only been her for the past few nights, and she’s trying not to think about it too much.
Ever since Frank got his head out of his ass and came careening back into her life, he’s been staying over more often than not. It’s a system that works for them — for now — and she’s always happy to have him. It’s the best she can hope for, circumstances being what they are.
Grabbing a clean dish towel, she starts drying the pile of dishes in the rack. She’s already in her pajamas — sweatpants and a cotton T-shirt, with one of Frank’s hoodies thrown over it for extra warmth. It still smells like him.
She sighs to herself, then steers her thoughts in a more productive direction. What should she do with the last hour she has to kill before bed? There’s the book she’s been trying to finish — the one that’s been guilting her from its place on the coffee table. She could crack that open.
The sudden click of a key in the door lock has her nearly jumping out of her skin.
“It’s me,” comes Frank’s voice, muffled from the other side. Letting out a breath, Karen puts a hand over her heart to calm it. They really need to think of a better system or she’s going to die of a heart attack before the year is out.
The door creaks open and there’s Frank, stepping over the threshold in all black; soaked to the bone and looking like a drowned rat.
“Frank,” she says on a relieved exhale. “You’re back.”
Raindrops slide off his jacket, dripping on her floor when he leans over to take off his muddy boots.
“Yeah.” He flashes her a crooked smile. “Glad to be back.”
His words are thick with congestion, and when he pushes the hood of his jacket back, she gets a better look at him – wrung out, with most of the color drained from his face.
“Is everything good?” When they decided to give this thing between them a shot, they agreed to keep things vague for her safety. She’s still getting used to not pressing for details unless absolutely necessary.
“Yeah. Business as usual.” He shrugs stiffly. “Had some loose ends to tie up. Nothing too intense.”
She has to bite back a scoff. They have very different definitions of intense.
“Well, I’m glad you’re here.” She steps closer to properly greet him. Given the state of his clothes, she settles for a squeeze of his shoulder and a kiss on the cheek. His skin is unusually warm against her lips, despite the chill in the air.
“Jesus, you’re really soaked. Were you out in this all night?”
He nods. “One of the downsides of using a roof as your vantage point.” The last word trails off as he tilts his head up and blinks a few times. He turns away before inhaling sharply and curling forward with a wrenching sneeze. It echoes in the quiet apartment, rough and telling.
He freezes, muscles tense, before letting out a pained exhale. “Fuck.” Dazed, he straightens back up and wipes his nose on his rain-damp sleeve.
“Bless you,” she says politely, then, unwilling to beat around the bush when it comes to his health, asks, “Are you hurt?”
“It’s nothin’, really.” He pulls up the hem of his shirt to show her. Lifts the tape on the edge of the white gauze that’s covering what looks like a knife wound that, despite being shallow, is about five inches long. “I stopped at Curtis’s real quick. He took care of it for me.”
Her brow furrows as she leans down to get a better look at it, her fingertips grazing the unmarred skin next to the wound.
“You can never stay all the way out of trouble, can you?” she asks as her eyes catch and hold his. At least he has the courtesy to look apologetic.
“No, ma’am.” He lets his shirt fall back down and scrubs under his nose with his knuckles. She sighs, looking at him with undisguised concern.
“You better get out of those clothes before you catch cold. It sounds like you’re halfway there already.”
“I’m fine,” he says, and he must feel the disbelief radiating off her, because he follows up with, “I’ll warm up in the shower.”
“Okay. You hungry? I can heat something up.”
“Nah, not really. Thanks, though.”
She only lets him get away with it because he really does look horrible. Exhausted and pale with fever, he probably wants nothing more than to collapse into bed. A familiar swell of tenderness rises in her, the way it always does whenever he’s hurt.
He clears his throat quietly, trying to be sly about it. But she doesn’t miss the way his Adam’s apple bobs with a dry swallow, and he fights against a wince like his throat’s on fire.
“At least let me make you some tea,” she says.
“Coffee.”
“Decaf,” she counters. “With honey, for your throat. That’s how they do it at that new hipster café down the street. It’ll be good.”
He grunts in response, but it’s not an objection, so she’ll take it as a win.
With that settled, he trudges into the bathroom to shower, and she knows she’s only got about five minutes before he’s done. The speed of military showers is apparently one of those habits that dies hard, as they say.
She gets the coffee brewing and finishes putting the dishes away while she waits, the bubbling of the coffee maker a comforting sound no matter the time of day.
A few minutes later, she places the last plate in the cupboard with a small, satisfying clink. A lucky thing, too, because there’s a good chance she might have dropped it when she’s startled by another thunderous sneeze resonating from the bathroom.
Jesus, for a man whose life depends on stealthiness, he sure does have a sneeze that could wake the dead.
The shower turns off and she hears him rummaging around in the cabinets for a few more minutes before heading into the bedroom. By then, the coffee is done, and she doctors it up with honey, as promised.
The shaded lamp on her nightstand casts the bedroom in a soft, warm glow. From the doorway, she sees him sitting on his side of the bed, having thrown on some sweatpants and a T-shirt that will no doubt be damp with fever in a few hours.
Taking careful steps so as not to spill the coffee, she hands it over before sitting on the side of the bed next to him.
“Here you go — drink up.”
“Thanks, Karen.” He raises the cup in a ‘cheers’ motion before taking a sip, his nose scrunching up afterward in that adorable way it always does. It sounds like the hot steam of the shower did nothing to clear his sinuses.
“You’re welcome.” She relaxes into the easy moment, letting the quiet stretch out as she allows herself a second to just look at him — clean and cozy in her (their) bed. Alive, and real, and home safe once again. It’s a sign of how far they’ve come, that rather than licking his wounds in private, he comes to her now.
Her eyes travel down his chest, snagging on the bunched-up fabric covering what must be the fresh gauze he replaced after his shower.
“Did Curtis give you anything for the pain… or the fever?”
He shakes his head. “Didn’t need it.”
“You want some Tylenol?”
“I’m good.”
She rolls her eyes. To think that he had the nerve to call her stubborn not that long ago. Honestly, he seems more irked by the idea of succumbing to an illness than being bothered by the actual symptoms.
“Alright, but if that fever isn’t down by morning, you’re taking one.”
“Fair enough.” It’s his turn to rove his eyes over her now. She’s still wearing his hoodie, warm around her like an embrace. The way he looks at her… It settles something inside her, like all her atoms are slotting into their proper place.
“You gonna stay up?” he asks, and she recognizes the question for what it is. Can’t help the fond smile that tugs at her lips. As if she could ever say no to a sick Frank when he turns those dark brown eyes on her.
“I can read in bed, if you don’t mind the light.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Okay, let me finish up a few things and I’ll be right back.”
With more speed than necessary — she can’t help it, she’s eager to be in bed with him — she finishes her bedtime routine. She brushes her teeth, grabs her book from the coffee table, and turns off the lights in the living room, casting the room into shadows before returning to the bedroom.
By now Frank has almost finished his coffee. He’s still sitting up, but has shifted under the covers, the sheets pooled around his waist.
She slips into her side of the bed, book in hand, and gets settled against the pillows. He finishes his coffee and lays down, scooching closer to her. She meets him halfway — reclining a bit more so it’s easier for him to lay against her.
He brings an arm around her waist and buries his face into her side. Who knew he would be such a cuddler when sick? She’s tempted to laugh, but she’s also touched and doesn’t want to break the moment.
“Goodnight,” she says.
A contented hum. “’Night.”
He’s furnace-hot where he's molded to her side, half on top of her. She cards her fingers through his thick hair, scratching at his scalp. It’s starting to grow out a bit, likely because she confessed she likes it that way. He moans, and she swears she can feel the vibration sink into her bones. She continues her ministrations, a narcotic effect blanketing over them both.
Of course she prefers him strong and capable. She can always count on him to rush in and save her from the bad guys. But there’s another part of her that likes him like this — soft, vulnerable, trusting. Letting himself be looked after for once in his life.
The privilege of being the only one who gets to see him like this… It’s like a drug slowly creeping through her veins. She could get addicted. How long does she get to keep this softer version of him? At least a little bit longer, hopefully… if only to keep him out of trouble. And to force him to get some rest.
He rubs the bridge of his nose back and forth against her side in an attempt to quell an itch, breaking her out of her reverie. His poor nose, broken so many times, twitches ominously, and she feels his chest expand against her as his breath starts to hitch in and out. He turns to bury his face into the mattress as he’s racked by another harsh sneeze — deep and masculine. His body jolts with the force of it where they’re pressed together, followed by a miserable groan.
Something about it makes her stomach swoop. The vulnerability, maybe — or a new level of intimacy. When she smooths a hand down his spine, he sniffs and looks up at her, his brown eyes gone heavy-lidded and hazy.
“Sorry,” he says in a drowsy rasp.
“You don’t have to apologize.” She finger-combs a few curls back from his brow and cups her palm against his forehead, feeling the heat that still lingers. Sighing at the cool touch of her hand, he goes boneless. There’s a spot where the hoodie has ridden up over the band of her sweatpants, and he presses a kiss to the exposed skin.
There’s that pesky swoop in her stomach again.
She watches over him, his face illuminated in the dim light. His eyes are closed, the crease between his brows finally fading as he surrenders to exhaustion. He’s all soft edges like this, and she can’t help but marvel at it as she cards her hand through his unruly hair once more.
Who is she kidding? She isn’t going to get any reading done tonight. Her concentration is shot, and Frank deserves her full attention anyway. Returning her book to the nightstand, she wriggles down to lay with him, wrapping an arm around his chest and tangling their legs together.
He melts into her, pliant. A solid arm eases into place over her, and she revels in the feeling of being pinned. Her skin buzzes pleasantly when he tucks his warm face into the curve of her neck. When his lips brush against her pulse, she drops a kiss into his hair.
The drizzling rain continues its steady beat against the window, muting the sounds of the city below. She feels it when he drifts off, his breathing evening out into a deep, slow rhythm. After he falls asleep, she’s content to stay up a while longer, just holding him, until eventually she joins him, waves of sleep pulling her under.