Caress
Karen notices early on that he doesn’t like sleeping. He clings to his coffee late into the night like it’s a life raft, circles under his eyes, exhaustion in his hoarse voice.
She doesn’t push, afraid to set this tenuous truce they have crashing down. It feels fragile, the way they sit together in hole-in-the-wall bars, heads bent as they go over leads. Like it could all go up in smoke at any second. She doesn’t push.
He does rest his eyes sometimes, when he’s sitting on her uncomfortable couch, waiting for her to return with medical supplies. It’s the only time she touches him, her fingers gently applying antiseptic, palms smoothing bandages against his almost feverish skin.
His eyes slowly shut, a week of sleeplessness pulling them down like an anchor into a dark ocean. The sound of her incessantly dripping faucet is hypnotic, lulling him into unconsciousness. By the time she returns to his side, arms full of supplies, his breathing has evened out, chest rising and falling in a tranquil rhythm.
She inspects the stitches on his arm, crooked little x’s, self inflicted. She wants to chide him for this, but she knows her own handiwork wouldn’t have been any better, and she’s all he’s got. She bites her tongue, tentatively swiping an alcohol pad against the puffy skin.
She glances up, checking to see if she’s woken him, but his eyes are still closed, darting back and forth as some dream plays out behind the lids.
The gauze goes on without a whisper, medical tape holding it in place. Karen is so engrossed with the task at hand that she doesn’t notice the way his breathing is becoming labored, the tension creeping into his shoulders.
She turns to put away her supplies, and when she looks at him again there is a pained expression on his face. Brow furrowed, jaw clenched, his nostrils flare as he angrily forces out a breath of air. At first she thinks maybe his injury is bothering him, but the thought is quickly batted away by the sight of his trigger finger twitching, the sheen of sweat gathering along his forehead.
Instinctively she takes a step toward him, ignoring the little rational voice in her head that’s telling her this is dangerous, that he’s dangerous. He’s not a monster, he’s a man, and he’s in obvious pain. She can’t just leave him to it.
She drops down beside him, one hand on his shoulders, her lips softly forming the syllables, “Frank, wake up.”
Her voice doesn’t touch him. Leaning in closer, she rests a palm against his sternum, his rapidly beating heart vibrating under his shirt. He jerks slightly, sending Karen’s own heart into her throat. “F-frank?”
When his eyes open they’re unfocused, darting wildly around the room. In seconds her wrists are encircled by his strong fingers, a fierce yet confused look on his face.
Karen swallows, fighting the trill of fear when his angry expression locks with hers. She swallows, modulating her voice to a soft yet adamant tone. “Frank, breathe, it’s just a dream.”
He blinks, air shuddering from his lungs. The two of them are close still, and his breath is hot against her cheeks.
“Karen?” It’s the first time he’s ever said her name,and he’s horrified. He loosens his grip, pulling away from her to bury his face in his hands as if he can still see whatever gruesome images haunted his dreams.
Karen massages her wrists, wincing as the blood rushes painfully back into her hands. It’s a discomfort she barely notices, watching as he withdraws even further. He gets up and leaves her alone on the couch, stomping toward the bathroom and slamming the door.
Now she really is afraid. A part of her wonders if this is it, if she’s seen too much of him and he’ll react accordingly, if he’ll put all the walls back up. She shakes her head. She won’t let it happen.
Her knuckles brush softly against the bathroom door, harder when she doesn’t get an immediate response. Feeling brave, she pushes it open.
He’s hunched over the sink, knuckles white as they grip the edge of the counter. Unable to resist, she lays a soothing hand against his back. This time he doesn’t flinch away.
“I see them every time I close my eyes.”
She nods, unable to say anything that would help, instead moving closer. Her hand unconsciously begins to move in circles, some part of her mind willing the transfer of comfort from her body to his.
He continues, dropping his head down. “I’m so god-damned tired.”
There’s nothing she can do, nothing to make the nightmares stop. Her heart aches for him, for every line of exhaustion in the way he stands. “Frank… I’ll always be here to wake you up… if they get really bad.”
He turns, giving her a sad half-smile, rubbing the horror from his eyes. “I might just have to take you up on that, ma'am. But I think I just need a strong cup of coffee right now.”
He moves to brush past her, stopping just inside the doorframe. She can still see the shadows in his eyes. Deep down she’s a caregiver, someone who doesn’t like watching people suffer, her heart seeking out those who need comfort. She can’t help it, just like she can’t help the way she steps forward and throws her arms around his shoulders, capturing him in a tight hug.
He tenses at first, unsure of himself. The feeling is familiar yet foreign. He can barely remember the soft embrace of another person. His own arms come up tentatively, encircling her waist. His nose buried in her hair, he pulls her closer, clinging like his life depends on it, and maybe it does.
When he kisses her it’s desperate, the act of an addict tasting his drug of choice for the first time in years. It’s consuming, his world narrowing down to a single point of light, to her.
Hours later, she lies in his arms, an ear pressed against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, poised to wake him should the sound get too raucous.
Frank snores softly, dreaming of light touches and gentle sighs.