Frank/Karen, things you said while I was crying
"I'm sorry."
Karen jumped at the sound of his voice, instinctively wiping her face. "It's not your fault, Frank."
"I know."
He settled on the couch next to her, close enough that she could feel his warmth. Karen quickly closed the small gap between them and curled up against his side, letting that heat soak into her bones. He wrapped his arm around her and held her close, letting her cry into his side, letting her soak his teeshirt with her tears. Frank smelled like blood and gunpowder--and it still sometimes scared her that she knew that smell intimately--but his body was solid under her hands, and that was enough. He didn't ask her what was wrong, what of the many possible reasons she had to cry had caught her at a vulnerable moment, he just sat there and stroked her hair as she worked through it.
Finally, Karen sat up and wiped her nose on the back of her hand, laughing self-consciously. "I'm sorry. You didn't come here to--"
Frank shushed her. "It can wait." He stood up, his hand on her shoulder keeping her seated. "Takeout menus still in the drawer next to the fridge?"
"Yeah." She reached for a tissue and blew her nose. "Thank you."
"Not a problem, ma'am."
Karen huffed out a laugh. "I told you not to call me that."
"Sorry. Habit." She could hear the smile in his voice, and knew he'd called her ma'am on purpose. "You want Indian again?"
"Yeah. Indian's good."