Swallow, Run, Rum, Knees, Wander (Karen/Frank)
Swallow
The coffee goes down smooth, the column of her throat tensing in a way that makes Frank stomach jump.
His fingers twitch at her almost inaudible hum of satisfaction, for the first time in so long aching to feel something other than the cool metal of a trigger.
He withdraws his gaze, looking down at the paper on the table between them, clearing his throat to say, "This is it? An address and the combination to a safe that's probably empty? It'd be quicker if i just put two in the back of his head."
She shakes her head, and there it is again, that fucking distraction that comes with her hair brushing against the cream of her skin, words quickly tumbling out into the quiet, "I need those contracts to prove he's been laundering money for crooked politicians... then you can do whatever the hell you want."
It almost sounds cold, words clipped, even a little vindictive, but Frank can see the way her finger twitches against her mug, the searching look in her eyes - he wishes he could stop seeing - so he just nods, picking up the paper and tucking it under his jacket.
Run
”RUN!” He screams at her from the entrance to the building, bullets whizzing by his head as he turns back to face the people chasing them.
It’s hard for her to leave him, but she knows he’s more than capable of handling himself, and the contents of the safe clutched to her chest need to make it out of the burning building or this whole escapade of theirs was for nothing.
Hours later, she pulls up to their meeting spot, limping, cold fingers clinging to a delicately carved wooden box, it’s brass latches frosty in the night air.
With each passing minute, a little sliver of hope is shaved away, and tension begins to collect in her shoulders, You shouldn’t have left, ringing in her ears.
But then there are lights cutting through the woods, footsteps crunching through the dry leaves, and before Frank even steps into the clearing, she’s running, box flying to the ground.
Rum
She stares down at the box in open astonishment, fingers shaking with anger as she reaches down to pick up the etched glass bottle, tracing the the lettering she hisses, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Frank only shrugs in response, turning away from her to retrieve two glasses from his cabinet.
He pours them both a healthy portion of the amber liquid and pushes one tumbler toward Karen, his eyes scanning her face, watching the rage shimmer just beneath the surface, “Must’ve known you were onto him. Ten to nothing all physical evidence of the corruption is gone.”
She snatches up the glass and gulps down the burning liquid, uncorking the bottle the pour the glass full again, and snarls at no one in particular, “Why does this have to be so fucking hard?”
One corner of Frank’s mouth twitches up, his eyes catching the light of the moon as it passes through the window. “If it were easy, the cops would have done it a long time ago.”
Knees
Five hundred dollar bottle of rum empty, Karen moves from her seat in Frank’s makeshift kitchen, feeling wobbly and more than a little done with the world.
She barely notices the throbbing pain in her knee, wincing only slightly as she moves toward the cot in the corner, but Frank is too perceptive, jumping up to stop her. “Let me see.”
It’s a bruise, black and ugly in the middle, varying purple hues toward the edge, and she knows it’ll hurt like hell in the morning, but all she can think about right now is the way his palm cradles the back of her calf, his fingers tracing along the skin to see if it’s more than just a bruise.
He’s on his knees in front of her, probing the injury, and the alcohol makes her bold, light-headed as she reaches out to thread her fingers through his hair, the unruly curls that he’s let it grow into.
It’s a nurturing move, a desire to comfort that she has been long tasked with suppressing, and she waits for him to snatch his fingers away, to stomp over to the other side of the cabin, to slam the door and leave her alone in the dark.
Wander
Frank would never admit it to a soul, but he’s touch starved, and Karen’s fingers against his scalp, pushing his hair back away from his face, feel like fire against his skin.
He’s not like he used to be, not present one-hundred percent of the time, and his mind can sometimes play tricks on him, can wander away into impossible realms, so he doesn’t trust the scene before him: a beautiful woman with bedroom eyes and soft hands.
“Frank,” she says, his name so soft in the air between them that he’s not quite sure it’s real, and the rum doesn’t help either, making him feel warm underneath his rib cage, almost as if his heart has started to beat again.
But her touch, it’s like an anchor holding him to earth, and he knows it’s real, not fair, but real.
All of her distractions are bundled up into one neat package before him, her soft lips, the flush of her skin, the pulse jumping at her neck that is begging for the pad of his thumb, it’s all here, and for the first time in a long time he thinks he can afford to be distracted.