Hello, People of the Covert Affairs Fandom! This is definitely not my main fanfiction domain, but I have watched every episode and adore the show. Recently, I was upset at the lack of acknowledgment of Arthur's ex-wife and the conflict between Joan and he. I mean, he basically took this woman's advice over that of his wife. I sense angst. Lol. Hope you like!

Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. I'm twelve. I don't own my socks, for Christ's sake.


The car ride home had been silent; unnervingly so. He'd watched from his peripheral vision as she stayed still, eyes straight ahead. Her breathing was even and her hands hadn't shook. Joan's delicate fingers usually shook when she was angry. There were no outward signs that he was in trouble.

But he knew he was.

Gina had not deserved what she'd gotten. Arthur had been in love with the woman, once upon a time. But what happened, did happen. And now he loves the woman sitting next to him.

That's just life.

He doesn't speak, because she hasn't spoken. He knows he's unintentionally screwed himself. He knows her eyes, powerful and beautiful and blue, will not meet his tonight.

They arrive home, and she doesn't wait for him to lock the car before she's inside, without him. Arthur shrugs the door open and closes it quietly, gaze flashing to the kitchen. Joan is clattering things and moving around and he has a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. Aching, gnawing. He begins to loosen his tie as he goes to the source of the noise.

She's sitting at the bar, sipping a glass of vodka rapidly. Her neck is thrown back as she attempts to seek the last few drops in the bottom of the glassware. Arthur sees the pale, appealing skin of her throat. He swallows thickly. His arms are slack at his sides, his mouth is pursed into a firm line.

Joan still won't speak.

He waits, silent.

Arthur eyes her hand, still wrapped around the breakable. It starts to shake.

A moment later, it shatters against the far wall. The drywall is clearly damaged and she wraps her arms around herself and he bites the inside of his cheek. More silence.

Finally, he steps over the mess, carefully avoiding the shards. Joan is not wearing her heels. She kicked them off at the door. Her eyes are focused on the granite countertop.

His fingers skim her bare shoulder, and she flinches minutely. Slowly, she looks up. She kisses him.

He carries her to the bedroom, and she keeps cursing under her breath unintelligably. Sharp fingernails painted a bright red scratch his skin. Her hands are still shaking. His grip on her wrists will leave bruises she'll proudly wear. Once or twice, she mumbles something heatedly.

'You're mine,' he thinks she's saying.

He knows.

He unzips her dress, hands skimming hungerly across her porcelain flesh. Joan's blonde hair is soft and tickles his nose. She works at his belt and throws it across the room. Addicted to the scent of his cologne and him. Just him.

In short, they loose themselves in the moonlight.

The morning arrives, and he lies next to her; stroking her arm, hugging her to his chest. She is his as he is hers.

Her hands have stopped shaking.

The fight has ceased to be, for now. It's a great feeling. One he savours with the light of dawn.