( she's vigilant — she always has been. it's not just the pain splicing through him every time he moves which way, there's another hesitancy there, living within him, having taken refuge somewhere it didn't belong. she wants to comfort him, wants to tell him it's alright, whatever it is, but does she really have the right? she knows the answer. she doesn't know him, and so she couldn't possibly understand, therefore rendering anything that left her mouth the sister of pity, even if it wasn't her intention. she watches him ache to pull off that last layer and it's not the bullets that make him heavy, not the lulling demand of a body to rest.
he stands before her and he doesn't bother dropping the layer, just props himself there like a soldier following orders, and the first place her eyes fall is to the glint of tags dangling beneath his collar. feather-light, she's reaching forward to take that shirt from his grasp, setting it off to the side beside leather jacket. a breath in.
what she wants to say: nothing has changed. she can pick up on notes she remembers from various case files, photographs of him clipped to the top of reports, a side profile far more distinct as it stands before her now, gaze sweeping his features with a delicate read. she remembers knees curled beneath her on the floor, holding up the transparent image of that skull, a daunting hole like ink burned through the film. people had thought they'd known frank, knew what he stood for, what he'd done — her teeth grit, and there's a twin frustration, there. in the way he refuses to meet her gaze, the way shame dims him.
a breath out. she reaches for one of those cloths, douses it with some of the peroxide, and the first thing to touch him isn't the fabric, but her fingertips. tracing the round of his shoulder — shaky, as if he'd swat her away at a moments notice, as if he could possibly feel the touch mirrored on his opposite side; she doesn't linger where she doesn't belong.
she ducks down a little, splaying her palm at his abdomen, careful not to brush up against the ripened flesh, and she knows it's like ripping off a bandage — that cloth soaked in the alcohol palms over the wound, a practiced delicacy met with necessary contact. a few dabs, making sure to clean any residual dirt that'd found it's way.
as she prods, she looks up to him; to him. a man. a body. him. and while she speaks softly, it's not patronizing. )
no subject
he stands before her and he doesn't bother dropping the layer, just props himself there like a soldier following orders, and the first place her eyes fall is to the glint of tags dangling beneath his collar. feather-light, she's reaching forward to take that shirt from his grasp, setting it off to the side beside leather jacket. a breath in.
what she wants to say: nothing has changed. she can pick up on notes she remembers from various case files, photographs of him clipped to the top of reports, a side profile far more distinct as it stands before her now, gaze sweeping his features with a delicate read. she remembers knees curled beneath her on the floor, holding up the transparent image of that skull, a daunting hole like ink burned through the film. people had thought they'd known frank, knew what he stood for, what he'd done — her teeth grit, and there's a twin frustration, there. in the way he refuses to meet her gaze, the way shame dims him.
a breath out. she reaches for one of those cloths, douses it with some of the peroxide, and the first thing to touch him isn't the fabric, but her fingertips. tracing the round of his shoulder — shaky, as if he'd swat her away at a moments notice, as if he could possibly feel the touch mirrored on his opposite side; she doesn't linger where she doesn't belong.
she ducks down a little, splaying her palm at his abdomen, careful not to brush up against the ripened flesh, and she knows it's like ripping off a bandage — that cloth soaked in the alcohol palms over the wound, a practiced delicacy met with necessary contact. a few dabs, making sure to clean any residual dirt that'd found it's way.
as she prods, she looks up to him; to him. a man. a body. him. and while she speaks softly, it's not patronizing. )
You usually get yourself into this much trouble?