[His gaze darts down to a patch of carpet between his feet. No, he shouldn't play it off like that. He wouldn't want her saying the same thing to him - like he should just dig a hole for her and throw her in. She's not a dog or a fallen soldier or a- well. He doesn't know, to be honest. He doesn't know what she is to him. Only that she matters. She matters a heck of a lot.]
You don't want me here. [Well, no, she doesn't seem to mind him drinking her booze taking up space on her couch, but she knows what he's trying to tell her. Trouble tends to follow them both and she's got enough on her own to deal with without him dragging her down.] Anyway, you've got sleep. Work. Deadlines or... something. [Having never been an office drone he's not really sure how that works.]
You say that like I have every reason to convince you.
( to what? stay cooped up with a reporter attracting all the wrong sorts of attention?
always so quickly how they waver between softness and that deafening, erring caution; short-clipped tones to those low little drawls of his voice, some sort of jab or attempt at humor to balm the thought of neither of them finding their way out. the thought that that thing called relief was a far off friend, something they could only ever recognize as foreign.
so maybe neither of them deserve to draw each other into one another's shit, maybe she's got more than enough to handle than a prior wanted vigilante sitting on her couch, and he's got more than enough to handle than entertaining a space that's no safer than right at fisk's door. if there's one thing they're both considerably good at, it's getting what they want, information, company and a lack thereof, and it's exactly why she'll shrug off his mentioning of sleep; work; deadlines; something. )
Those'll still be there by morning, too. ( an uneven break of a smile—almost sad—brows risen with a quick, suggestive glance toward the pile of manilla folders scattered across that small kitchen table. ) Come on, ( a light nudge of his leg with her knuckles. )
For one night the assholes can do without having our full attention.
[He's not sure how to do this. This domestic thing. He stays for a while or even for the whole night - and then what? To be fair he was getting pretty good at it, once upon a time. Sure, he had outbursts, he had the itch to get back to the field, he had nightmares and arguments and tantrums. It had hardly been sunshine and roses for him. But he'd trade away this emptiness in a heartbeat, this not knowing how to spend the time between staving off the night nightmares and walking through the day nightmares.]
You sure we're not the assholes in this scenario? [At least he's got some of his sense of humour back. At least there's still something human in that lump on her couch. And he could sit here and dress it up four different ways - she's in perpetual danger, they're both still a little skittish since the incident at the hotel, he's got nowhere else to be, and so on - but in the end the question is whether he wants to stay. Because he's the one finding excuses to go; she isn't chasing him away.]
( there's a breeze of a sound that leaves her—a little like sunlight, too—a contemplative pause like words waiting at the tip of her tongue, in limbo between whether or not to comment on how small a chance she thought it'd be to ever hear those words. i'll stay. he fit more to "go", always going, unsure of how to stay in one place for long without getting restless. she decides to stay quiet. that stir will take hold of him eventually; her hope is to press it off for as long as possible.
there's no mistaking how her features light; eyes too blue to hide once it reaches them. ) Good.
( that's simple, isn't it? as simple as him staying with her could possibly be. a beat, three idle taps of a finger in thought before it pauses, decision made in the flit of bright gaze between each of his hues. an innocent sort of excitement flaring there, if he looks close enough. ) Let me show you something.
( a raise of brows, a question; a waiting; indication that he'd follow. )
[Despite how much he hates getting peoples' hopes up - this Frank Castle train doesn't stop between its origin and destination stations of Pain and Disappointment - he can see the change in her expression. Could almost feel it change in the air. And while he won't pretend, it's just as hard for him to just press his lips into a thin, flat line and say nothing about it.
He can take small comfort in the fact that she knows. Staying for him is like a driftwood in the ocean. He might not be moving but the tides will take him where they want him to go. Eventually she'll have the whole place back to herself again, but for now. This stupid hunk of log is just going to follow along.]
Is this going to be a good kind of surprise or a bad kind? [He's actually smiling - if that curl at the corner of his lips could be called that - so clearly he's keen.]
( he can try and keep the plush of his lips from curling, but she recognizes it just the same. a warmth that doesn't usually come with him, that just hints at the edge of tired eyes and the edge of his cheekbone, laceration still healing with it's gentle swell. it's gracious all the more when he finally allows it, perhaps happy for a distraction, for something other than an idling circle of conversation that all leads back to the fact that neither of them can quite change who they are.
a purse of lips thoughtfully, as if in debate. it certainly wasn't bad, but... silly, a little. ) I'm not so sure it'll be a surprise at all.
( it's simple. mundane, even, and it's then she's stepping up from the couch and skirt sways across porcelain skin; a hand is held out in offering, a youthful glint to the halo made of her hair from the dim light of the room, falling like a curtain from it's tuck behind her ear. )
I think I've got one of the only friendly rooftops in this city.
[Rooftops. Even now Frank just thinks of them as vantage points. It's not rational to think that he'd get sniped on a roof when he's setting his own rig up, always casting a furtive glance over his shoulder, but he can't appreciate the traffic noise or the advertisement lights or the stars in the night sky.
Falling in step behind her, the soldier marches to her beat, keeping his head lowered and his hands in his pockets. Keeping his tone light, he breathes in and out slowly and resists the urge to keep checking his six.]
( maybe it was insensitive of her, to make such a comment to someone who's spent so much time leaning over the rough brick of their ledges, who's scattered blood across too many to count (not always belonging to others). he doesn't take her hand, instead shoves them in his pockets as if to stave off the chill of the city, bows his head; she'll take him as the man he is. she always has, always will. despite his affinity for self-depreciating comments, she doesn't wish to change him.
and so instead of feeding the fire that long ago has proven it won't relent, she keeps with her pep, however little of it she may have left. for both of their sakes. ) One that doesn't talk back. No surprises. Just a view.
( she speaks it almost as if in a daze herself, for a moment wishing she'd of grabbed her jacket, the crisp air from outdoors seeming to penetrate the building the higher they climb. and yet, once they reach that heavy metal door that lets out to the rooftop, the gust that tousles her hair enlivens her, invigorates her senses, wakes her up a little. she pauses a few steps out, turns so that her lazed steps are backward so she can meet her eyes with his. )
['Doesn't talk back'? He tilts his head to one side and raises an eyebrow. For someone used to nasty surprises he's understandably a little apprehensive about where she's taking him, what she's going to show him.]
I'll try not to? [He didn't think he'd have to try hard, if that's all she wants from him, but he won't make any promises.
Curiosity starts to tickle the soles of his feet but he quashes the quiet telltale hum of restlessness and keeps his eyes locked on hers. It's been a long time since anyone looks at him the way she does. Since anyone's bothered to do anything for him, right up until the attorneys she used to work for took up his case. Frank appreciates it, the way he appreciates all the little things between them.]
( it starts to occur to her how foolish the idea may seem to him once she leads him around that bricked entry to the roof, once a last twirl of her skirt and a few more steps backward leave her disappearing from his line of sight with the last glimpse of a ruby-lipped smirk, every bit encouraging him to follow. she trusts he will, and it's that trust that enables her to turn to face the miniature garden she'd started for herself.
a single fingertip runs over the spine of the large petals that sprout like arms from the sunflowers, their center every bit as baby-gold as her hair, radiant even in the night from the warmth they receive given their placement during sunlit hours. and when she speaks, it's almost as if it's to the flowers, as if to herself, and briefly she wonders how it is she's come to feel so safe, and when.
(the answer: the moment he'd walked through that door.) ) I never thought I'd have the patience.
( a lithe shrug, digits stumbling over to the washed out violet crawling up the stems of lavender, a pink watering can left to the side of a few various sized pots, all clay-like colors, an earthy sort of touch to a concrete and brick slab of a rooftop. ) Or the time, with everything going on, you know? ( rhetorical and soft. ) It doesn't seem like it should be possible. To grow something with all of the bad shit that happens just a few floors down. For something to be so... so simple to keep alive.
( and then there's an almost sheepish look taking her over, leaving fingers of her free hand brushing across her forehead and peering over to him beneath her lashes, gaze tempted to fall away. ) I've probably lost it.
[It's hard not to laugh. Not at her, of course, but just- at this. This crazy situation they found themselves in. Her little slice of the white picket fence life on this rooftop, and maybe a tinge of pain for him, being reminded of a woman who used to get her hands dirty in their backyard. Now overrun by weeds, charred, a heap of cold and empty dirt like where she'd been buried.
He can't help but watch Karen, the girl in her garden, and he's almost afraid of touching anything in case he ruins it. She's missing a colourful outfit and chirping birds to go along with this musical, but one thing's clear - a man like him doesn't belong in a place like this.]
I like it. [It's on the tip of his tongue again, that suggestion to get out of the city and find a proper garden to call her own. She doesn't even have to leave New York - there's plenty of places outside of Manhattan, or even upstate. Plenty of places she could be safe but still close enough to the action. Plenty of places for a proper patch of grass for the children to chase the dog in.
It hurts too much to think, let alone say, so those words don't leave his lips.]
You need this. You need something to hold onto. Something to fight for. Otherwise it's-... [He purses his lips and shakes his head.] It's just uniforms and a flag at your funeral with nothing to show for it.
( in a weird way, a warm blanket of comfort washes over her when she hears his words, when that response finally comes crawling from his lips after surveying the range of pots neither in disarray or order. their own order, she supposes. she watches the scenes that dance within his hues, and while she can't picture them exactly as he does, she imagines them. she sees pain, a heavy nostalgia clouding his sights, and then some sort of resolution that brings him sharply back to her.
she knows, that sometimes when he looks at her, she isn't karen. she would never compare to his wife, never be anywhere near the same woman, but she gets it. the tiny pieces that've all fractured, the little glimpses he's afforded to bring back one moment of peace before it's slaughtered before his eyes again. )
Here,
( it comes after a pause, considerably long, chest breathing as steadily as the plants beside her. and then she's slowly making her way back to him, where he's paused before even directly entering the vicinity of colors, vivid even in the moonlight. she keeps her gaze with his, maybe to caution him to the touch that's soon to follow but delicate fingers curling at his wrist. they don't close, but hold enough to give him a lithe tug, guiding him toward the peace lilies. tall and white; a name that speaks for itself. )
It's okay. ( to touch them, to let yourself be delicate, here with me. ) These ones don't need sunlight. They don't really need anything other than tending. Little reminders; water. ( a breeze curls around them, bringing with it various floral notes. )
[He might not trust himself on a bad day - and there have been a few bad days lately - but the fact that she trusts him makes him more willing to just let himself unfurl in this space. He doesn't make eye contact with her at first. Difficult enough to move closer to the fragile display of lilies, pots and petals and all. Surprisingly when she leaves him there close enough that they'd bend if he so much as breathed on them, they don't shy away from his shadow.
His boots creak as he crouches down and makes a conscious effort to run his fingertips slowly around the edge of the pot first.]
I come to rooftops thinking about murder. [A quiet confession to curled white petals. He can't close his eyes for too long without those thoughts coming back to him, even with a lily in his face.] Nice to have something else to think about. [Flowers. Karen. Stars without the stripes.]
( it wounds her, to watch the way he indecisively stands before those lilies as if he's not sure what to do with them, not sure how to look at something so seemingly frail without it wilting in waiting. as he crouches down, she's running her own fingertips along the concrete edge of that rooftop, looking over the skyline that she's come to memorize. )
You could always come by, whenever you wanted. I don't think they'd mind having someone else looking after them. ( a suggestion she knows might render a sigh that in itself speaks the words that'd be soon to follow: 'i can't', 'i shouldn't'. lips tuck in on one another in thought, and again she tugs him elsewhere, determined to keep him on his toes. not to let him drift too far away from her in mind.
a breath breaches the few moments of silence that pass, cheeks a light cherry red from the wind. ) You know what I miss most about Vermont?
You don't like the- blaring horns and screaming drunks? [He makes eye contact for half a second before lowering his head and looking away, a small smile directed at seemingly no one in particular. She can probably still catch glimpses of what Maria had seen in him back when they were still dating.
The poorly executed joke gives him some time to consider her open invitation. He had it in him to turn her down with a flat refusal, but. More likely than not he'd walk past her door without knocking and come straight for the flowers. It'd be like Frank the Gardener visiting her without visiting her. Could make for an interesting new look.]
I could get you a pet cricket? It'll drive you crazy screeching all night, guaranteed.
( it comforts her, the thought of that. him sneaking up to her rooftop at the quieter hours of the night, never quite lingering til the sunlight, fully aware that then the petals would have something far warmer to nurture them. she's always seen those glimpses, noted them, tucked them back in the further places of her mind to reel forward whenever another threat surfaced. whenever he closed himself off from her.
it always seemed to be a matter of time.
and still his humor continues; light, exactly what one would consider 'dad jokes'. she'd never lack the heart to make such a comment. her grin burns bright, white of her teeth nearly gleaming. )
Yeah? And then what, name him Jiminy?
I would definitely have one of the most... deranged fairy tales.
Only if he starts singing Disney. [It doesn't smart when the topic comes up, apart from when he's blindsided by it, but he still has a bad habit of trying to skirt expertly around any conversation starter that involves children and children's anything. So he latches on to fairy tales and happy endings.]
Long as you find your happily ever after. [Because while that's not where they're headed, he's pretty confident that at least one of them gets an after with a bit of happy sprinkled on top. That's alright. They can share it, with him dropping in and out of her life like this.]
You'll take care of yourself, won't you? [Happily ever after starts sounding like a goodbye, even though he's not getting physically restless just yet. She knows he can't stay. Won't let himself stay. The difference doesn't matter to him even though it might to anyone else.]
( one way or another their conversations always seem to spiral back down to the heavy truth that's waiting in the pit of her sternum, staring her in the eye every time he looks back at her. he has to go. and he will, he always will, but it's too difficult to consider the fact that these little pieces of stolen time, stolen nights with him would come to an end. his question is met with silence, a saddened glaze of hues and that line between her brows she can never hide when she's upset. )
I will. ( decisive, a promise, but there's an inhale drawn like there's something else waiting, stalling at the bed of her tongue. ) Frank? ( fretting mind tangles itself around a sigh as eyes close for a brief moment; still, she can see the neon, hear the sirens in the distance, but there's a difference when he's here. when she has him close.
she doesn't want to push, doesn't want to ask for too much, doesn't know what too much is anymore between them. all she knows is that she wants to steal him a little longer; to be selfish. ) Look, I know that by morning, it all just... starts all over again. You'll be gone. I'll be here. And I understand—why you need to. ( a huff of a breath, )
I guess I just want that naivety. Even just for tonight, that neither of us have somewhere to be. To know you're safe.
[He perks up when she calls his name, like an old dog still cognizant of its owner even when the world has started to fade around him. He wishes that there was more for her - that they could part ways without that tinge of sadness in her voice, that he could promise her unrealistic expectations of their future - but that isn't the New York City they live in. His work isn't finished yet. And neither is hers.
He drops his gaze and doesn't reply straightaway, tilting his head back and breathing out a sigh to the starless sky.] Heh. [A small, defeated smile that aches his cheek to pull before he ducks his head again.
It's just him - mostly all Frank and very little Karen - that doesn't want to go down this road. Not right now. Not again. Maybe not ever. But she's right in that he doesn't have to go tonight. There's nothing waiting for him back home but a rifle to clean and a job to do. Those would be waiting for him in the morning. So he musters up the courage to not let her down tonight. No cop-outs about a dog to walk and feed or some research to do. No excuses. No lies.]
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You don't want me here. [Well, no, she doesn't seem to mind him drinking her booze taking up space on her couch, but she knows what he's trying to tell her. Trouble tends to follow them both and she's got enough on her own to deal with without him dragging her down.] Anyway, you've got sleep. Work. Deadlines or... something. [Having never been an office drone he's not really sure how that works.]
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( to what? stay cooped up with a reporter attracting all the wrong sorts of attention?
always so quickly how they waver between softness and that deafening, erring caution; short-clipped tones to those low little drawls of his voice, some sort of jab or attempt at humor to balm the thought of neither of them finding their way out. the thought that that thing called relief was a far off friend, something they could only ever recognize as foreign.
so maybe neither of them deserve to draw each other into one another's shit, maybe she's got more than enough to handle than a prior wanted vigilante sitting on her couch, and he's got more than enough to handle than entertaining a space that's no safer than right at fisk's door. if there's one thing they're both considerably good at, it's getting what they want, information, company and a lack thereof, and it's exactly why she'll shrug off his mentioning of sleep; work; deadlines; something. )
Those'll still be there by morning, too. ( an uneven break of a smile—almost sad—brows risen with a quick, suggestive glance toward the pile of manilla folders scattered across that small kitchen table. ) Come on, ( a light nudge of his leg with her knuckles. )
For one night the assholes can do without having our full attention.
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You sure we're not the assholes in this scenario? [At least he's got some of his sense of humour back. At least there's still something human in that lump on her couch. And he could sit here and dress it up four different ways - she's in perpetual danger, they're both still a little skittish since the incident at the hotel, he's got nowhere else to be, and so on - but in the end the question is whether he wants to stay. Because he's the one finding excuses to go; she isn't chasing him away.]
I'll stay.
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( there's a breeze of a sound that leaves her—a little like sunlight, too—a contemplative pause like words waiting at the tip of her tongue, in limbo between whether or not to comment on how small a chance she thought it'd be to ever hear those words. i'll stay. he fit more to "go", always going, unsure of how to stay in one place for long without getting restless. she decides to stay quiet. that stir will take hold of him eventually; her hope is to press it off for as long as possible.
there's no mistaking how her features light; eyes too blue to hide once it reaches them. ) Good.
( that's simple, isn't it? as simple as him staying with her could possibly be. a beat, three idle taps of a finger in thought before it pauses, decision made in the flit of bright gaze between each of his hues. an innocent sort of excitement flaring there, if he looks close enough. ) Let me show you something.
( a raise of brows, a question; a waiting; indication that he'd follow. )
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He can take small comfort in the fact that she knows. Staying for him is like a driftwood in the ocean. He might not be moving but the tides will take him where they want him to go. Eventually she'll have the whole place back to herself again, but for now. This stupid hunk of log is just going to follow along.]
Is this going to be a good kind of surprise or a bad kind? [He's actually smiling - if that curl at the corner of his lips could be called that - so clearly he's keen.]
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a purse of lips thoughtfully, as if in debate. it certainly wasn't bad, but... silly, a little. ) I'm not so sure it'll be a surprise at all.
( it's simple. mundane, even, and it's then she's stepping up from the couch and skirt sways across porcelain skin; a hand is held out in offering, a youthful glint to the halo made of her hair from the dim light of the room, falling like a curtain from it's tuck behind her ear. )
I think I've got one of the only friendly rooftops in this city.
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Falling in step behind her, the soldier marches to her beat, keeping his head lowered and his hands in his pockets. Keeping his tone light, he breathes in and out slowly and resists the urge to keep checking his six.]
What's a friendly rooftop?
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and so instead of feeding the fire that long ago has proven it won't relent, she keeps with her pep, however little of it she may have left. for both of their sakes. ) One that doesn't talk back. No surprises. Just a view.
( she speaks it almost as if in a daze herself, for a moment wishing she'd of grabbed her jacket, the crisp air from outdoors seeming to penetrate the building the higher they climb. and yet, once they reach that heavy metal door that lets out to the rooftop, the gust that tousles her hair enlivens her, invigorates her senses, wakes her up a little. she pauses a few steps out, turns so that her lazed steps are backward so she can meet her eyes with his. )
Don't laugh. That's the only rule; got it?
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I'll try not to? [He didn't think he'd have to try hard, if that's all she wants from him, but he won't make any promises.
Curiosity starts to tickle the soles of his feet but he quashes the quiet telltale hum of restlessness and keeps his eyes locked on hers. It's been a long time since anyone looks at him the way she does. Since anyone's bothered to do anything for him, right up until the attorneys she used to work for took up his case. Frank appreciates it, the way he appreciates all the little things between them.]
karen too-good-for-this-world page
a single fingertip runs over the spine of the large petals that sprout like arms from the sunflowers, their center every bit as baby-gold as her hair, radiant even in the night from the warmth they receive given their placement during sunlit hours. and when she speaks, it's almost as if it's to the flowers, as if to herself, and briefly she wonders how it is she's come to feel so safe, and when.
(the answer: the moment he'd walked through that door.) ) I never thought I'd have the patience.
( a lithe shrug, digits stumbling over to the washed out violet crawling up the stems of lavender, a pink watering can left to the side of a few various sized pots, all clay-like colors, an earthy sort of touch to a concrete and brick slab of a rooftop. ) Or the time, with everything going on, you know? ( rhetorical and soft. ) It doesn't seem like it should be possible. To grow something with all of the bad shit that happens just a few floors down. For something to be so... so simple to keep alive.
( and then there's an almost sheepish look taking her over, leaving fingers of her free hand brushing across her forehead and peering over to him beneath her lashes, gaze tempted to fall away. ) I've probably lost it.
so sweet *_*
He can't help but watch Karen, the girl in her garden, and he's almost afraid of touching anything in case he ruins it. She's missing a colourful outfit and chirping birds to go along with this musical, but one thing's clear - a man like him doesn't belong in a place like this.]
I like it. [It's on the tip of his tongue again, that suggestion to get out of the city and find a proper garden to call her own. She doesn't even have to leave New York - there's plenty of places outside of Manhattan, or even upstate. Plenty of places she could be safe but still close enough to the action. Plenty of places for a proper patch of grass for the children to chase the dog in.
It hurts too much to think, let alone say, so those words don't leave his lips.]
You need this. You need something to hold onto. Something to fight for. Otherwise it's-... [He purses his lips and shakes his head.] It's just uniforms and a flag at your funeral with nothing to show for it.
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she knows, that sometimes when he looks at her, she isn't karen. she would never compare to his wife, never be anywhere near the same woman, but she gets it. the tiny pieces that've all fractured, the little glimpses he's afforded to bring back one moment of peace before it's slaughtered before his eyes again. )
Here,
( it comes after a pause, considerably long, chest breathing as steadily as the plants beside her. and then she's slowly making her way back to him, where he's paused before even directly entering the vicinity of colors, vivid even in the moonlight. she keeps her gaze with his, maybe to caution him to the touch that's soon to follow but delicate fingers curling at his wrist. they don't close, but hold enough to give him a lithe tug, guiding him toward the peace lilies. tall and white; a name that speaks for itself. )
It's okay. ( to touch them, to let yourself be delicate, here with me. ) These ones don't need sunlight. They don't really need anything other than tending. Little reminders; water. ( a breeze curls around them, bringing with it various floral notes. )
I come up here every night.
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His boots creak as he crouches down and makes a conscious effort to run his fingertips slowly around the edge of the pot first.]
I come to rooftops thinking about murder. [A quiet confession to curled white petals. He can't close his eyes for too long without those thoughts coming back to him, even with a lily in his face.] Nice to have something else to think about. [Flowers. Karen. Stars without the stripes.]
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You could always come by, whenever you wanted. I don't think they'd mind having someone else looking after them. ( a suggestion she knows might render a sigh that in itself speaks the words that'd be soon to follow: 'i can't', 'i shouldn't'. lips tuck in on one another in thought, and again she tugs him elsewhere, determined to keep him on his toes. not to let him drift too far away from her in mind.
a breath breaches the few moments of silence that pass, cheeks a light cherry red from the wind. ) You know what I miss most about Vermont?
The crickets. The sound of them.
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The poorly executed joke gives him some time to consider her open invitation. He had it in him to turn her down with a flat refusal, but. More likely than not he'd walk past her door without knocking and come straight for the flowers. It'd be like Frank the Gardener visiting her without visiting her. Could make for an interesting new look.]
I could get you a pet cricket? It'll drive you crazy screeching all night, guaranteed.
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it always seemed to be a matter of time.
and still his humor continues; light, exactly what one would consider 'dad jokes'. she'd never lack the heart to make such a comment. her grin burns bright, white of her teeth nearly gleaming. )
Yeah? And then what, name him Jiminy?
I would definitely have one of the most... deranged fairy tales.
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Long as you find your happily ever after. [Because while that's not where they're headed, he's pretty confident that at least one of them gets an after with a bit of happy sprinkled on top. That's alright. They can share it, with him dropping in and out of her life like this.]
You'll take care of yourself, won't you? [Happily ever after starts sounding like a goodbye, even though he's not getting physically restless just yet. She knows he can't stay. Won't let himself stay. The difference doesn't matter to him even though it might to anyone else.]
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I will. ( decisive, a promise, but there's an inhale drawn like there's something else waiting, stalling at the bed of her tongue. ) Frank? ( fretting mind tangles itself around a sigh as eyes close for a brief moment; still, she can see the neon, hear the sirens in the distance, but there's a difference when he's here. when she has him close.
she doesn't want to push, doesn't want to ask for too much, doesn't know what too much is anymore between them. all she knows is that she wants to steal him a little longer; to be selfish. ) Look, I know that by morning, it all just... starts all over again. You'll be gone. I'll be here. And I understand—why you need to. ( a huff of a breath, )
I guess I just want that naivety. Even just for tonight, that neither of us have somewhere to be. To know you're safe.
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He drops his gaze and doesn't reply straightaway, tilting his head back and breathing out a sigh to the starless sky.] Heh. [A small, defeated smile that aches his cheek to pull before he ducks his head again.
It's just him - mostly all Frank and very little Karen - that doesn't want to go down this road. Not right now. Not again. Maybe not ever. But she's right in that he doesn't have to go tonight. There's nothing waiting for him back home but a rifle to clean and a job to do. Those would be waiting for him in the morning. So he musters up the courage to not let her down tonight. No cop-outs about a dog to walk and feed or some research to do. No excuses. No lies.]
Your couch free?