( it’s deeply, agonisingly unfair to her. this push-and-pull, a cycle they’d fallen into even before she bailed him out of the latest hospital.
they help each other. she tries to get closer. he lets her. he snaps his teeth like a stray unaccustomed to tender touch, to the hope of safety and comfort and home. he bites the hand that feeds. she tells him she’s done with him if he keeps on walking down this path. he does it anyway. he goes away, might be dead as far as she can tell — he buries all semblance of a normal life and then he inevitably resurfaces, coming up from the underground. she lets him in again. he leaves again.
it’s no way to live. )
I’m sorry, ( frank says again; and it’s not about the late hour anymore. it’s everything. everything between them, and that he’s had such trouble addressing. has been terrified of addressing. he puts the nearly-untouched beer down on the dining table, then scrubs his face. digging his fingers into the metaphorical wound: )
Every time. I tell myself you’re better off without me, every time, and that it’s— fucking better if I just stayed away, that you don’t need to get sucked into my bullshit, not after everything. And then I do this to you, which kind of proves my point, but at the end of the day I just can’t. Stay away.
( she thinks to brush away the apology, and her gaze drifts across the room. settles on the stir of curtains, how the radiator hums into overdrive with the cracked window contesting its efforts—and every inch of her reads tired. the slump of her shoulders, the barely there violet hue beneath her eyes, the disarray of a typically neater apartment. he continues, and it's not that she doesn't believe him, that she can't hear the earnest crawling up his throat with the words. but at this point, it feels a bit too much like old dog, new tricks.
she's heard this before. karen, go. karen, get out of here. karen, stay away from me.
how many times has he told her to leave, and how many times did she listen? how many times has she asked him to stay, and how many times did he listen? the answer is the same. )
Can't stay away from what? ( the city? the taste of blood in his mouth? why do they all feel more likely than her? no. he doesn't get to do that, now. he doesn't get to come to her and tell her she's the reason, doesn't get to come here after months and reopen a wound she's stitched desperately shut time and time again. jaw cruxes to the side, lifting a hand to her temple with a vexed breath, bottle ringing against the table as she presses it down to stand back on her feet. )
This is your bullshit, Frank. You run away. ( each word punctuated, that lick of heat returning to her gaze, threatening to well if she doesn't keep herself tempered. ) And then you think you get to tell me what I should be afraid of. What I'm supposed to feel. ( her voice wavers, and it only adds kindling to her frustration, an exhausting combination of defeat and desperation. )
( this is the conversation they should’ve had last time. he’d known it was unfinished and unresolved; has felt it the whole time since, gnawing at him like a thorn in his side, a pebble in his shoe.
but he’d been panicked at the time, wounded, karen unlocking his handcuffs and amy in disguise outside the door, trouble on his heels as always, and he’d needed to go go go go, on the run, getting out of there before law enforcement found him. they’d had to keep their voices low and hushed so they weren’t overheard, and hurried before someone inevitably interrupted them. if amy hadn’t walked in at just that moment, maybe —
but he’s here, now. they have time, now. there’s no one outside the door. there’s no one here but them.
frank can keep asking her are you sure, but how many times can you demand the same question before you just have to fucking believe their answer? )
You deserve better, ( he blurts out, his expression pained. not a speech, just: those three words. he knows. he knows. )
( futile. she watches as her words burrow themselves into him, as they conquer him so easily, and she can't help but to think: that's it? after all he's been through, all of the bullets and the gashes, all of the loss and shrapnel buried permanently within bone, he can't give her any more than that? she deflates, and it's not so much her anger dissipating as her understanding that she has no where left to put it. that she was only hurting herself further, thinking anything she says could mean anything at all. that she could get through that skull of his when even a bullet couldn't.
that blurring well of tears builds traitorously at her lash line, giving her away. she was always giving herself away, to him.
when she finally manages to find her voice again it's at the back of her throat, exasperated, straining from her as if with every last bit of breath she has. like that stubborn fight within her is so close to being snuffed out, but there's a finality, still. )
( he can take the hits, take the punches, except for this. karen’s anger hurts more than a bullet, hurts more than a knife to the side; it gets inside him and rips him up. there’s a steady-seething energy to some of the ways they’ve parted: they have fought, they have screamed at each other, he has railed against this, even as the merest thought of karen page in danger sets him off even harder, like a lit match to gasoline —
frank had always been unfailingly honest with her, except that one time, lying through his teeth: there’s no warm, cozy ending. not for me. there’s no light at the end of the road. i don’t want that. i can’t. i don’t want to.
how many times can he keep protesting this, while still coming back to her with his tail between his legs?
there’s a furious grieving finality in her voice and he can’t shake the sense that if he squanders it now, one more time, then that’s fucking it. she’ll finally call his bluff and put her money where her mouth’s at. she’ll leave him. won’t answer the text, won’t open that door to him next time. as she shouldn’t.
make it mean something.
karen can see that roiling turmoil beneath the surface, the muscle leaping in frank’s jaw; his trigger-finger twitches, loose spasmodic muscles firing, a restless tic. it’s a tectonic shift, struggling to accept the fact that he’s already a goner and maybe he should let her make that choice herself instead of cutting off the avenue for her. his teeth grind down on it.
he is so goddamned afraid of losing her. by his actions or others. )
Everything you said before. In the hospital, ( he finally starts, slowly. because of course he’s been stewing over it in all the time since, weighing the words and letting them run on a hopeless loop through his mind, ) Finding a better way. Figuring it out together. Would you still?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
they help each other. she tries to get closer. he lets her. he snaps his teeth like a stray unaccustomed to tender touch, to the hope of safety and comfort and home. he bites the hand that feeds. she tells him she’s done with him if he keeps on walking down this path. he does it anyway. he goes away, might be dead as far as she can tell — he buries all semblance of a normal life and then he inevitably resurfaces, coming up from the underground. she lets him in again. he leaves again.
it’s no way to live. )
I’m sorry, ( frank says again; and it’s not about the late hour anymore. it’s everything. everything between them, and that he’s had such trouble addressing. has been terrified of addressing. he puts the nearly-untouched beer down on the dining table, then scrubs his face. digging his fingers into the metaphorical wound: )
Every time. I tell myself you’re better off without me, every time, and that it’s— fucking better if I just stayed away, that you don’t need to get sucked into my bullshit, not after everything. And then I do this to you, which kind of proves my point, but at the end of the day I just can’t. Stay away.
no subject
she's heard this before. karen, go. karen, get out of here. karen, stay away from me.
how many times has he told her to leave, and how many times did she listen?
how many times has she asked him to stay, and how many times did he listen?
the answer is the same. )
Can't stay away from what? ( the city? the taste of blood in his mouth? why do they all feel more likely than her? no. he doesn't get to do that, now. he doesn't get to come to her and tell her she's the reason, doesn't get to come here after months and reopen a wound she's stitched desperately shut time and time again. jaw cruxes to the side, lifting a hand to her temple with a vexed breath, bottle ringing against the table as she presses it down to stand back on her feet. )
This is your bullshit, Frank. You run away. ( each word punctuated, that lick of heat returning to her gaze, threatening to well if she doesn't keep herself tempered. ) And then you think you get to tell me what I should be afraid of. What I'm supposed to feel. ( her voice wavers, and it only adds kindling to her frustration, an exhausting combination of defeat and desperation. )
For once, just—let me decide what that is.
no subject
but he’d been panicked at the time, wounded, karen unlocking his handcuffs and amy in disguise outside the door, trouble on his heels as always, and he’d needed to go go go go, on the run, getting out of there before law enforcement found him. they’d had to keep their voices low and hushed so they weren’t overheard, and hurried before someone inevitably interrupted them. if amy hadn’t walked in at just that moment, maybe —
but he’s here, now. they have time, now. there’s no one outside the door. there’s no one here but them.
frank can keep asking her are you sure, but how many times can you demand the same question before you just have to fucking believe their answer? )
You deserve better, ( he blurts out, his expression pained. not a speech, just: those three words. he knows. he knows. )
no subject
that blurring well of tears builds traitorously at her lash line, giving her away. she was always giving herself away, to him.
when she finally manages to find her voice again it's at the back of her throat, exasperated, straining from her as if with every last bit of breath she has. like that stubborn fight within her is so close to being snuffed out, but there's a finality, still. )
Then be fucking better.
no subject
frank had always been unfailingly honest with her, except that one time, lying through his teeth: there’s no warm, cozy ending. not for me. there’s no light at the end of the road. i don’t want that. i can’t. i don’t want to.
how many times can he keep protesting this, while still coming back to her with his tail between his legs?
there’s a furious grieving finality in her voice and he can’t shake the sense that if he squanders it now, one more time, then that’s fucking it. she’ll finally call his bluff and put her money where her mouth’s at. she’ll leave him. won’t answer the text, won’t open that door to him next time. as she shouldn’t.
make it mean something.
karen can see that roiling turmoil beneath the surface, the muscle leaping in frank’s jaw; his trigger-finger twitches, loose spasmodic muscles firing, a restless tic. it’s a tectonic shift, struggling to accept the fact that he’s already a goner and maybe he should let her make that choice herself instead of cutting off the avenue for her. his teeth grind down on it.
he is so goddamned afraid of losing her. by his actions or others. )
Everything you said before. In the hospital, ( he finally starts, slowly. because of course he’s been stewing over it in all the time since, weighing the words and letting them run on a hopeless loop through his mind, ) Finding a better way. Figuring it out together. Would you still?