( he doesn't have to ask in order for her to hear it, the bold tuft of his brows expression of his concern enough. but she's grateful for the fact that he doesn't yet ask her a second time, now that she's here. now that she knows he'll be able to read whether or not it's truth befalling her lips or an efforts to put up a front. she's like him in that way—sometimes it was better not to talk about it, to let oneself try and get comfortable first before letting it rise up their throat like a haunting bile.
the light touch of humor that paints his lips doesn't go unappreciated, two lost souls in the night trying to make it a little easier to stay awake when sleep wouldn't come; when body begged but mind forbade. it's still a creature comfort, even if her body has long ago become immune to any normalized amounts of caffeine. )
Or the right one.
( the familiar sound of the espresso drips as the heat hums and bubbles within the maker fills her senses, and it's not long before the sharp notes of the beans threaten to fill the petite space. he surveys her like it's habit, to know someone's exterior before digging any further. she supposes she can't really be uncomfortable with it, seeing as she prodded into the lives of others when they wanted it least, the knife to journalism.
it's prompting enough to un-pry fingertips from her jacket (so long as it means he'll ease up on the analytics), allow it to shrug from her shoulders, revealing the thin white blouse and jeans beneath. she's far away from her secretarial days, after all. a few steps, and she's laying it over an arm of the couch, eyes skimming over the title of a nearby book. )
How long have you been here?
Edited 2018-10-23 18:43 (UTC)
sorry for slow tags, work tires me out during the week
[Nothing beats a smooth cup of coffee late at night when they aren't supposed to be drinking it at all. Somehow, that's when it tastes best. Not that Frank drinks his coffee for the taste but these days he seems to have more luxury to do just that. The fact that he never lets the pot sit too long or burn is a testament to how much he actually cares about a good cup.
He feels better once she starts to shrug off her coat and at least try to relax a little. Frank can't blame her for being tense. The last time he dropped on her rather abruptly and now the tables have turned. He hopes to offer her the same kind of selfless help she'd shown him... even before she really knew him.]
A while. Couple weeks after we last saw each other, I left the city.
[New name. New identity. It's done him some good in his time away, even if it feels a lot like running at times.]
I always planned on coming back eventually. Just needed some... time.
[The coffee machine roars to life and then the sound dies down, ending the brew. He pushes off the counter to pour them each a mug-full and brings hers over.]
Can't remember how you take it. Do you want any milk or sugar?
( it still seems a little surreal, that he'd let her come so easily, without any bit of a fight or restraint. maybe it's because he knows he's tucked off enough that he isn't putting her into harmful sights by allowing her to stay; maybe a night isn't as haunting as two; maybe he, too, could use the company both of their tongues find hesitance before admitting outright. loneliness was a human condition, a common one at that.
why was it, then, everyone seemed so ashamed to admit it?
for a moment, she wonders how the city would take him back. what the prints might put out there, if they'd even pay any mind at all given how wrapped around fisk's finger they were. then again, it'd give him a too-convenient means of keeping himself covered, introducing a distraction much like that psuedo-daredevil to the mix to rise himself up on the deceitful pedestal of helping hells kitchen. putting it back together while he fed on it's roots.
and she wants him back, selfishly, she does. and yet: ) I don't blame you.
( fingers of one hand prod habitually at the palm of the other, a fidgeting, needing something to occupy an empty, idle touch. )
For taking time, I mean. I can't imagine it's any easier to come back than it is to stay. ( because there's something always urging her, tugging her, begging her out. )
Just a little sugar is fine. ( an aftertaste of sweetness at first obscured by the bitter coffee. )
[Frank leaves momentarily only to return with a couple sugar packets he'd likely swiped form his latest diner visit, setting them down on the coffee table. Then he sits, hoping she'll do the same and relax as much as she's able, because even if his door is knocked down in the next few minutes, he isn't letting anything happen to her. He should have been there.]
No one knows I'm here except you. [Not David. Not Curtis. He thinks he's protecting the few people in his life left to care about by keeping his distance, but Frank is also aware of how long that can't last. Something or someone will always draw him back into the life.
Sipping at his coffee, Frank sighs through his nose, leaning back against the flimsy couch cushions in an effort to seem relaxed as well. He's more concerned about Karen than any impending doom.]
I know the situation is shit but I'm glad you reached out to me, Karen.
( if he'd known just how bad it'd gotten, he would have been there, and karen knows that. it's why she hadn't called, even when she'd sat with trembling hands, teeth, bones in the dark cab of her car after hearing the stinging dismissal of her father. no matter what she's going through, what fresh paint she's lathered over that crimson target on her back, he doesn't deserve to be tugged into the middle of it.
in new york city, hells kitchen, there's no such thing as really 'getting out'. the city chews you up and spits out a version that's a little more apathetic, a little more numbed. sooner or later it'd draw you back, kindly or unforgivingly, one never knew.
she doesn't want him to be glad. you wouldn't be if you knew why i was here, she wants to say, but she bites her tongue instead, reaching down for the coffee after tearing a few of those pale pink packets to dissolve the sugar into its rich bed. she uses a tiny spoon that's sat beside it, mesmerized momentarily by it's tiny clinks and the scarves of espresso dancing up to greet her. )
I told myself not to. ( quietly, she makes to sit down beside him, kitty-cornered against the armrest. a small sip of her coffee is drawn, and then it's cradled between both palms, watching it's reflective surface. she isn't one to ask for help, and she's not even sure that's what she's doing here. maybe to some extent, but mostly she craves the sense of safety. of a place, someone with she can rest her head. )
Multiple times, actually. After what you went through... ( a swallow, because no words could really do it justice. ) Shit situations is what Hells Kitchen does best. This may not be paradise, but... ( a chew at her lip, thoughtfully. ) It's something else.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
the light touch of humor that paints his lips doesn't go unappreciated, two lost souls in the night trying to make it a little easier to stay awake when sleep wouldn't come; when body begged but mind forbade. it's still a creature comfort, even if her body has long ago become immune to any normalized amounts of caffeine. )
Or the right one.
( the familiar sound of the espresso drips as the heat hums and bubbles within the maker fills her senses, and it's not long before the sharp notes of the beans threaten to fill the petite space. he surveys her like it's habit, to know someone's exterior before digging any further. she supposes she can't really be uncomfortable with it, seeing as she prodded into the lives of others when they wanted it least, the knife to journalism.
it's prompting enough to un-pry fingertips from her jacket (so long as it means he'll ease up on the analytics), allow it to shrug from her shoulders, revealing the thin white blouse and jeans beneath. she's far away from her secretarial days, after all. a few steps, and she's laying it over an arm of the couch, eyes skimming over the title of a nearby book. )
How long have you been here?
sorry for slow tags, work tires me out during the week
He feels better once she starts to shrug off her coat and at least try to relax a little. Frank can't blame her for being tense. The last time he dropped on her rather abruptly and now the tables have turned. He hopes to offer her the same kind of selfless help she'd shown him... even before she really knew him.]
A while. Couple weeks after we last saw each other, I left the city.
[New name. New identity. It's done him some good in his time away, even if it feels a lot like running at times.]
I always planned on coming back eventually. Just needed some... time.
[The coffee machine roars to life and then the sound dies down, ending the brew. He pushes off the counter to pour them each a mug-full and brings hers over.]
Can't remember how you take it. Do you want any milk or sugar?
i can always wait! it's well worth it.
why was it, then, everyone seemed so ashamed to admit it?
for a moment, she wonders how the city would take him back. what the prints might put out there, if they'd even pay any mind at all given how wrapped around fisk's finger they were. then again, it'd give him a too-convenient means of keeping himself covered, introducing a distraction much like that psuedo-daredevil to the mix to rise himself up on the deceitful pedestal of helping hells kitchen. putting it back together while he fed on it's roots.
and she wants him back, selfishly, she does. and yet: ) I don't blame you.
( fingers of one hand prod habitually at the palm of the other, a fidgeting, needing something to occupy an empty, idle touch. )
For taking time, I mean. I can't imagine it's any easier to come back than it is to stay. ( because there's something always urging her, tugging her, begging her out. )
Just a little sugar is fine. ( an aftertaste of sweetness at first obscured by the bitter coffee. )
no subject
No one knows I'm here except you. [Not David. Not Curtis. He thinks he's protecting the few people in his life left to care about by keeping his distance, but Frank is also aware of how long that can't last. Something or someone will always draw him back into the life.
Sipping at his coffee, Frank sighs through his nose, leaning back against the flimsy couch cushions in an effort to seem relaxed as well. He's more concerned about Karen than any impending doom.]
I know the situation is shit but I'm glad you reached out to me, Karen.
no subject
in new york city, hells kitchen, there's no such thing as really 'getting out'. the city chews you up and spits out a version that's a little more apathetic, a little more numbed. sooner or later it'd draw you back, kindly or unforgivingly, one never knew.
she doesn't want him to be glad. you wouldn't be if you knew why i was here, she wants to say, but she bites her tongue instead, reaching down for the coffee after tearing a few of those pale pink packets to dissolve the sugar into its rich bed. she uses a tiny spoon that's sat beside it, mesmerized momentarily by it's tiny clinks and the scarves of espresso dancing up to greet her. )
I told myself not to. ( quietly, she makes to sit down beside him, kitty-cornered against the armrest. a small sip of her coffee is drawn, and then it's cradled between both palms, watching it's reflective surface. she isn't one to ask for help, and she's not even sure that's what she's doing here. maybe to some extent, but mostly she craves the sense of safety. of a place, someone with she can rest her head. )
Multiple times, actually. After what you went through... ( a swallow, because no words could really do it justice. ) Shit situations is what Hells Kitchen does best. This may not be paradise, but... ( a chew at her lip, thoughtfully. ) It's something else.