I don't know, Frank. ( it's a response that rings with a gentle finality, and for one of the few times that night, their eyes meet with one another. she doesn't shy away from it, doesn't back down from her stance; he knows a woman like her, regardless of how frail he's seen her, how shaken, would be the last to do that. )
I don't know if you get that; if I get that.
( it frustrates her, the knowing that neither of them may grow out of the people they've become; the feeling that she'll never truly escape hell's kitchen, that he'd never allow himself to get out if she were still here. she wants it for him, not to have to bat an eye back at her, not to let her safety dictate whether or not he could cut those last threads with a city that's never granted justice when it was so heart-shatteringly needed. ) You go somewhere and you... you don't worry about this place.
About me. There's always going to be something that pulls you back if you don't decide not to give a shit.
And if you figure out how— ( a huff of a breath, mirthless despite the brief curl at the edge of her mouth. ) That's a story worth writing.
( it's a wise idea, mr. stark; ensuring you keep an eye on those shadows, the fog-clouded alleys and what lingers on those rooftops. there's never really a moment of peace, not with her. see most of those targets on her back have been drawn so softly, so discreetly she hasn't noticed them, hasn't felt them with brittle hands running over her skin in the shower.
it's a waiting game, the teeming patience that comes with waiting for hell's kitchen to open it's mouth for you once more.
a snicker, then, as she buckles in and settles her purse across her lap. heart of her palm always resting just up against that weight beneath the leather, a pathetic means of protection for what she's up against, but something nonetheless. )
'Billionaire with a huge global presence.' ( a flash of blue hues over to him, now, reading what features she can make within the dim light of the cabin. )
Didn't realize you and discreetness knew one another.
( she doesn't have a good excuse for what she's doing, intruding on a man who not long ago had gotten himself out of that city and the war that'd been raged on it's front, that'd been waged on him. she'd been a large part of that fight, seeking justice for a man who was so slandered by the so-called 'system'. well, the system was bullshit, and if it'd been bad then, it was only pitiable now. thing is, she's not going to him to talk about the further crumbling of hells kitchen, but of hers.
and maybe she can skirt around it, for a little while. cradle a tempered mug of coffee, black, and allow herself to take a breath. allow herself to believe that, even if just for tonight, she was safe.
but there was no greater delusion than believing she could ever be out of fisk's eyes, for he held them everywhere.
it's what leaves her sitting in her car, even after killing the heat. rounds of her cheeks are bitten red from the cold and breath fogs out before her, and she doesn't know how many times she counts the streetlights on that dimmed road, few and far between. she didn't park in front of the building he'd told her. she couldn't, not if someone came after her. but she has to tell herself that won't happen, that the corrupted agents had other tiers on their to-do list to tick off before coming for her.
because he doesn't deserve that. not ... any of this. and when she stands at his door, gives a lithe knock, she's wrapping arms around a thin frame, a hood pulled over golden locks. and she hopes. )
❪ pale fingers tremble something wicked, makes it look like the last thing she truly needs to indulge is the glass of whiskey cradled in her hands, having been topped off too many times to count. it's why she prefers josie's, why she ducks in at ungodly hours of the night after letting golden tresses down from their pin; after staring numbly off into rain-slated streets when her dad ends that call one more time; after that psychopath laying reign to hells kitchen once more conned himself out of prison, like a gift lacing itself up with an even grander, velvety bow.
she knows she's practically exuding cynicism, white blouse folded up her forearms and golden, petite necklace hanging between her collars, but the last thing she's looking for is company, and josie knows by now not to say a word, when to pour, and when to cut her off so she can still make it back to the apartment that sits idly in waiting for her.
she's already taunted her with a look as if another inch or two of the amber liquid would really do her in, and maybe it's the secretarial profile she eases into too well that rewards her another clink of a refill, responding with a gentle rap on the counter in thanks, and white teeth claiming purchase to lower lip. ❫
( she'd done well for awhile, keeping to herself, brushing over that tug within her that wondered, always wondered where he might be, if that glowering red of headlights lingering outside her apartment building was him, the rare rumble of her phone tangled within her sheets in the middle of the night. she knew better; every time she knew better. but it didn't keep her from indulging the idea. that sliver of hope she couldn't quite cut off, that the last time she'd seen him could never really be the last.
he catches his reflection in the coffee just as a meager waitress comes over with a fresh pot. she accepts with a soft nod, and just as quietly as she'd come, she goes. lithe fingers meet each side of the mug, reveling in the heat that's there. her own pause doesn't come from chasing an honest tongue—how many times she'd caught herself wanting to share something with him, and when he sits before her now, she just... wants to be. )
Guess I missed you too. ( it's that playful bite they share so well, and while the smirk that finds one edge of her lips is tired, strained, it's there. )
Some part of me thinks it'd be nice. Leave the city, become someone else... anything else. ( she draws in a breath, shoulders pulling into a thoughtful shrug as tongue clears across her lips. ) It's only a matter of time before you catch up with yourself.
( so it turns out that not all your problems go away with a presidential pardon.
bucky's been trying to make ends meet, scraping and picking up odd jobs for a local restaurant. immersing himself in normalcy as if rubbing shoulders with regular citizens is contagious; as if he could catch some semblance of a regular life if he just stayed near them long enough, followed the rules, talked to his stupid court-appointed therapist, and all-in-all tried his best to prove that his winter soldier days are long, long past.
but tonight, that past follows him home. it's not a gigantic alien invasion and it's not the end of the world, but it is this: the prickling between his shoulderblades, that familiar sawing on the edge of his nerves telling him that something is wrong. so move. faster. now. he breaks into a faster walk, his stride lengthening even as the shadows break into movement behind him.
anyone who tries to mug the winter soldier would be an idiot. but these aren't robbers, are they?
bucky looks at the approaching men, and notes the physical details in quick succession: military buzz-cuts; broad shoulders; their english is russian-accented. they might as well bark hail hydra at him when they come closer. he can guess what they want: it's him. recovering their prized asset.
it's the middle of the goddamned street in new york, but it's also past midnight. there aren't many civilians around to hear the crunch of bone as bucky slams one man into the wall; the staccato ping as he deflects some bullets with his arm and the fabric of his leather jacket rips; the howl of pain from the hydra operative as bucky snaps his hand. same shit, different day. and it's almost a relief: getting to cut loose, warm up these long-dormant muscles and hated instincts.
but he's outnumbered, and it's dark, and the twentieth bullet hits its mark. and then the twenty-first. the bullets lodge in his side and he jack-knifes over them, the breath driven out of him. another man uses some kind of goddamn high-tech taser on his metal arm and it short-circuits; it catches, the hinges creaking and the whole thing becomes dead weight hanging off his shoulder. by the time bucky ends the fight — and he ends it, hard, — he's stumbling and he can't move his arm. the sound of the gunshots still ringing through the neighbourhood.
he slumps against a brick wall, letting it prop him up.
you should call sam, he thinks. and then a second later: i will literally die before i call sam for help.
it's hyperbolic, sure. but he's gonna be okay. he thinks. or he's pretty sure. his healing is faster than the average human's. he just... needs to rest.
the thing he isn't counting on: the strawberry-blonde reporter, and the last man, coming in late to back up his buddies. )
( The Blue Heron, with its eclectic beaded décor and ostrich prints straight out of a 1920's speakeasy, is one of the few places in Gotham City that beckon outsiders that aren't serial killer tours, possible Batman sightings, and the chance to catch a glimpse at Arkham Island. The Blue Heron attracts so-called desirables unlike everywhere else in his city, a revolving door of ditzy trust fund kids and scions and socialites, exclusive enough to keep coming back. He wishes there were more places in the city, despite his efforts to help it rebuild. Gilding shit over with gold doesn't mean it isn't shit anymore, but his love of Gotham and its people doesn't let him veer on that train of thought for long. He could always leave the city’s limits, venture elsewhere to find another haunt - but he hates doing so unless it's necessary and he can't stay away long anyway, as if Gotham is his own personal tell-tale heart.
Tonight, he dines at the Blue Heron alone in a booth that should, by all means, insulate him from the attentions of the sycophants and socialites around him but does little, unfortunately. Since forming the League and returning to the way patrols used to be, it's been harder to put on this mask, the mask of Bruce Wayne, but it's a necessary evil that he can grin and bear.
The young daughter - twenty-four, at most - of a lawyer in the city seems adamant about making conversation, but is too shy and reserved to invite herself to sit beside him. He's unsure if he wants to invite her to sit with him and then back to his hotel room - she's well-known enough in the tabloids that it could look good, to be seen with her on the society pages, a long enough front until he has to do it again. A necessary evil.
Luckily, that decision bodes no further thought - the gaze that he's allowed to scan across the room catches on platinum blonde hair and the lithe, willowy frame of a woman whose face he should recognize but doesn't. Even better, she's approaching him, dressed in a sundress that she'd clearly chosen in an attempt to assimilate but makes her stand out even more. The girl's talking, but he's not listening not really.
Bruce Wayne's appreciative gaze flicks over the woman until he fixes her with a crooked sort of smile,. Finally, they're left in peace once it's realized his attentions are elsewhere. Now, it's time to fixate the sleazy attention on her. )
Do I know you? I feel like I should. ( There's intent in her face and he knows a journalist when he sees one, but she's not like the others. Not paparazzi. She's fresh-faced yet jaded, new to Gotham but not new to this. He pushes himself over, swigging back the ginger ale he's disguised as champagne. ) Why don't you take a seat and tell me about whatever it is you have on your mind. I can tell by the look on your face. Hopefully, it's to ask me to have dinner with you.
Edited (ah who needs html x 2 im so sorry lmao) 2021-04-17 07:21 (UTC)
( once upon a dreary thursday morning, karen page with cellphone in hand (juggling a travel cup and a pastry bag) quite actually stumbles into his life when a headphone-wearing, backpack-on-the-floor, oblivious-to-the-world student scoots his chair back and yanks his bag out across the tiles, tripping her directly into oliver’s grasp. with reflexes not unlike lighting and a firm grasp, he catches her by the bicep just above her elbow and a steady hand near the small of her back. latte unspilled, pastry intact, call relatively uninterrupted. he steadies her with a commanding strength, then releases her back into the wild.
he excuses himself with a casual happens more often than you think and slips out the restroom window before she can wrap up her phone call and thank him. he's nothing if not a man afraid of opening himself up to new people.
( and occasionally, they would end up in the locally owned cafe, karen with an inquisitive glance and oliver with all the pretense in the world, used to project how wrapped up in his own universe he was. eventually, names are exchanged, phone numbers, and they trade off on paying it forward with each other’s orders. )
it isn’t until their schedules overlap, burning the midnight oil, that their paths cross in an undeniable manner. fate has a way of sidelining everything else when a man dressed entirely from head-to-toe in green leather goes crashing through a storefront window across the street as karen’s locking up. she does the smart thing and crouches behind a parked car while oliver tries to remember pain is a physical restraint and rolls over, crawling through shards of glass. he has to get up, he has to get the upper hand here. his bow's outside on the pavement and he's emptied the quiver on his back anyway. it's a flurry of fists and knee jabs, trying to powerhouse his assailant into a blackout. getting his jaw ground into a brick wall is not on the agenda.
a couple of warning gunshots ring out from across the street, aimed too high, but it's all the surprise oliver needs to get off of the wall and flip the tides. limping, bloody, hood down and mask slipping, he snaps the man's neck with gritted teeth because he can see the blonde creeping closer, gun raised. she won't kill for him, decision settled — what's one more bloodstain on his long, long list? )
Get out of here! ( he bellows over the sirens wailing in the distance. he makes it halfway down the alley, hand slipping off the edge of the dumpster right before his vision goes. he wakes up on a couch in an apartment he doesn't recognize, the smell of coffee in the air and bangs his shin on the coffee table in his effort to grapple up to the sound of: that was a pretty stupid stunt you pulled. the splintering pain in his shin or passing out like yesterday's trash? probably both.
which brings them to now — not exactly passing as normal by any means, but it isn't as if oliver can write karen off now that she's seen him unmasked. she saved him from a prison cell and answering uncomfortable questions, handcuffed in the ICU. ultimately, he's the stray cat she never should have stopped to feed.
if he drops in on her fire escape and slinks in through "unlocked" windows, it's because he can't have her tarnishing his good name in an exposé. not because he likes watching her updo come down in loose waves or her changing through a cracked door, reflected in a standing mirror. not for the way she kisses him when he pants out i have to go or for the fire she kindles in him when, instead of leaving, he hoists her up between him and whatever piece of furniture unlucky enough to be used as a prop. he cradles her cheek with gloved fingers, caressing her gently with his thumb. oliver betrays his alleged monstrousness with a sweet brush of noses and a chaste passing of lips. )
( it’s a text in the middle of the night from an unlisted phone number, after too much radio silence. it’s been how long— months? years, even, since the last time he pressed down his heart and shoved her out of his life and swore up and down that she deserved better than to get tangled up in his bullshit.
but the wheel turns and time passes and at the end of the day, frank castle finds himself still missing karen page. he’ll always miss her. like he gnawed off his own leg to get out of the trap, and now he can’t stop limping.
so. the text. unlisted, unsigned, but there’s one telling emoji to explain who’s reaching out in the middle of the night (again): )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
→ ｆｏｒ：shitmagnet.
I don't know, Frank. ( it's a response that rings with a gentle finality, and for one of the few times that night, their eyes meet with one another. she doesn't shy away from it, doesn't back down from her stance; he knows a woman like her, regardless of how frail he's seen her, how shaken, would be the last to do that. )
I don't know if you get that; if I get that.
( it frustrates her, the knowing that neither of them may grow out of the people they've become; the feeling that she'll never truly escape hell's kitchen, that he'd never allow himself to get out if she were still here. she wants it for him, not to have to bat an eye back at her, not to let her safety dictate whether or not he could cut those last threads with a city that's never granted justice when it was so heart-shatteringly needed. ) You go somewhere and you... you don't worry about this place.
About me. There's always going to be something that pulls you back if you don't decide not to give a shit.
And if you figure out how— ( a huff of a breath, mirthless despite the brief curl at the edge of her mouth. ) That's a story worth writing.
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karen too-good-for-this-world page
so sweet *_*
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→ ｆｏｒ：gbpp.
( it's a wise idea, mr. stark; ensuring you keep an eye on those shadows, the fog-clouded alleys and what lingers on those rooftops. there's never really a moment of peace, not with her. see most of those targets on her back have been drawn so softly, so discreetly she hasn't noticed them, hasn't felt them with brittle hands running over her skin in the shower.
it's a waiting game, the teeming patience that comes with waiting for hell's kitchen to open it's mouth for you once more.
a snicker, then, as she buckles in and settles her purse across her lap. heart of her palm always resting just up against that weight beneath the leather, a pathetic means of protection for what she's up against, but something nonetheless. )
'Billionaire with a huge global presence.' ( a flash of blue hues over to him, now, reading what features she can make within the dim light of the cabin. )
Didn't realize you and discreetness knew one another.
<3
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→ ｆｏｒ：thegoodbad.
and maybe she can skirt around it, for a little while. cradle a tempered mug of coffee, black, and allow herself to take a breath. allow herself to believe that, even if just for tonight, she was safe.
but there was no greater delusion than believing she could ever be out of fisk's eyes, for he held them everywhere.
it's what leaves her sitting in her car, even after killing the heat. rounds of her cheeks are bitten red from the cold and breath fogs out before her, and she doesn't know how many times she counts the streetlights on that dimmed road, few and far between. she didn't park in front of the building he'd told her. she couldn't, not if someone came after her. but she has to tell herself that won't happen, that the corrupted agents had other tiers on their to-do list to tick off before coming for her.
because he doesn't deserve that. not ... any of this. and when she stands at his door, gives a lithe knock, she's wrapping arms around a thin frame, a hood pulled over golden locks. and she hopes. )
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thrusts more tl;dr at you
\o/
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sorry for slow tags, work tires me out during the week
i can always wait! it's well worth it.
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→ ｆｏｒ：fancysuit.
she knows she's practically exuding cynicism, white blouse folded up her forearms and golden, petite necklace hanging between her collars, but the last thing she's looking for is company, and josie knows by now not to say a word, when to pour, and when to cut her off so she can still make it back to the apartment that sits idly in waiting for her.
she's already taunted her with a look as if another inch or two of the amber liquid would really do her in, and maybe it's the secretarial profile she eases into too well that rewards her another clink of a refill, responding with a gentle rap on the counter in thanks, and white teeth claiming purchase to lower lip. ❫
Why I love you, Jos.
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— concusses.
( she'd done well for awhile, keeping to herself, brushing over that tug within her that wondered, always wondered where he might be, if that glowering red of headlights lingering outside her apartment building was him, the rare rumble of her phone tangled within her sheets in the middle of the night. she knew better; every time she knew better. but it didn't keep her from indulging the idea. that sliver of hope she couldn't quite cut off, that the last time she'd seen him could never really be the last.
he catches his reflection in the coffee just as a meager waitress comes over with a fresh pot. she accepts with a soft nod, and just as quietly as she'd come, she goes. lithe fingers meet each side of the mug, reveling in the heat that's there. her own pause doesn't come from chasing an honest tongue—how many times she'd caught herself wanting to share something with him, and when he sits before her now, she just... wants to be. )
Guess I missed you too. ( it's that playful bite they share so well, and while the smirk that finds one edge of her lips is tired, strained, it's there. )
Some part of me thinks it'd be nice. Leave the city, become someone else... anything else. ( she draws in a breath, shoulders pulling into a thoughtful shrug as tongue clears across her lips. ) It's only a matter of time before you catch up with yourself.
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frank let her sleep on your chest, u are the cure
help i love them... so much...
he's touching her hand don't speak to me
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HOW DID TWO WEEKS GO BY
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→ a perilous meet cute.
bucky's been trying to make ends meet, scraping and picking up odd jobs for a local restaurant. immersing himself in normalcy as if rubbing shoulders with regular citizens is contagious; as if he could catch some semblance of a regular life if he just stayed near them long enough, followed the rules, talked to his stupid court-appointed therapist, and all-in-all tried his best to prove that his winter soldier days are long, long past.
but tonight, that past follows him home. it's not a gigantic alien invasion and it's not the end of the world, but it is this: the prickling between his shoulderblades, that familiar sawing on the edge of his nerves telling him that something is wrong. so move. faster. now. he breaks into a faster walk, his stride lengthening even as the shadows break into movement behind him.
anyone who tries to mug the winter soldier would be an idiot. but these aren't robbers, are they?
bucky looks at the approaching men, and notes the physical details in quick succession: military buzz-cuts; broad shoulders; their english is russian-accented. they might as well bark hail hydra at him when they come closer. he can guess what they want: it's him. recovering their prized asset.
it's the middle of the goddamned street in new york, but it's also past midnight. there aren't many civilians around to hear the crunch of bone as bucky slams one man into the wall; the staccato ping as he deflects some bullets with his arm and the fabric of his leather jacket rips; the howl of pain from the hydra operative as bucky snaps his hand. same shit, different day. and it's almost a relief: getting to cut loose, warm up these long-dormant muscles and hated instincts.
but he's outnumbered, and it's dark, and the twentieth bullet hits its mark. and then the twenty-first. the bullets lodge in his side and he jack-knifes over them, the breath driven out of him. another man uses some kind of goddamn high-tech taser on his metal arm and it short-circuits; it catches, the hinges creaking and the whole thing becomes dead weight hanging off his shoulder. by the time bucky ends the fight — and he ends it, hard, — he's stumbling and he can't move his arm. the sound of the gunshots still ringing through the neighbourhood.
he slumps against a brick wall, letting it prop him up.
you should call sam, he thinks. and then a second later: i will literally die before i call sam for help.
it's hyperbolic, sure. but he's gonna be okay. he thinks. or he's pretty sure. his healing is faster than the average human's. he just... needs to rest.
the thing he isn't counting on: the strawberry-blonde reporter, and the last man, coming in late to back up his buddies. )
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→ i bloom into ache.
Tonight, he dines at the Blue Heron alone in a booth that should, by all means, insulate him from the attentions of the sycophants and socialites around him but does little, unfortunately. Since forming the League and returning to the way patrols used to be, it's been harder to put on this mask, the mask of Bruce Wayne, but it's a necessary evil that he can grin and bear.
The young daughter - twenty-four, at most - of a lawyer in the city seems adamant about making conversation, but is too shy and reserved to invite herself to sit beside him. He's unsure if he wants to invite her to sit with him and then back to his hotel room - she's well-known enough in the tabloids that it could look good, to be seen with her on the society pages, a long enough front until he has to do it again. A necessary evil.
Luckily, that decision bodes no further thought - the gaze that he's allowed to scan across the room catches on platinum blonde hair and the lithe, willowy frame of a woman whose face he should recognize but doesn't. Even better, she's approaching him, dressed in a sundress that she'd clearly chosen in an attempt to assimilate but makes her stand out even more. The girl's talking, but he's not listening not really.
Bruce Wayne's appreciative gaze flicks over the woman until he fixes her with a crooked sort of smile,. Finally, they're left in peace once it's realized his attentions are elsewhere. Now, it's time to fixate the sleazy attention on her. )
Do I know you? I feel like I should. ( There's intent in her face and he knows a journalist when he sees one, but she's not like the others. Not paparazzi. She's fresh-faced yet jaded, new to Gotham but not new to this. He pushes himself over, swigging back the ginger ale he's disguised as champagne. ) Why don't you take a seat and tell me about whatever it is you have on your mind. I can tell by the look on your face. Hopefully, it's to ask me to have dinner with you.
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but everyone you meet's just passing through // hey look i made us an au
( once upon a dreary thursday morning, karen page with cellphone in hand (juggling a travel cup and a pastry bag) quite actually stumbles into his life when a headphone-wearing, backpack-on-the-floor, oblivious-to-the-world student scoots his chair back and yanks his bag out across the tiles, tripping her directly into oliver’s grasp. with reflexes not unlike lighting and a firm grasp, he catches her by the bicep just above her elbow and a steady hand near the small of her back. latte unspilled, pastry intact, call relatively uninterrupted. he steadies her with a commanding strength, then releases her back into the wild.
he excuses himself with a casual happens more often than you think and slips out the restroom window before she can wrap up her phone call and thank him. he's nothing if not a man afraid of opening himself up to new people.
( and occasionally, they would end up in the locally owned cafe, karen with an inquisitive glance and oliver with all the pretense in the world, used to project how wrapped up in his own universe he was. eventually, names are exchanged, phone numbers, and they trade off on paying it forward with each other’s orders. )
it isn’t until their schedules overlap, burning the midnight oil, that their paths cross in an undeniable manner. fate has a way of sidelining everything else when a man dressed entirely from head-to-toe in green leather goes crashing through a storefront window across the street as karen’s locking up. she does the smart thing and crouches behind a parked car while oliver tries to remember pain is a physical restraint and rolls over, crawling through shards of glass. he has to get up, he has to get the upper hand here. his bow's outside on the pavement and he's emptied the quiver on his back anyway. it's a flurry of fists and knee jabs, trying to powerhouse his assailant into a blackout. getting his jaw ground into a brick wall is not on the agenda.
a couple of warning gunshots ring out from across the street, aimed too high, but it's all the surprise oliver needs to get off of the wall and flip the tides. limping, bloody, hood down and mask slipping, he snaps the man's neck with gritted teeth because he can see the blonde creeping closer, gun raised. she won't kill for him, decision settled — what's one more bloodstain on his long, long list? )
Get out of here! ( he bellows over the sirens wailing in the distance. he makes it halfway down the alley, hand slipping off the edge of the dumpster right before his vision goes. he wakes up on a couch in an apartment he doesn't recognize, the smell of coffee in the air and bangs his shin on the coffee table in his effort to grapple up to the sound of: that was a pretty stupid stunt you pulled. the splintering pain in his shin or passing out like yesterday's trash? probably both.
which brings them to now — not exactly passing as normal by any means, but it isn't as if oliver can write karen off now that she's seen him unmasked. she saved him from a prison cell and answering uncomfortable questions, handcuffed in the ICU. ultimately, he's the stray cat she never should have stopped to feed.
if he drops in on her fire escape and slinks in through "unlocked" windows, it's because he can't have her tarnishing his good name in an exposé. not because he likes watching her updo come down in loose waves or her changing through a cracked door, reflected in a standing mirror. not for the way she kisses him when he pants out i have to go or for the fire she kindles in him when, instead of leaving, he hoists her up between him and whatever piece of furniture unlucky enough to be used as a prop. he cradles her cheek with gloved fingers, caressing her gently with his thumb. oliver betrays his alleged monstrousness with a sweet brush of noses and a chaste passing of lips. )
Maybe I can put it off for one more hour.
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share the same space for a minute or two;
but the wheel turns and time passes and at the end of the day, frank castle finds himself still missing karen page. he’ll always miss her. like he gnawed off his own leg to get out of the trap, and now he can’t stop limping.
so. the text. unlisted, unsigned, but there’s one telling emoji to explain who’s reaching out in the middle of the night (again): )
hey, karen.
- 💀
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