bakerstreet | music prompt

[ karen pushes away from the counter, head down, hair sliding forward despite so many attempts to tuck it back. barely even two steps and she's crowding his space. she takes the towel from him into both hands, subconsciously wrapping a corner of it around her finger.

funny, him saying that to the girl who's held a gun (and pulled the trigger) one too many times now; the girl who probably has still had more sleep in a day than he's had in a week. she wonders how much he speaks from personal experience — she's no model citizen either with the empty liquor bottles one could find at any time in her apartment. ]

Maybe I'm not the one who needs that advice.

[ her gaze turns up, realizing now how close she stands. she can see the crook of his nose, how many times it's no doubt been knocked out of place. but she still looks straight to his eyes, tired with an honesty to them. ]

You could stay. [ the forwardness of the suggestion isn't lost on her, but there's still a too-long pause before her clarification. ] If you need the rest. I might actually sleep better.

[ she's being kind with that "maybe," a thought he wishes he'd reserved for the offer that follows. "kind" doesn't cover that. "stupid," if he's pulling a white fang. ill-advised, subjectively, but it would make perfect sense to her if what's keeping her awake is as much fear as her relentless pursuits. ]

You're scared. [ he searches her face, as if he could see the shape of her dreams the same as her skull. (he's seen the inside of it in his own nightmares, brains speckled across shreds of hay blonde hair until all the strands are soaked blood black.) it's not what's out there she's gotta fight with once she's made it home and battened the hatches. he doesn't know what shadows keep her company, so he doesn't know how many were created by him.

the breath he takes is large, to suit a sigh he only wants to direct inward so when he exhales, it's made even but comes out choppy through his nose. he pulls his cap off and drags calloused fingers through his flattened hair. ] An hour, yeah? Go on.

[ her lips part to protest, a natural defense — the words 'i'm fine' and 'i can take care of myself' practically an automated response. (her nightmares are large and looming and frighteningly fisk-shaped, punctured with holes left by her brother and a dark swallowing guilty conscious. maybe 'scared' can be the right word to use sometimes.) but instead of justifying her reasons to frank, which she doesn't need to, she purses her mouth and nods. leaves it at that. she'll take the extra hour.

then she takes a few articles of clothing into the bathroom with her, where the water from the sink starts to run. she doesn't wash her face so much as she splashes it with water and wipes away some of the leftover makeup smudges. it's not easy to clean this city off you.

karen leaves frank to situate himself in her apartment — the concept is suddenly foreign to her as she tries to imagine where he might sit or stand or find himself drawn to. there's limited options anyway. she exits wearing black stretch pants and a dark cotton top. ]

Don't suppose drug trafficking makes for good bedtime stories.

[ left to himself, frank develops a peculiar empathy for those guns left lying out in the open in otherwise peaceful homes. welcome, arguably necessary, and dangerously out of place. the lingering summer heat thickens fast with all the windows sealed; he shrugs out of his jacket for his own comfort, and works off the skull-stained kevlar for both their sakes. the symbol -- christ, he's one of Those now -- is visible from under the folded jacket, vest propped up in an empty linoleum dining chair.

frank drags the other to the centre of the living room. with the back to the wall, he's equal distance from the door and the windows. between his hands, the combat knife in his boot and the beretta holstered on his thigh, he thinks he might actually be able to relax for sixty minutes. when karen reemerges, his muscles lock up on instinct and he sits up straighter, crossing his arms over his chest. exertion has soaked the fabric of his shirt to his skin while the fresh, light cotton billows off her jagged shoulder blades.

she's as delicate as he's ever seen her and he's already mentally renegotiating with himself: two hours, or until she falls asleep. she doesn't need to know (or she knew from the start). ]

I don't recall making that kind of promise.

It was worth a shot.

[ it takes her a moment to finally spot frank, her eyes having been directed toward the deserted kitchen first — just his vest remaining, and the same skull she spent hours pouring over once. strange how these things come back around.

maybe even stranger is frank, centered in the middle of her living room in that single solitary chair. he almost looks like a watchdog, set a few feet away from the edge of her bed. she decides not to comment on it, instead finding something endearing in the concept. not that she expected him to actually dish out more information on the hit if he was agreeing to stay; the idea of an actual bedtime story was even less likely.

karen crosses the room, sitting on the side of her bed with one leg drawn up. ]

I, uhm– [ she closes her eyes, scrunching her face for a moment. ] I used do this particular thing to get myself to fall asleep. You know they tell you to rewind your day and remember all the mundane details— but doing that just reminds you, you'll have to get up soon and do it all over again. Right? So, uhm, I would try to pick out like three things that I liked, or I don't know, made me feel good, and I would try to go back, remembering as much as I could about that moment. Break it down and hold onto it, so it'd end up being the last thing on my mind and I — well, hopefully — dreamed about it. And then I'd remember it, and wake up to feel it again.

[ her hand drops to her neck and squeezes the tense muscles there. suddenly unsure if that was the best story to share to fill the silence. talk about burying the lede. ]

Guess that's harder to do these days.

[ he can dimly recollect strategies like that from a lifetime and a half ago. a doctor or a tape, maybe both, from all the way back in his early twenties. after lisa, before frank junior. after schoonover took him under his wing and well before making lance corporal. memories float up like flotsam and he lets them drift away again, mingle with the fresh debris of his home, and sink. ]

So start with one. [ that's already a tall order, in his opinion. it hasn't been an uneventful day for her but maybe a good-looking barrista remembered her name or she saw a dog or something. a dull thud from the hallway draws his attention to the door. the noises that follow are domestic doorway rustles and the click of a latch, faint enough he'd miss it if his senses weren't still keyed up. he looks back to her, cracks his neck along the way with a slight tic of his jaw. it seems like he's on the 25th hour of his day, one of the first that hasn't been wholly dedicated to tracking his target. could be he's looking forward to hearing one good thing in karen's voice. three would be greedy. ]

[ karen watches frank, similarly on alert but for different cues. (the noises of the apartment still get her sometimes too, like those times she's mistaken someone trying to break in for a neighbor having trouble across the hall.) she watches for his reactions, a sign not from the punisher but from him — to see if he might power down and open up. his suggestion to her seems like a start. ]

Yeah? Okay, um. [ she presses her palms and fingers together, resting them against her lips in thought. her mind shuffles through the days events like a rolodex. it should be easy, right? pick out one thing from the day, one that'd be worthy of going back over detail by detail, reliving in her head until she drifts to sleep. it should be something she can take hold of, gripping tight until morning. unfortunately, what comes to mind is more of an average, everyday occurrence that others in this city might take for granted. she drops her hands, and there's a confidence and clarity in her expression again. ]

Okay, this is going to sound totally stupid, but the sunset. I'm usually stuck in the office around that time, but tonight— you know, before I trailed you to our crime scene. [ she smiles a little, huffing out a quiet chuckle. ] I actually got a chance to notice it. That perfect time when the city just starts to light up, and there are streaks of red and orange across the skyline. Things almost feel ... peaceful for a second.

[ more about the feeling than the sight, gorgeous as it is, she wants to remember there are reasons — good ones — to keep fighting. ]

Despite everything, I still love being here.

[ though he doesn't need much sleep, he's stern about keeping a rhythm to it and his schedule keeps up through sunset and sunrise. the only note he ever takes is layered in deep inside his brain, a vigilance synonymous with waking. there are more cops on the street, more criminals, and more intrepid reporters narrowly weaving in between the two. he must have looked at it, really looked at it, once or twice, but that he doesn't remember.

if it were out there now, all that orange light would be lost dripping down the building faces and soaking into the concrete visible from her lower storey apartment. concrete only revealed in streaks of neon light in the mottled black night. no stragglers outrunning dusk, no stars through the smog. ]

You came to New York looking for peace? [ the loop of his arms has loosened. he works cracks out of his knuckles with his fingers interwoven, forearms braced on his knees. he's not surprised, because he knows karen sees a challenge and sinks her teeth in. he's not derisive, because he knows it wouldn't shake her. yeah, he knows.

she lied to him in those woods. ]

No, of course not. [ she lets out an incredulous laugh, shaking her head. pulling her other foot up onto the bed, she sits with her legs tucked in beside her. his jab changes her tone and posture, less careful, more casual — slouched forward a little, head tilted. ] If I wanted that, I never would've left Vermont.

[ new york was supposed to be a lot of things for her, but ended up being something totally different — in some ways for the better, in some for the worse. exposing more fears, but playing on her strengths. uncovering corporate scandals, getting mixed up with the mob and, apparently, housing vigilantes, none of it was what she set out to do. where she's at now, she can't ever imagine walking away from it. you do this and i am done. that's it. he's right, and she hopes he'll never make her say that (she knows what it'll lead to).

she doesn't like ending the thought there. ]

But it's nice to remember red isn't just the color of blood.

[ she wets her lips, looking toward her window, darkened by the curtain with only a faint glow behind it from the street lights and billboards. her hair slides forward and makes a similar curtain across the side of her face. ]

[ vermont. that fits. she's a natural at giving and hiding, and he must be some kind of sucker because the thrill gets him too, an unbegotten discovery blazing over the different question he didn't really ask. and if he doesn't really ask, she can't really deflect. communicating like soldiers or survivors.

frank grunts in acknowledgement. again, he can't relate to the image but he knew the feeling. he's not committing to roping it and hauling it into the present; he may be here now but he won't be before the streetlights go dim for the day. red: red is the devil, blood vessels bursting under the skin, and his lisa, bursting over everything, everyone -- maria, their boy, and frank's chest, his mouth --

jarred by his own blinking, his vision runs together in smears until he focuses it on something. the yellow, her hair, or the dust-stained lamppost bulbs through their foyer windows at night, or the dandelion butter on lisa's hands from braiding weeds into necklaces and crowns. and bruises, and desert dunes shifting choppily in a storm, and stained glass. deliberately, he shoves the thumb of one hand into the palm of the other, swipes his tongue across his chapped lips. checks her over for wounds he already knows aren't there and irons any brittleness out of his tone by lowering it when asking, ]

You got one more?

Edited 2016-04-23 06:08 (UTC)

[ she's always been better at asking the questions than answering them. knows how to pry and persuade, convincing people to trust her even when she regrets they ever did — ben, elena, christ, even grotto. but the ones she lets into her life, under her skin, they still only get pieces of her, and sometimes even those are barely scratching the surface. it already feels like she's revealed more than she meant to. (frank does that; she thinks of schoonover, of doors slamming shut and a single shot fired. she thinks of six more fired from her own hand.)

and his question feels bigger than it is, like asking her to admit to some buried emotion — a full stop instead of a question mark. maybe that's her already knowing the answer, jumping three steps ahead of herself and anticipating how he might respond. instead, her silence stretches on for a good two minutes. she watches the window, then watches him, until she forces her eyes down. there's a nod, a sharp intake of breath and another stilted pause. ]

This.

[ her voice is hushed but even. she doesn't say what, whether it's talking out loud, him guarding her door, or the names he brought for her story — or just, them. just this. whatever delicate, undefined connection they've managed to forge; the one that continues to break and manages to be rebuilt stronger. ]

[ silence can be loaded or empty. somehow, this one feels like both, like a chamber cleared of its last bullet that's still smoking. it doesn't make him nervous, it doesn't make him comfortable. his thoughts are content to stand at attention while hers are filed and refiled behind the curtain of her hair and the veil of unflappability that's part of the new york welcome package. always thinking. damn smart, damn beautiful and he's never doubted he knows it, same as he knows how to assemble and equip an M40A5, then undo it all in under a minute.

as long as he's known her, they've been back to back. he was clear: his weapon was never trained on her. whenever she shilled bullshit around him, it was to herself. soft-spoken to him, never once to make him pliable (he can tell the difference; learned something from those shrinks after all), and then railing hard at him when it was earned. no bullshit there, not for anyone. that integrity's her light. without it, he couldn't see her imperfections in relief: her single-minded pursuit of reason and right, her balls-out come-and-take-me optimism, how her fingers steeple over her mouth when he disappoints her. he wouldn't have found his way here.

frank watches her in return, uncompromising while their eyes remain connected. he doesn't want her to say what she says, because he's him, and because she's her, that's exactly what comes out. it's not the right way around, though: it should be dry, or tough, or challenging. if nothing else, it should make him want for a graveyard. it's said like he's ready for it, and part of him is. she'd know, wouldn't she? it's her work. ]

Yeah. [ quietly, his spine settling into place with a silent shift as his head hangs for a moment. he sees his hands, clean. then he lifts his chin with a weak grin on his face like he's just seen something kind of funny, but not enough to be worth sharing. ] That's one for me too.

[ his smile cuts through the dark of her apartment and she smiles back, laughing how you do, not because of the the joke itself but, because someone else is. infectious, she feels like a hurdle was crossed — albeit a small one — and at the same time a more dangerous bridge has been constructed in its place. as much as she wants him here, for whatever reason that is, he wants to be too.

the implication results in a heavy lightness that sits on her chest. but it's one that lays her down, stretched on her side with her cheek pressed into the mattress. her body is sideways on the bed, legs still tucked beside her and eyes facing in his direction; until they slip closed with a quiet sigh.

she doesn't search for more, content with the answer and leaving the third item for another time. purposely unfinished with enough for her trace back over and sort through until then. she knows he won't be there when she wakes up, but instead of bullet holes and contorted bloodied faces staring back at her, there's a pink-stained washcloth and a linoleum chair tucked back into the kitchen, and a scrap of paper she'll hold tight in her hand until she's back in the office. and all of it will be laced with his name, a postscript at the end of every thought. ]

Good night, Frank.

[ told you i'd sleep better. ]

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wow sorry idek

apologize for what * A *

for nothing then (▰˘◡˘▰) [ word vomits on ]

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