[ when she turns away, he feels a familiar numbness settle over his bones. is he making a mistake? maybe it's better for both of them if he leaves right now and doesn't look back, but there's something that keeps him firmly in her orbit. it isn't the same as it was with maria -- he didn't know the second he saw jess where the rest of his life would end up. but there are things that remind him of his late wife, and they're undeniable. jess is fierce, sarcastic; and often mean to him. she makes him guess at her mood and keeps hope dangled on a string.
what's missing are the good parts, the laughter and the fun shared on weekend outings. movie nights and pillow forts. though he supposes it had been easy to be 'fun frank' when he knew he was leaving again soon. jess and he live maybe a dozen blocks away from each other, and neither of them stray far from the roost. it's a more stable sort of life, as fucked up as that is to think about. in a lot of ways, this could actually be more sustainable than his fucking marriage. a bond that should have been eternal.
but he'd been fucking that up long before it had all been snatched away. and maybe that's the true lesson here.
frank tries not to listen for her when she shuts herself in her room, but his ears prick anyway for any tiny sound of distress. he can't help it, it's ingrained in him. he's folded up small, his face pressed into the back of the couch, but he's not sure how long he can lay here. not when the comparisons are making his head spin, memories layered until he squeezes his eyes shut and begs them silently to stop. what comes to the fore is worse still as he wonders not for the first time about what made jessica this way. who. a man who the papers say is dead, but frank knows better. he sees him in every plane of her face, and he hates him. he hates him more than he's ever hated anyone, even agent orange. even billy fucking russo.
that's it. he gets to his feet and goes to the kitchen. he doesn't think about leaving at all, but he busies himself easily -- knowing jessica never cleans so there's plenty for him to do. malcolm takes care of some things but it's easy for him to get lost in the work all the same. he washes what few dishes there are and clears debris off the counter. he checks every meager food item in her cupboards and fridge for expiration and general safety. in lieu of a sponge, he papertowels the counters and cabinets until they're shiny. all through the tasks, it's easy to keep his mind occupied, and so he feels better for it.
frank goes to the bathroom to pee and wash up. he steals some of her toothpaste and splashes water on his face. then he stumbles out into the living room and shuts out the light. he tosses one glance to the cracked bedroom door and wonders if she's asleep. he hopes if she is it's peaceful, even if he knows it can't be. and if she's awake hopefully she's drunk because he knows that's the only thing that helps. he strips off his shirt and belt and drapes them over the back of the couch. his kabar and strap are relegated to the coffee table and he curls up once again under the fleece blanket left for him.
in a few minutes he's asleep, which is welcome now that his mind is blank. for hours, there's nothing, just like always. he thinks he might get away with it too, but then it starts. he's with the lieberman's, it's leo's birthday this time. everyone is happy and smiling, most of all frank. he gives leo a toolkit and watches her light up, his heart swelling with pride as her parents fuss over him and the gift. how thoughtful uncle pete is. how much he really shouldn't have.
there's a knock at the door and sarah goes to answer it as david and frank drink wine and laugh, two peas in a pod. jessica. she's here, at last and sarah lieberman ushers her back into the room so that the kids can ooh and ahh over her. zach starts singsonging about uncle pete and his girlfriend and frank jokingly gestures to him that he's dead meat with a finger to his throat. jess kisses him and slumps into her seat by his side, ever sullen and unaffected. it's even more obvious in a room full of people having too much fun, but frank doesn't mind her bringing the mood down, even when she drinks the rest of their wine straight from the bottle.
and then it happens. the same way it always does except with a dastardly twist. billy russo comes barging into the room, hopelessly disfigured thanks to frank. he looks like a super pissed off quasimodo and who else should he set his sights on but jessica jones. he wakes bolt upright, drenched in sweat, just as her brains splatter on his face and the wall behind them. he's spared from seeing the liebermans murdered for the millionth time this month, but his heart is hammering anyway, like it could punch right through his chest. his gaze darts around as he desperately tries to remember where he is. ]
no subject
what's missing are the good parts, the laughter and the fun shared on weekend outings. movie nights and pillow forts. though he supposes it had been easy to be 'fun frank' when he knew he was leaving again soon. jess and he live maybe a dozen blocks away from each other, and neither of them stray far from the roost. it's a more stable sort of life, as fucked up as that is to think about. in a lot of ways, this could actually be more sustainable than his fucking marriage. a bond that should have been eternal.
but he'd been fucking that up long before it had all been snatched away. and maybe that's the true lesson here.
frank tries not to listen for her when she shuts herself in her room, but his ears prick anyway for any tiny sound of distress. he can't help it, it's ingrained in him. he's folded up small, his face pressed into the back of the couch, but he's not sure how long he can lay here. not when the comparisons are making his head spin, memories layered until he squeezes his eyes shut and begs them silently to stop. what comes to the fore is worse still as he wonders not for the first time about what made jessica this way. who. a man who the papers say is dead, but frank knows better. he sees him in every plane of her face, and he hates him. he hates him more than he's ever hated anyone, even agent orange. even billy fucking russo.
that's it. he gets to his feet and goes to the kitchen. he doesn't think about leaving at all, but he busies himself easily -- knowing jessica never cleans so there's plenty for him to do. malcolm takes care of some things but it's easy for him to get lost in the work all the same. he washes what few dishes there are and clears debris off the counter. he checks every meager food item in her cupboards and fridge for expiration and general safety. in lieu of a sponge, he papertowels the counters and cabinets until they're shiny. all through the tasks, it's easy to keep his mind occupied, and so he feels better for it.
frank goes to the bathroom to pee and wash up. he steals some of her toothpaste and splashes water on his face. then he stumbles out into the living room and shuts out the light. he tosses one glance to the cracked bedroom door and wonders if she's asleep. he hopes if she is it's peaceful, even if he knows it can't be. and if she's awake hopefully she's drunk because he knows that's the only thing that helps. he strips off his shirt and belt and drapes them over the back of the couch. his kabar and strap are relegated to the coffee table and he curls up once again under the fleece blanket left for him.
in a few minutes he's asleep, which is welcome now that his mind is blank. for hours, there's nothing, just like always. he thinks he might get away with it too, but then it starts. he's with the lieberman's, it's leo's birthday this time. everyone is happy and smiling, most of all frank. he gives leo a toolkit and watches her light up, his heart swelling with pride as her parents fuss over him and the gift. how thoughtful uncle pete is. how much he really shouldn't have.
there's a knock at the door and sarah goes to answer it as david and frank drink wine and laugh, two peas in a pod. jessica. she's here, at last and sarah lieberman ushers her back into the room so that the kids can ooh and ahh over her. zach starts singsonging about uncle pete and his girlfriend and frank jokingly gestures to him that he's dead meat with a finger to his throat. jess kisses him and slumps into her seat by his side, ever sullen and unaffected. it's even more obvious in a room full of people having too much fun, but frank doesn't mind her bringing the mood down, even when she drinks the rest of their wine straight from the bottle.
and then it happens. the same way it always does except with a dastardly twist. billy russo comes barging into the room, hopelessly disfigured thanks to frank. he looks like a super pissed off quasimodo and who else should he set his sights on but jessica jones. he wakes bolt upright, drenched in sweat, just as her brains splatter on his face and the wall behind them. he's spared from seeing the liebermans murdered for the millionth time this month, but his heart is hammering anyway, like it could punch right through his chest. his gaze darts around as he desperately tries to remember where he is. ]