Frank is nervous, which isn't really a feeling he's familiar with. Not lately, anyway. After Madani had given him his life back, or rather: a new life, a second chance. Pete Castiglione's life. He's still trying to figure out who that is, and hanging out with Curtis and Micro wasn't exactly helping him to move on, if there was such a thing for a person like him.
His tiny motel room has evolved in the months he's been on the grid. He had initially rented here because he thought it would be discreet, but that had been naivety. Now this place is a veritable revolving door. He's made... an impression of home out of it. Nothing truly lasting, but not somewhere to pick up and leave without a thought, either. When she makes it over, she'll find a room floored with wood that's never been finished from maybe the 1930s. The walls have been spackled but never repainted, moulding coming off the seams of doorways Frank always says he'll replace. Because why not? He's got nothing better to do. As she progresses through, the back of a short couch faces the door, an ancient television set propped up on a box in front of it with rabbit ears sticking out of the top. There's a tiny wooden table between that looks handmade. It's unfinished too, in any case. Against the far wall, a mattress is propped when it's out of use because there'd be no room to walk otherwise, and above that hangs an acoustic guitar, mounted to the wall.
Off the right of the space there are two doorways, the bathroom is barely big enough to turn around in but it has everything he needs including a wooden door that looks like it's coming off the hinges. The second doorway is open, leading into easily the most lived-in space in the "apartment." A small but serviceable kitchen will greet her, a fresh bouquet of peonies sitting in a clear vase on the table. It looks like a repurposed drafting table with two chairs on either side of it. One is blue with peeling paint and a high back, the other looks recently painted black and sits much lower. There are wires sticking out of the pantry cabinet if one were to study it long enough, because that's where Frank's ham radio is now housed. There are freshly washed dishes piled onto a drying rack, the whole room immaculate, but seemingly well used.
Frank walks to the corner store in the light weather, barely a flurry of a snowstorm but everyone is acting like it could be the apocalypse. Frank plucks two bottles of rose out of the display without reading the labels and purchases them with crumpled up bills from inside his Carhart jacket pocket. Spoils in hand, he spots Madani's car in the lot, having gone out just before she said she would be here. And unsurprisingly, she's even a few minutes earlier than that. He unlocks the door and leaves it open, knowing she's watching him as he toes off his boots and hangs his coat and hat by the front door before banishing himself to his kitchen to open bottle #1. Bottle #2 is insurance, in case this night goes even worse than he has a hunch it might already. This timing saves him from awkwardly greeting her at the door, but it gives him a lurch under his skin when he hears her shoes and her closing and locking it behind herself.
Madani has made a point to not look every time Frank Castle so much as twitched but that he'd go this far. It gave her a little pang, knowing he's cut himself off that memory lane. But Frank is Frank and as such, from what she's learned about him, it's not that much of a surprise. That, too, is Frank Castle, and Dinah has enjoyed discovering new facets of this man whenever one of them reached out tentatively.
That he would invite her to his now home seems like a big deal but at the same time it seems like a natural progression of that gossamer something forming between them. Waiting by the entrance she takes her lead from him. Never a man of many words, Frank Castle is surprisingly generous with his actions. Ducking her head to hide a smile, Dinah enters Frank's home, glancing around as she steps out of her shoes and shrugs off her jacket. The flowers are a nice touch and her gaze lingers there as if she can't help herself.
"I've brought garlic bread and some cheese for snacks," she calls out before turning away from the peonies and approaching the kitchen, holding up the bag with said snacks. "The bread should be still warm."
Frank turns around as she enters the room, coffee mugs out instead of wine glasses. "Sorry, I'm not a big wine drinker..." he says in lieu of a greeting, pouring the drink practically up to the lip. He thinks they'll need it. His cup declares Go Indiana Hoosiers! and has a chip in the rim like it's been well-loved. The cup he'd chosen for her says World's Greatest Grandma. Her bringing food leaves him blinking, though he supposes it isn't unexpected or even unwelcome. The bread smells good, when he's on his own he doesn't bother trying to eat whole food. It's always in the company of others that his own humanity catches up to him.
"Thanks," he says belatedly, swallowing a gulp of wine before gesturing for her to sit at his rickety table. He knows this is a big step, but he's doing his best not to think about it, dropping in his own chair like a stone so he doesn't have to waste his time thinking about if they hug or shake hands or something else entirely. Effectively skipping over it, he reaches out to break off a piece of bread and level her with his perpetually heavy gaze. He still isn't really sure what Dinah Madani thinks of him, as a person. He's surprised that he wants to know, and actually even cares about the result.
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His tiny motel room has evolved in the months he's been on the grid. He had initially rented here because he thought it would be discreet, but that had been naivety. Now this place is a veritable revolving door. He's made... an impression of home out of it. Nothing truly lasting, but not somewhere to pick up and leave without a thought, either. When she makes it over, she'll find a room floored with wood that's never been finished from maybe the 1930s. The walls have been spackled but never repainted, moulding coming off the seams of doorways Frank always says he'll replace. Because why not? He's got nothing better to do. As she progresses through, the back of a short couch faces the door, an ancient television set propped up on a box in front of it with rabbit ears sticking out of the top. There's a tiny wooden table between that looks handmade. It's unfinished too, in any case. Against the far wall, a mattress is propped when it's out of use because there'd be no room to walk otherwise, and above that hangs an acoustic guitar, mounted to the wall.
Off the right of the space there are two doorways, the bathroom is barely big enough to turn around in but it has everything he needs including a wooden door that looks like it's coming off the hinges. The second doorway is open, leading into easily the most lived-in space in the "apartment." A small but serviceable kitchen will greet her, a fresh bouquet of peonies sitting in a clear vase on the table. It looks like a repurposed drafting table with two chairs on either side of it. One is blue with peeling paint and a high back, the other looks recently painted black and sits much lower. There are wires sticking out of the pantry cabinet if one were to study it long enough, because that's where Frank's ham radio is now housed. There are freshly washed dishes piled onto a drying rack, the whole room immaculate, but seemingly well used.
Frank walks to the corner store in the light weather, barely a flurry of a snowstorm but everyone is acting like it could be the apocalypse. Frank plucks two bottles of rose out of the display without reading the labels and purchases them with crumpled up bills from inside his Carhart jacket pocket. Spoils in hand, he spots Madani's car in the lot, having gone out just before she said she would be here. And unsurprisingly, she's even a few minutes earlier than that. He unlocks the door and leaves it open, knowing she's watching him as he toes off his boots and hangs his coat and hat by the front door before banishing himself to his kitchen to open bottle #1. Bottle #2 is insurance, in case this night goes even worse than he has a hunch it might already. This timing saves him from awkwardly greeting her at the door, but it gives him a lurch under his skin when he hears her shoes and her closing and locking it behind herself.
no subject
Madani has made a point to not look every time Frank Castle so much as twitched but that he'd go this far. It gave her a little pang, knowing he's cut himself off that memory lane. But Frank is Frank and as such, from what she's learned about him, it's not that much of a surprise. That, too, is Frank Castle, and Dinah has enjoyed discovering new facets of this man whenever one of them reached out tentatively.
That he would invite her to his now home seems like a big deal but at the same time it seems like a natural progression of that gossamer something forming between them. Waiting by the entrance she takes her lead from him. Never a man of many words, Frank Castle is surprisingly generous with his actions. Ducking her head to hide a smile, Dinah enters Frank's home, glancing around as she steps out of her shoes and shrugs off her jacket. The flowers are a nice touch and her gaze lingers there as if she can't help herself.
"I've brought garlic bread and some cheese for snacks," she calls out before turning away from the peonies and approaching the kitchen, holding up the bag with said snacks. "The bread should be still warm."
no subject
"Thanks," he says belatedly, swallowing a gulp of wine before gesturing for her to sit at his rickety table. He knows this is a big step, but he's doing his best not to think about it, dropping in his own chair like a stone so he doesn't have to waste his time thinking about if they hug or shake hands or something else entirely. Effectively skipping over it, he reaches out to break off a piece of bread and level her with his perpetually heavy gaze. He still isn't really sure what Dinah Madani thinks of him, as a person. He's surprised that he wants to know, and actually even cares about the result.