oorah | ☠ ic contact ☠

[ frank lets himself in as instructed and locks the door as instructed. he already knows where she'll be but he plots his course, meeting her eyes before traversing the space. his boots are kicked off carelessly and he sits down next to her -- as close as he can get really -- very nearly in her lap. he crosses his arms across his chest and hangs his head so it rests against her shoulder and the top of her arm. in lieu of a verbal greeting, he just turns to dead weight, wanting to be near her and wanting to forget everything else. ]

Hello.

[ frank said he could text the next day. it is now the next day. ]

Frank gets home at 18:03 and makes sure his shit is more-or-less in order. He puts on a pot of coffee and eats an MRE while he waits for the doctor to arrive. When he does, he'll still be in his work clothes, a simple henley and dark wash jeans all but destroyed with the same concrete dust that's somehow all through his hair too, a bit on his face.

The one room apartment is efficient and nothing more, save for scant touches that a person lives here. There's an old TV with bunny rabbit ears as well as a short couch with an equally short and dumpy coffee table. Propped up against the far wall is a plain mattress and hidden behind it is an ancient laptop. The only thing hung on the walls is a Taylor guitar, easily worth more than the sum of the room's contents otherwise and a whole year's rent for this shithole. Through a low-hanging open doorway is a tiny kitchen, the only section of the apartment that looks truly lived in. There's a tall pantry cabinet that looks ordinary but houses a ham radio and a bright bouquet of peonies sits on the singular strip of counter space. There's a tiny table and two tiny mismatched chairs somehow jammed into the postage stamp of a room as well.

Frank seems in good enough spirits when he answers the door, ushering Spencer inside with only the shadow of a smile and a nod for a greeting.

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.

[ the redhead seems familiar but not in any tangible way he can place. especially not when fending off these jackasses. he thinks they're mafia, definitely affiliated in some way with organized crime. all frank knows is that he had begun his night in a normal enough way and now he's here, sawing through the ropes around his hands with the knife they forgot to take off him while they give their badguy spiel. it's so sloppy and cliched it's actually embarrassing, but frank holds in his eyeroll for now, until he can free their real captive. ] Maybe you misspelled her ransom note. Could be why you haven't gotten a call.

[ okay he couldn't resist one dig, but he's free now anyway, getting up and throwing his ropes to the floor in one smooth movement. his kabar is drawn and ready to slice some amateurs' faces off. he feels owed after being forced to listen to that crap, honestly. throwing a look back at pepper to make sure she's... you know, as good as one ever is when tied to a chair by baddies, frank eagerly makes his way into the lion's den. henchmen hit the floor like dominoes, one by one and just as quick until he finds his way to their leader. frank leaves him gasping for breath in his own blood before darting back over to free her. ]

Sorry that took so long. [ if it sounds slightly manic, well. whatever. let's get the fuck out of here. ]

[ While she had the drive and guts to pursue the toughest of stories as a journalist, Karen is finding herself lacking courage when it came to attempting to call Frank. It’s late at night and she can’t sleep. He’s on her mind. He’s been on her mind since he walked out of her apartment. She keeps analyzing and overanalyzing every gesture he made and word he uttered, but no amount of thinking about it seems to bring her peace.

There’s only one thing to do. She reaches for her phone and quickly opens her contacts, finding the pseudonym she put his number in under and quickly thumbing a text to him. If he gets it, he gets it. If he doesn’t… Well, she probably won’t be falling asleep very easily. That’s the price you pay for a head full of thoughts. ]

Hey. Are you awake?

[ Everything is blurry - from the tears in her eyes, mixing with the sweat which she can't wipe off, her hands shaking too much. She's soaked through her shirt, kicked the covers in her thrashing, and woke up with a scream, images still flashing through her mind. The Hand, death, fire, everything falling apart around her, dead people coming back to life.

The smell of piss and gasoline in a warehouse, her hands tied, blood on her teeth. Pain, and fear, and her torn blouse.

She can barely see her phone through her tears, but somehow, she manages. And it's not Matt, she's calling, it's not her voice she waits for as she presses the phone to her ear, trying to stop sobbing.

When the call connects, her voice trembles. ]

Frank.

[ she met him in a bar in this city called new york. dutch has no idea what's new about it, but she doesn't really give a shit, either. she's here for a warrant and once she gets it, she's out again. it's a — not backwater planet, exactly, but it doesn't have space travel and that just makes everything awkward.

fortunately, pretending to fit in isn't so difficult in a bar. hitting on the tall, dark and silent stranger in one corner hadn't been for the mission, that had just been for fun, but he hadn't been particularly receptive. so she'd had another drink and left him alone, already putting him out of her mind, wasting time in the bar until her comms device vibrates in her boot, telling her it's time to go.

three hours later, dutch is still on a rooftop, sniper rifle in front of her. she's not looking to kill anyone because she doesn't do that shit anymore. she's just here to cover d'avin's approach. except there's movement on the roof and when she shifts her focus, it's tall, dark and quiet from the bar. ]

Well, this is awkward.

He's nervous. Why the actual fuck is he nervous? This is David "Micro" Lieberman, the guy who thought that calling him on a diner landline would intimidate him. ...Oh. You know what, whatever. This is sink or swim and he forgot his floaties. The knock sounds at the door and he actually jumps clean through his skin. This is dumb, he's dumb. It's fine.

Shrugging off whatever weird bought of nerves is currently overtaking him, Frank telegraphs his presence with heavy steps on the unfinished wood floor. He thinks of all the people who had been through this apartment, but never David. Because he's afraid of his best friend's scrutiny most of all. Afraid he'll see any small detail of Frank not coping and intervene somehow; though the whole scenario is highly unlikely.

All he can do is throw open the door and offer his friend a bland smile, ushering him inside the tiny space to make what he will of it. It's a glorified motel room -- a rent-by-the-week place that allows cash and the anonymity he needs. No matter the nerves or anything else, it's always good to see David. He's something right in a world of wrongs. Frank turns his back on him to lead his way through the place to the kitchen, if it could be called that.

Old, unfinished wooden floors abut the walls in varying stages of disrepair, moulding crumbling off corners or gone entirely long ago. There's a short couch facing an ancient television set, his mattress propped against the far wall that he obviously only lays down for sleeping; there would be no room to walk otherwise. His guitar hangs on the wall above it, in a high place of honor, but nothing else in the main room might suggest that a real person lives here. They walk past the tiny bathroom and onto the one place in his one-room existence that he genuinely enjoys, something that's apparent upon first observation.

There is an old linoleum floor, a rickety table sat in the middle. Two chairs bracket it, one with peeling blue pant and one high-backed with fresh black paint. There's a vase of orchids in the center. Clean dishes are piled up in the rack, suggesting he'd recently cooked for more than himself, and wires poke out of his tall pantry cabinet next to the stove where his ham radio is housed. Coffee percolates through the air with a soft, gurgling sound, two mugs awaiting them by the maker already. Frank's favored Indiana Hoosiers mug is there alongside the World's Best Grandma one he'd chosen for David.

For the first time since the other man came in, he turns to face him, leveling him with his heavy stare. This is it, he seems to say. This is my life. There's a tin bowl on the floor by the refrigerator, as if a dog was here. Is he functioning? Maybe. Well? Who knows. It escapes his notice that David might just be here to see him and not necessarily to assess him at all. "I don't have tea," he says, and to his credit it sounds almost apologetic as he goes to pour their cups.

[ frank immediately packs himself into his giant truck and heads to clara's apartment, not wanting to give himself time to think or subsequently chicken out. his plan (which wasn't really a plan at all) had worked, but now he's just petrified. the second he tells her that text was about her it will tip his hand, but he'd tricked her into tipping hers. he hopes she won't be mad about that in the end. especially since none of it had been premeditated in true frank castle fucking everything up fashion.

it's just past 11 minutes dead when he's pushing through her door, heavy boots heralding his arrival characteristically. he always looks like he just wandered off a job sight, a carhartt jacket thrown over his ever-present henley and darkwash levis. he remembered to put on a beanie tonight even, it's cold out there if the tinge of red on the tip of his crooked nose and high on his cheeks is any indication. he unzips his coat and tears off his hat as he goes searching through the space for her like a man on a mission. ] Clara?

She doesn't like leaving the kids. Her new Paul-free life is filled with a lot of uncertainties. When your boss offers you a lot of money to go to a convention and take notes for a couple of days how can you refuse? They'll pay the mortgage with this money. Sure it's not a vacation for her. Her anxiety is through the roof. She's pretty much crying every night because she misses them and worries obsessively about anything from little to imagined threats to them. Again she needs to do this for her family. She forces herself to be tough and do her best.

It helps that she can call between panels. She's in the middle of one of those calls in front of a semi-public restaurant when someone grabs her purse while she's distracted with tales from home. She should let it go. There's nothing of value in there... except her notes. She doesn't think it through. She doesn't realize she can just rewrite them off memory or that her boss might not even notice whatever details she misses. She just runs after them.

It goes about as well as one can expect. She catches up to them, but only to find out they're high out of their minds and wielding a knife. This is painfully familiar which is likely the only reason why she can ask for what she wants a little too calmly.

"Please just give me the notebook inside. You can keep the rest." She doesn't even think to call for help. It's not like that ever worked for her in the past.

You know what?
Fuck it.

[ continued from here. ]

i like it, you're a natural at this.

Edited 2018-08-18 13:09 (UTC)

[ continued from here. ]

OK page dazzle me. what would you do if you found a box of puppies on the street?

[Flathead National Forest, Montana. Deep into a November freeze in the middle of the woods, far off the hiking trails and as far as humanly possible from the campgrounds.

In over 3,000 square miles of wilderness there are maybe a handful of human beings. At this time of year, most of them are park rangers living and working in tiny little heated facilities.

Except one of those rangers isn't also one of the humans. There's a small building in a game reserve area that used to be a wildlife rescue station, long since closed and stripped of funding and connection to the electric grid.
It's a slaughterhouse now. Or it was a few months ago- it's more like a sick graveyard now. And while there are deer and what look like some remnants of a moose throughout the place, the majority of the half-frozen, half-rotted meat are the remains of three hikers who'd gone missing in the fall.

The man- if you can call him a man- responsible did this same thing over a century and a half ago, and was gunned down by Wyatt Earp in a place far, far from here. He's set up shop in the southernmost tip of the Ghost River Triangle, and Black Badge has caught his scent.

And has assumed that sending the Earp Heir after him alone will either take care of one problem or another.

So when she picks up on the fact that she isn't the only one tracking the guy, and has the vague sense of being watched on occasion, she leaves a note in a sandwich bag, weighed down with a rock in the middle of her campsite. Handwritten in pastel purple Sharpie on a mint-green post-it, because she'd stolen her writing supplies for the trip from Waverly. It reads in quickly-scrawled, blocky letters]

If you're gonna follow me, at least say hi so I know you're not trying to kill me.

[If he's watched Wynonna long enough while she's been out here, it'd be easy to tell she knows what she's doing when it comes to living out in the cold. But what the everloving fuck is she carrying? That long-barreled revolver looks like it belongs in a museum.

Her camp is sufficiently hidden and trap-laden for the average person, but it's nothing Frank would have trouble getting past. There are also some symbols painted onto some trees, and a few weird not-quite windchimes (the don't actually make any noise) made from some shimmery gemstone hung on cotton rope.]

[ continued from here. ]

do i have to pick one?

[ he rolls into the bar at just over 8 minutes dead. he has a hood up over his head, but the fresh bruises make him stand out even in a place as seedy as this. jessica is equally easy to pinpoint and he makes his way over, slipping onto the stool next to hers while still casing the place. with his back to the bar, he leans towards her in slight conspiracy. ]

Alright, be straight with me. How much catching up do I have to do?

When you get close to someone like Frank Castle, it's only a matter of time before it catches up to you. Clara is good at recklessly inviting danger upon her. And the longer they're together, the more likely she is to be used against him. Oh, he tries to keep things quiet and hidden. Their life together is a secret world that neither of them want to invite an audience to observe. But when things between them get serious enough that she packs up and moves into his place, things get a little complicated.

It's not like they're married. But with as devoted as they are to one another, they might as well be. And from the second she's known about, there's a giant target painted on the both of them.

So really, it was only a matter of time before she was pulled into the violence that surrounds his life when he steps out as the Punisher. She's grabbed off the street one night while she's on her way home with dinner from the deli by the motel they're currently staying in. It's easier to bounce around from motel to motel and make each one feel like home, so he can continue using his alias in order to keep her safe.

Clara's not blind to the fact the men Frank is hunting down and fighting against are bad news. All of the people he kills are. But this new group seems stronger and more hellbent on destroying him. She loses count of how many nights he's stumbled back home to her, bloody and in need of bandaging. She's gotten good at it by now, always making sure to have a pot of coffee on for when he comes back.

Her first worry as she's grabbed and both her purse and the bag of takeout from the deli are tossed aside is that she won't be there for him to have coffee ready when he comes home. It's an utterly ridiculous thought, but fear doesn't even begin to take hold of her until days later. Days where she sits tied up to a chair and has plenty of time to think and worry about him, wondering what sort of man he's become now that he's well aware she's missing.

But as it turns out she doesn't have to worry for long. He finds her after five days, just as she knew he would. She has nothing but faith in the fact that he will always find her, and he will do whatever it takes to protect her. He gets her free from the chair easy enough, but there's nothing he can do to get her out of the fight that ensues. He gets her to the elevators, tries getting her out of the way. But there's no escaping the crossfire she's caught in. She's hit twice, once in her shoulder and again in her side.

The pain is unbearable, and she's left wondering how he deals with this on a near daily basis. It's the last thought in her mind as her hand clutches at her side and she feels a steady trickle of warm blood. Seconds later she gives in to the darkness tugging at the corner of her mouth and collapses.

When she wakes up she's in their bed, sore as hell but alive. He's done a good job of stitching and bandaging her up, but there likely isn't much to be done about the discomfort she's feeling. There's a hiss of pain as she shifts, trying to sit up.

"Frank?" She calls out to him, panic evident in her voice. He better not have left her here to go out and avenge what happened to her.

He wakes with a jolt, but thankfully is able to stave off the rest of his usual performance. Whatever nightmare had been gearing up fizzles out as he glances around the room and the previous night's activities replay seemingly in slow motion behind his mind's eye. They must have fallen asleep before he could make up an excuse to leave or Jessica could actively kick him out. Vaguely, he recollects that she half-heartedly may have tried to, but not that hard. As evidenced by him still being in her apartment, after all, just their brief encounter gave Frank the impression if she'd truly wanted him gone she could have made him that way.

Idly, he runs the back of scarred knuckles across the delicate skin of her arm, holding his breath as he realizes she's awake. She may have awoken first, he surmises, because she hadn't moved a muscle after his dramatic gasp into the waking world. Brushing aside his nervousness, he allows his heavy head to roll onto the edge of her pillow as he keeps up the soft touching, his cool breath washing across her throat.

"How do you feel about pancakes, Jess?" he asks gruffly near her ear, pleased with himself for sounding mostly disinterested in the answer. He's definitely expecting to be definitively thrown out now that the light of day is breaking, but no one will be able to say he didn't shoot his shot when she inevitably does kick him to the curb.

idk y just putting this here

sinks my claws into this cr and never lets it go

for dr. reid