David is always tired these days. Sleep eludes him even more now that he doesn't have something to worry about; it's too quiet, and the silence echoes throughout his house. Even with Sarah lying next to him, he finds himself blinking awake at every small shift, every creak of the floorboards outside his room whenever Leo or Zach get up to use the bathroom. Things shouldn't be bothering him anymore -- he should be happy, now that he's back with his family, but he always feels like there's something missing, that something is bound to creep up on him and take them away again. But there's nothing left and he wonders if the fact that he keeps expecting something to happen is just as messed up if he were to wish for something to happen.
"Yeah, she found it on Pintrest or something the other day." He sighs despite the tired smile on his face, pouring the liquor into each of their mugs. "It's called Cafe Amore. I should've made this back when we were still taking that French novel class together. Not that it would've helped me any, but maybe I could've gotten some points for effort, you know?"
Now here he is, spending time with Frank instead of his own wife. It isn't even that he doesn't want to be around Sarah, he loves her with all his heart and he can't bear to do any of that to her again. But he also knows that if he had to he would, and he wonders if she would forgive him for it. He wonders if she's ever forgiven him for the first two times. Maybe it'd be easier if she hated him for it instead.
"Here." He slides Frank's over to him, clinks it with his own before taking a sip. Frank's has more of the booze in it because David isn't as hardcore as him or Sarah, but he has come to accept it. He settles down in the chair with the peeling blue paint and admires the vase of orchids on the table; for all intents and purposes, Frank's been doing alright. Which may not be a lot for standards other than David's or Frank's, but it's enough.
Cafe Amore. He mouths the words, taking the cup from David and sniffing it experimentally. It smells like coffee and booze so he's going for it, taking a long drink as he automatically follows David to the table and sits down with him. There isn't much else to offer the other man, and so he drinks, watching him in silence. The longer he stares the more he sees, and the exhaustion isn't as alarming as everything else he picks out of his expression. How do you sleep? It's still on the tip of his tongue, ready to start a chain reaction the same way it had so many months ago between himself and Jess.
Frank is running over the story about Sarah again, heaving a good natured little sigh. They're a lot like Maria and him used to be. David trying to appease a woman who already loved him for who he was -- or at least, who she thought he was. Frank never could let Maria into the deepest, darkest places of himself and he knows Micro is the same. It isn't like that between the two of them, and maybe that's why David needs him so much. He needs someone who can understand, and who will never find him lacking.
Suddenly, he wants to apologize for staying away. He hates it when Matt especially is right about him, the other man's life such a dumpsterfire it makes the Marine look downright healthy in contrast. He takes another sip without asking, commentating or saying he's sorry. None would add anything to the moment, and so he stays quiet. He's good at not saying anything, the words trapped in the lines of his face anyway. And he knows that David will see them; the same way he sees all of Frank Castle. The way no one else ever has, and probably ever will.
"How was Easter?" he finally asks, seeming like full decades later in his mind. The tip of his steel-toed boot touches David's shoe and he tips his head, knowing that if he thinks hard enough he'll be able to smell the roast chicken. He'll see all of their smiling faces, the same way they look in his dreams before tragedy eventually strikes. And then it's slender fingers in his hair and wide hazel eyes bringing him back from the brink. I set an alarm every four hours. Except when he doesn't. Except when he's too weak to fight it anymore.
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"Yeah, she found it on Pintrest or something the other day." He sighs despite the tired smile on his face, pouring the liquor into each of their mugs. "It's called Cafe Amore. I should've made this back when we were still taking that French novel class together. Not that it would've helped me any, but maybe I could've gotten some points for effort, you know?"
Now here he is, spending time with Frank instead of his own wife. It isn't even that he doesn't want to be around Sarah, he loves her with all his heart and he can't bear to do any of that to her again. But he also knows that if he had to he would, and he wonders if she would forgive him for it. He wonders if she's ever forgiven him for the first two times. Maybe it'd be easier if she hated him for it instead.
"Here." He slides Frank's over to him, clinks it with his own before taking a sip. Frank's has more of the booze in it because David isn't as hardcore as him or Sarah, but he has come to accept it. He settles down in the chair with the peeling blue paint and admires the vase of orchids on the table; for all intents and purposes, Frank's been doing alright. Which may not be a lot for standards other than David's or Frank's, but it's enough.
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Frank is running over the story about Sarah again, heaving a good natured little sigh. They're a lot like Maria and him used to be. David trying to appease a woman who already loved him for who he was -- or at least, who she thought he was. Frank never could let Maria into the deepest, darkest places of himself and he knows Micro is the same. It isn't like that between the two of them, and maybe that's why David needs him so much. He needs someone who can understand, and who will never find him lacking.
Suddenly, he wants to apologize for staying away. He hates it when Matt especially is right about him, the other man's life such a dumpsterfire it makes the Marine look downright healthy in contrast. He takes another sip without asking, commentating or saying he's sorry. None would add anything to the moment, and so he stays quiet. He's good at not saying anything, the words trapped in the lines of his face anyway. And he knows that David will see them; the same way he sees all of Frank Castle. The way no one else ever has, and probably ever will.
"How was Easter?" he finally asks, seeming like full decades later in his mind. The tip of his steel-toed boot touches David's shoe and he tips his head, knowing that if he thinks hard enough he'll be able to smell the roast chicken. He'll see all of their smiling faces, the same way they look in his dreams before tragedy eventually strikes. And then it's slender fingers in his hair and wide hazel eyes bringing him back from the brink. I set an alarm every four hours. Except when he doesn't. Except when he's too weak to fight it anymore.