She looked at him from across the island bar. It was just another typical night of cleaning weapons, eating whatever concoction she made, and calling it early because there wasnât anything better to do...until it came barreling through the damn door like a wrecking ball.
â...â Now look at whoâs trying to come up with the right words. It was serious when the smart mouth couldnât clap back with a remark or response.
Every fiber and cell in her body was screaming against this. Farlow stood fine on her own and especially against others, being alone is all she had ever known but now there was this former marine who was a beast in the field, standing in front of her, in her kitchen, telling the mercenary he couldnât let her die. Did he not know how many people would pay to watch her die? That if her death were to happen she almost wouldnât be afraid or upset about it? If anything, he mustâve known that deep down she deserved it, because he had to have known everything she did and how she was conscious with every pull of the trigger, twist of the neck, and stabbing of the blade. But here he was-- telling someone who still did not completely understand the idea of friendships, relationships, hell-- even love...that he couldnât let her die. Maybe, maybe she did understand but was not completely comfortable. Was she afraid? Probably. Most likely.
It really jammed her gears, started to make her think. In fact, this was pissing her off. All her life she kept distance from everyone, except the one time that really furthered her reasoning and logic in support of pushing all away and remaining alone. She wasnât meant to be cared for. Though, unwillingly she would admit she has cared for others, not enough to achieve heartbreak or completely mourn if they were to perish, but just enough to the point she would punch someone in the throat for them. So, when the tables turn and someone tells her that they care about her, her life? Itâs a goddamn trip.
On the other hand, that wasnât the only thing making her afraid-- Frank Castle was afraid, too. She should have not taken the job, should have stayed out the way. Instead, Farlow took on a mission that shared a common enemy with Frank Castle, an enemy she underestimated and apparently did not succeed in killing.
â...Shit.â She broke eye contact after the profanity broke the atmosphere. Her hand dragged the towel from off her shoulder, gripping it tight before throwing it on the table out of agitation. âThis is bullshit.â The bowl near her weapon pieces was picked up and tossed a little too roughly into the sink, because it cracked in a shattering clang as she turned, running her fingers through her locks. âI can handle this, Frank. I donât need the god damn Punisher playing Prince Charming, if I was that kind of damsel, well, I would have been dead a long time ago. All I know is, is that if you stay? We both die.â Shit, did she just show her hand? Halting at the corner of the island, a glance was thrown from the industrial windows before travelling back and sticking on the anti-hero. Annieâs sigh emerged from the sucking of her teeth that created an irritated hiss. â...Again, this...this is bullshit.â
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