Frank.

@thepagefiles

cw : Gun and blood mention. ⚠︎

Frank was pacing. Heavy boots dragged across the hardwood of Karen’s apartment floor.

He was back and forth like a caged animal. His shoulders were coiled tight, jaw working. He stopped only long enough to look at her with that steady, unflinching stare that pinned a person down harder than any weapon could.

“Tell me I didn’t hear right,” he said, voice low but sharp. “Tell me you ain’t actually sticking your neck in this case. These people—” He broke off, running a hand over his mouth, shaking his head.

“They’ll eat you alive, Karen.” His tone cracked louder as he moved closer, frustration spilling over into anger. “You think you’re bulletproof? You think they’re just gonna let you dig around, write your little articles, and walk away? That ain’t how it works.”

He dragged in a breath, turned away for a second like he was trying to chain the words back down, then let them slip anyway.

Karen sat on the edge of her worn couch, hands laced tight in her lap, knuckles white. She didn't flinch at Frank's pacing around her apartment, nor the heat in his words -- she was well accustomed to him coming in like a storm. What cut deeper were the digs threaded beneath, the crack in his voice, the thing he wouldn't name. Her breath came out slow, steadier than she anticipated.

She unfolded her hands and pressed them flat against her knees, an attempt to ground herself. When she spoke, there was no anger in her voice, only the stubborn thread of conviction he'd heard from her too many times.

"You think I do this because I believe I'm bulletproof? Or because it's fun?" Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out. "I do it because if I don't, no one else will. People deserve to know the truth, even if it's ugly and it gets me hurt."

Her eyes flickered, though her conviction stayed firm, carrying the kind of weight he knew all too well.

"You understand that better than anyone, Frank. I can’t stop just because you don’t want to watch it happen.”

Frank stood over her like a shadow that couldn’t keep still, his boots rooted but his weight shifting like he wanted to move, to pace again, to do anything but stand there staring. His eyes dropped to her on the couch and he looked at her once but then his gaze cut away, down at the floor, over at the window, anywhere that wasn’t her face.

It was like he couldn’t hold it, the weight of what sat in his chest. Every time his eyes dragged back to her, they didn’t stay long. A flicker, a flash, then gone again.

“You don’t know what you’re doin’,” he muttered, voice low, rough like gravel in his throat. “You think you do, you think you got it handled, but you don’t. You don’t.” His hand scrubbed over the back of his neck, restless, almost guilty, before dropping back to his side with a heavy slap against his thigh.

He drew in a breath and forced himself to look at her again, but it didn’t last again. His jaw twitched, eyes flinching away like the truth inside him was too damn raw to stay steady. “I can’t watch you walk into somethin’ that’s gonna...” he cut off, shaking his head, eyes back on the floor. “.. that’s gonna put you deep in the ground.. Don't you get that?"

The words came out harsher than he wanted, but the bite in them was fear, plain as day. He couldn’t say it clean. Couldn’t tell her what she meant without it coming out sharp, broken.

Nothing like a cold beer and a near empty bar to end his day.

Bob had spent most of the day fixing up his truck, going through the needed grueling repairs to make sure it runs smoothly for his next long drive. After Florida, the engine's beat up- so he has to make extra checks just to not crash at the side of the road.

There's cold sweat on his skin, hands stained with what's leftover of the car grease once he'd washed most of them away. He takes a seat next to the only man at the bar, ordering a pint of draft beer for himself.

Hell's Kitchen had been in trouble lately, at least from what Bob saw on the news. He tries not to dwell on it too much.

Frank nursed the beer bottle in his hand, eyes fixed on the muted TV overhead. Some newscaster’s lips moved, footage of smoke and sirens rolling across the screen, but he barely registered it completely. His mind seemed to be some place else.

He felt the shift in the air even before the stool beside him scraped across the floor. Someone too close. Too casual. At least for his liking.

Frank didn’t move right away, didn’t even look. He just kept his jaw tight, thumb tapping once .. then twice .. against the neck of the beer as the stranger ordered.

When the bartender slid his order down, Frank finally glanced sideways, a sharp cut of the eyes, sizing him up in an instant—taking view of very little detail even in that small split second.

He doesn't even want to engage. The day's already heavy enough, and all Bob wants to do is sit and mull over his thoughts over a beer. Sighing softly, he turns to look at the man beside him. "This.. uhh, this seat's closer to t-the beer tap," he replies, clearing his throat- then quickly looks away and takes a sip from his glass.

The man looked oddly familliar. He hadn't been in Hell's Kitchen much- but OXE database had a lot of information about vigilantes in the area. Bob takes another quick glances at the man beside him- studying his features quietly.

God, he wishes his memory wasn't so bad. It's even worse when he's exhausted.

He didn’t answer. Frank just sat there, beer in hand, shoulders still squared like stone. His eyes never shifted from the screen, but every muscle in him was tight, wound. The soundless flicker of the news kept showing that same grainy footage of a figure in black, with a white skull plastered on their gear.

He took another slow pull from the bottle, the scrape of glass against his teeth were the only movement in the silence. When he set it down again, the thunk against the bar seemed louder than it should have been. His thumb dragged across the rim, restless.

Frank didn’t bite at the stranger. He didn’t give him more than a small scoff, a short huff of air from his nose. It wasn’t amusement and not quite anger, just something stuck in between. He slowly leaned back on the stool, gaze still hard on the TV.

Another swing to his lips. Slower this time. He still hadn’t looked at the man beside him. He didn’t need to. He could feel the slight attention without turning his head.

Nothing like a cold beer and a near empty bar to end his day.

Bob had spent most of the day fixing up his truck, going through the needed grueling repairs to make sure it runs smoothly for his next long drive. After Florida, the engine's beat up- so he has to make extra checks just to not crash at the side of the road.

There's cold sweat on his skin, hands stained with what's leftover of the car grease once he'd washed most of them away. He takes a seat next to the only man at the bar, ordering a pint of draft beer for himself.

Hell's Kitchen had been in trouble lately, at least from what Bob saw on the news. He tries not to dwell on it too much.

Frank nursed the beer bottle in his hand, eyes fixed on the muted TV overhead. Some newscaster’s lips moved, footage of smoke and sirens rolling across the screen, but he barely registered it completely. His mind seemed to be some place else.

He felt the shift in the air even before the stool beside him scraped across the floor. Someone too close. Too casual. At least for his liking.

Frank didn’t move right away, didn’t even look. He just kept his jaw tight, thumb tapping once .. then twice .. against the neck of the beer as the stranger ordered.

When the bartender slid his order down, Frank finally glanced sideways, a sharp cut of the eyes, sizing him up in an instant—taking view of very little detail even in that small split second.