#arteryroot

frank has done a lot of unpredictable shit, right—that’s kind of his thing, stirring up trouble and probably ending up halfway dead in the process and that’s fine, that’s the frank castle experience, david’s well aware of what he signed up for getting into bed with the punisher. but sometimes he pulls things that a whole different kind of unpredictable.

sometimes he brings home the sixteen year old kid of the guy who sold his family out to agent orange—rawlins—whatever and doesn’t even really consider that maybe he’s compromising their location until david rips him a new one for it. and then, as soon as that’s settled, clears out and leaves david alone with the kid to “show him how your hacker shit works, or whatever,” because of course he does.

“so.” when it comes to dealing with teenage boys, david has a sample size of—arguably zero, since zach’s not thirteen for three more months and leo won’t let him forget it. he’s... still probably less helpless than frank, but that’s not saying much.

eve’s glazed-over donut look goes because that might’ve been a tad too casual and smoothly-inserted, but her fork, dammit, it stops twirling. 

from behind its teeth, villanelle’s shiny face grabs the focus like eve’s eye’s been pencil-sharpened. 

“like…” 

this professional curiosity is very dedicated of her. deformative, niko would argue. she won’t apologize for taking her job seriously, though.

“like what?” 

“—Morning.”

He’s got a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in each hand. It’s a pedestrian breakfast, really—he can’t help but compare, imagine what Hannibal must be cooking right now—and it made it easier not giving any of the—meat a second glance. He wouldn’t. But if it had been reasonable, if it had been easy, if he knew she wouldn’t have known any better—

It’s not worth thinking about. He chuckles, though, somewhere approaching self-deprecating, because that what feels appropriate compared to—anything else he may or may not be feeling.

“Bacon and, uh, Jimmy Deans are obviously out,” he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed and holding out one of the plates for Clarice to take. “Pretty sure nothing else I’ve got is kosher, either. Could’ve gone to the store if it wasn’t an hour round trip.”

Not kosher. That sounds like something Hannibal would say, too. Will shifts back to sit more comfortably; it’s been ages since anyone has seen him like this, shirtless in pajama bottoms with his hair a mess of bedhead he hasn’t even bothered trying to tame. She looks just the same, of course, but beautiful like that. He thinks about kissing her again—thinks about how long he’d never thought of her like this until suddenly he did—thinks about saying something about next time, about turkey bacon or tofu or whatever it is she likes, because he wants to know and wants her to smile when she realizes he remembered.

It’s stupid, and presumptuous, and more than he can afford to get invested in now.

Maybe more than he deserves, too.