the shipment of guns from the greeks proved fruitful. the past several hours had been spent sorting through it, discarding the cargo boxes. by the time he’s finished, a thin layer of sweat and grime covers him, sealing the gunpowder, and he’s got so many splinters in his fingers he can barely feel them.
the first place he goes is the sink in the kitchen, the only place with running water besides the dingy shower in the repurposed men’s room. the water’s ice cold but feels good on his cut fingers. he doesn’t hear elektra when she enters to presumably look for food, and tries not to let the way he jumps in response to the energy that creeps up his neck like electricity at her presence show. no doubt, she notices.
“don’t got much in the way of food, if that’s what you’re looking for,” frank says, leaning back against the counter, “tonight was a good night. we work well together, when we do.” his brow furrows, and then, still haphazard but now at least his hands have something to do when they turn on the coffee maker, “y’know, you’ve had - a look on your face, all night. like you’ve been thinking about something you haven’t said. not like you at all, not to say whatever the fuck it is that comes to mind, so - you may as well come out with it.” / @perfectdeaths
