@retribute | loosely plotted.
it’s half past two and frank won’t stop moving.
elektra isn’t sleeping either, but she makes it look good, lounging in an armchair in a hotel bathrobe with her laptop and a glass of room service wine, eking out a few extra hours of productivity as a take-that at her racing thoughts. frank on the other hand, as best as she can tell, is just too stubborn to admit defeat, and acting like she can’t tell he’s wide awake is really getting old.
she watches the clock tick to 2:36, listens to him turn his pillow over for the eighteenth time, and finally decides to put the poor man out of his misery.
‘ —it’s the bed, isn’t it? ’ she glances at him over her shoulder, or the vague shape of dark curls and battle-scarred skin that passes for him in the dark. ‘ let me guess: it’s too soft. you feel like you’re going to drown in it. does that sound familiar at all? ’
