#thirtean01.

it's an obvious statement. sharon must feel the warmth of blood that trickles down from her crop of hair to the back of her shoulder, especially as the adrenaline from their earlier encounter wanes. frank feels it in his own body, the way an electric sort of pain's replaced the topical anesthetic used to mask the pain of sutures from where he'd been stabbed in his side. he always felt most alive at that sort of pain, in a fucked up sort of way; now, with the knife out of him and the guy who'd done it dead, he feels hollow, like the space inside of him where the blade had once been. tired. carved out.

frank reaches for the metal first aid kit, which clangs loudly on the shitty cement table by their side as it opens. it's the first time he's tended to her injuries; if he's honest, he's operated under the assumption that sharon carter's indomitable and that bullets probably ricochet from her skin.

❝ — ain't gonna be able to reach that yourself, ❞ he explains, partly as if it should be self-explanatory, but simultaneously in a patient sort of way. turning his back to anyone feels jarring, against his own nature; while he's done it for her, he doesn't expect her to lay belly-up for him by doing the same.