#wolvyn

‘   how frustrating.   ’        there is more to be said,   words revolting upon his tongue,   but his tongue cuts his voice into pieces before it can be set loose   (   you sound like a rotten child when you speak   --   keep yourself clipped,  well - timed,   never reveal more than you have to   ...   how many kills had she stolen from under him now?   he’s sure the number has tipped over ten,   a chalkboard of his own inadequacy where his mind should rest   ).        ‘   you don’t happen to have two thousand on you,   do you.   ’

[ SMS : EVELYN . ] → looks like it.

[ SMS : EVELYN . ] → let it be known , I won't hesitate to abandon you if you vex me .

" oh, spare me your holier-than-thou bullshit! "

like a fist, fred hardens against the words that leave evelyn’s mouth. in part it is a spontaneous reaction to the aggression in her voice, as sharp and carefully aimed like a bony index piercing through her ribcage —— and yet it’s something else that truly fuels her scorn, the assumption that she might be, in fact, a pile of bullshit: that her pining for salvation, her endless striving for more and more atonement than a penitent soul could bear —— the one thing, really, that has kept her going this far —— might all be fake. as if words coming out of evelyn’s mouth should carry an exceptionally sharp quality that marks them as different from the words of anyone else —— as if, perhaps, in a way, this dark shadow of a woman, blurring in and out of the definition of a bad guy, possessed a sightseeing ability unlike any other and could tell, past all the masks and the lies and the games, that freddie’s path to absolution is in fact a self-imposed prison. a shelter, if you will. or an excuse not to see the reality of life outside of it. now fred tightens her fingers around her crossed arms, tense as steel, words slithering out of her lips in a half whisper: “ you can be a real asshole, you know ? ”, her words emotion-less, or at least emotionlessly performed. when she speaks again, her questions are loaded with an acid-tasting rethoric: “ is that what you have to tell yourself to sleep at night ? that questions of morals are just BULLSHIT ? ”.

@wolvyn:  ❛  i  don’t  regret  any  of  it .   not  a  single  thing .  ❜ soft angst starters  /  not accepting.

they’ve come a long way, he supposes: from worthy adversaries in their first few encounters, to—this. a steadily forming alliance born out of a shared evil that he thought had been eradicated years ago. what was that saying, again, that the enemy of my enemy is a friend? ——though he’s not sure that’s quite so true, anymore. isn’t sure that they were meant to be enemies in the first place.

there’s an aura of anonymity she carries, despite what encrypted information HYDRA has on her. he can only assume she speaks of the havoc she's wreaked on the organization throughout the years—none of which have been particularly pretty. no matter who they are [ a relic of the past or a sentinel of the present ], their line of work is the stuff of nightmares. gaze holds against hers, steady; and then, a tip of his chin. understanding. what he did all of those years, that coated his hands in blood, was a compromise [ sometimes in ways that made us not sleep so well; but we did it so that people could be free ].

“so you were trying to warn me, then. all that time.” that there was more damage done than met the eye; a poisoned legacy, the rot spreading to the root of an organization he thought he could trust. he’s beginning to see it for what it is now, has resolved to set down rose-tinted glasses in order to uncover the truth—no matter how mangled or ugly it may be. and it all starts with this: a crisp manila folder filled to the brim with secrets, a woman with an all-knowing smile.