In the chaos of Rose Creek, Vasquez knows things are overwhelming, confusing, and terrible.
The pain his arm is blistering and terrible, the blood soaking through his shirt, but he has no time to go check on the bodies of his fellow rescuers and can't corral his horses and supplies because when he'd stumbled out of the little church, he'd found himself on the stoop of a place he doesn't recognize. There are things in the streets that dart past, like little trains, and the people are so noisy and so loud and wearing things he doesn't understand.
Hand tight to his guns, Vasquez struggles along and tries to ignore the pain, but the nip in the air means that it's next to impossible to do. It keeps biting at him, reminding him it's there, making Vasquez hate whatever this place is. He pushes through the crowd of people on the walkway, not sure what to do about how many there are, and when he sees a tall building that looks like it might have medical help, he stops in front of it with a decision.
With the bounty on his head, it's not smart to go in. If someone flags him, recognizes him, they could take him in. Maybe he's imagining all these things because of the strain of the battle or the blood loss, or maybe he just doesn't know what's going on and it's something that a power above him has done.
Whatever it is, he's hurt and he can't decide whether to go inside. People are inside with crutches and casts, treating maladies, and Vasquez's cold state makes his decision for him, but he only gets so far as one of the lobby doors before he presses to the wall with a curse in Spanish for the pain, sagging a little.
He curses at Sam Chisolm, because he knows that none of this had been part of their arrangement. Vasquez wouldn't have been stupid enough to agree if it were.
A day, another day, the same thing and yet always different, when working the ER. Just a day, Claire thinks as she goes through the motions of admitting patients and helping others out of the doors, running tests and keeping some of them from blowing their brains out, or attacking each other. Another day where she has to be nurse, mother, sister, friend, enemy, shield and sword all at once. Draining, for some, but this is her life. This is what she knows and what she loves, despite the heartache and the fatigue.
A normal day, all in all, until she walks to the ER doors to wait for an arriving ambulance and is faced with a man that, for all intents and purposes, looks entirely out of time. He's dressed like a cowboy, dirt sticking to his clothes and skin, as much as - blood, that is definitely blood. He's also - Claire swallows down the curse word that threatens to escape her when she darts forward, and then stops herself. She has no way to defend herself if he decides to pull a gun on her.
"Are you openly carrying and walking into a hospital? What the hell is wrong with you?"
He looks visibly hurt, but Claire's heart is threatening to beat right out of her chest, worry and tension warring with her oath to help. Finally, with her hands held up, she takes another step forward, cautiously.
"Sir, I'm a nurse. You're visibly hurt. Did you get shot? You need help, but I can't have you come in with these guns, it's too dangerous."
Vasquez stares up at the woman, squinting at her in the flourescent lights (not that he knows what they are other than too bright) and wonders for a brief moment if he's died and gone to heaven, because he'd always hoped that he could make it to heaven. With a woman this beautiful looming over him, he can't be in hell.
Then again, telling him that he can't use his guns isn't very nice. He keeps his hands near them, even as the left one trembles and shakes from the pain and the fact that the Gatling gun took out a chunk of muscle in the process. "I was shot, Gatling gun," he spits out the words, trying to haul himself into a sitting position. "I'm not leaving my guns," he warns. "They're protection."
He won't shoot unless someone shoots at him, but he's also not stupid enough to let go of them, not when Bogue's men might still be kicking around.
His English is heavily accented - South American, but she can't quite pinpoint where exactly yet - and she finds herself switching to Spanish, when she takes another step and starts talking again.
"I'd like to help you. Would you let me do that? I can't do it in there if you keep these - you'll get arrested before you're through anything."
She doesn't know, exactly, why he thinks he needs this kind of protection while walking into a hospital, like he has no idea about laws and just - societal rules, but she can't quite let him bleed out by the front door.
"But in here, you're safe. You'll get your personal effects back once we've treated you, I promise. We're all medical professionals in here, and it's our job to make sure you're okay, and safe."
It's not normal for anyone to speak to him in Spanish, let alone when he's in America. For that alone, he eyes her warily, especially when she doesn't have the usual terrible accent that makes him hate the attempt. While he's struggling with blood loss, the bounty on his head makes him too paranoid to give in so easily.
"I can't give up my guns, I need to protect myself," he says, his words more rapid and sharp now that they're speaking in his native tongue. "I don't know you, I can't trust you," he warns, because he doesn't. She says 'safe', but other people have said safe too, before they called on someone who was ready to hang him.
"If I go in there, with or without guns and there is law, I get arrested," he hisses out, cursing as a fresh wave of pain hits him and he bites down on his tongue to stifle it. "No, no, I can't." He's already stumbling, fighting to his feet despite the lack of grace he has. "Show me where I can go, I'll patch it up myself," is his spat demand, because as beautiful as she is, he can't be tricked by beauty.
This isn't going to work out, especially not for Claire. She can't let someone just bleed out on a park bench because they both dug their heels in/ Her job is to save lives, it doesn't matter if she does it in the hospital or not. Matt would agree, after all.
She takes a deep breath, and then holds up a hand, eyeing the open ambulance a few yards away.
"Okay, don't move."
She runs off to the back of the ambulance, grabbing an EMT bag before jumping out, slinging it over her shoulder as she walks back to the man.
"All right. I can help you, okay? I'm a nurse - I'm qualified for this. I'm not letting you stitch yourself up, you'll do a terrible job. Are you able to walk? I live three blocks away."
Being able to walk to work had been one of the best things about her shitty apartment, after all. Might as well try and make the most of it now.
Vasquez doesn't think he could move if he wanted to, but when she suggests it, he thinks about it. For a brief moment, he thinks that he's not dizzy enough now that he's been collapsed as long as he has and maybe he could get away with escaping.
He's on his feet by the time she gets back, a mildly sheepish look on his face because it's not hard to figure out what he's doing. "I can walk," he says, seeing as he'd been in the process of it. His legs are fine, his body is fine, it's just his arm and the disorientation of wherever he is. "Who are you?" he demands, still speaking Spanish. "Where am I?"
Carefully, she guides him back onto the street, wincing at how obviously he is bleeding. If she'd thought twice about it, she'd have grabbed a jacket or a blanket to throw over his shoulders, but as is, they have to make do.
"My name is Claire. I am a nurse, I work in the emergency department of the hospital we just left. And we're in New York. Devil's Kitchen, to be precise. Where do you think you are?"
Depending on his answer, she might think he's concussed, or in worse shape than he looks...
Nothing of what she's saying is making sense to him, only becoming dizzily worse to think about. He knows New York, but he's never been to it. "Rose Creek, California." And here is the worst part of all that he dreads having to say. "1879." Nothing around him looks like that belongs to his time or any that he understands.
He winches when the fabric catches at the wound, staring over his shoulder at the building they just walked away from. He's never heard of an emergency department before. He's never seen anything like this place and he suspects it's not just the blood loss that's making him see these things.
Claire blinks, reaching out with a hand to keep him upright and going when he winces. 1879. He said 1879, right? That...
Okay. Ninjas and resurrection is a thing, in the world she lives in. She's seen it, with her own two eyes. She's met the Iron Fist, as much as a douche as he is. She knows a man who can't see but who can hear, for miles. Who can feel the flutter of a heartbeat in someone else's ribcage. She's lived through an alien attack.
So, time travel really isn't as crazy as it should be, or would have been, just a few years ago.
"Okay. Okay, I agree, it shouldn't be possible, but fact is, you're here, now. Just another block and we're at my place. We can talk there. Are you okay? Any dizziness?"
1879. Now, the clothes and the guns make a lot more sense.
The blood loss has been happening long enough that the dizzy spells keep happening, no matter what he wants to believe. He needs treatment, he knows, but he'd been intending to shove a rag in it to stop the bleeding before pouring some liquor while he stitched it up. Now, though, there's a beautiful nurse insisting that she can help him.
"I've felt better," is his smirking retort, because he's fairly sure that this is one of the worst he's felt in his life. He hadn't even been shot that badly, but then, he hasn't eaten much in hours, he just lost his almost-friends, he got shot, and now he's somehow in a strange city he doesn't recognize.
Grimacing, he leans on her a little more than he should, feeling guilty for it, but it's that or pass out on her and he thinks she'd prefer this.
"Yeah, you don't say," she replies softly, not as acidic as she could make it. They're not walking very fast, but she really doesn't live very far, and even at a sluggish pace they make it to her apartment without the guy passing out in her arms yet. It's more of a struggle to get him inside, but thankfully the elevator is working. Small mercies.
She gets him inside and on her couch, going straight to the bathroom for a couple of towels, which she drapes on the back of the couch, between his wound and the fabric.
"Can you take your shirt off, or should I cut through it?"
Vasquez feels like the walk is an eternity, because every step of the way he sees something new that he doesn't understand and can't account for. It's something that's overwhelming him, making him anxious and angry, but then, he also has a beautiful woman to lean on. That can only make up for so much ground, though, when suddenly he's in a mechanical lift, but he can't see the pulleys that they'd use.
He puts it out of mind, trying to forget it as he heads inside this strange set of rooms wondering where he's managed to get to and how. "I might need help," is his distracted reply, easing his hat and holsters down on the ground before he gives her a pressed-lip look, seeing as the one side can't really lift.
"You have a habit of taking strange men home and undressing them?" he wonders.
Claire can't help the smile that breaks over her features at his question, a huff of quiet laughter escaping her as she reaches out for the buttons of his shirt, the moves entirely professional.
"It's actually not that strange of a thing in this day and age, although usually it's about sex, not potential surgery."
Gently, she pulls the fabric of his shirt down his arms, helping him lean forward a little to expose the wound. She looks up into his eyes, still sort of amused. Obviously, she has to think back on Matt - not Matt, at the time, and how they met. Claire doesn't really live a regular life anymore, and this guy, on her couch, is further proof.
"But you could say I've done this a few times in my day. Be glad, I didn't pick you out of the garbage. Okay, can you tell me what happened?"
It's not the first time that a beautiful Latina woman has undressed him, but it has been a while. He lets her pull him in, slowly walking the few steps towards her as he leans his hips a little forward, wishing that it was more sexual, but the dripping blood that's rolling down his arm probably isn't helping his cause.
"If it weren't for the hole in my arm, it could be about sex," he says bluntly, feeling like if he's going to end up dying of infection or something else, he might as well try and go out with a bang.
Huffing a soft laugh when the shirt comes off, he doesn't dare blink when she looks at him, half like a challenge. "I was shot in the arm, with a Gatling gun," he says. "I know I survived, though, I was going to go out in the field, looking for survivors, then all of a sudden, I was here."
She laughs again, raising an eyebrow as she snaps on bright purple latex gloves before testing the skin around the wound on his arm.
"Oh yeah? What makes you think I'd be interested?"
Not that she wouldn't be. He's a handsome man - with the blood and the grime all over him. She imagines he's even better looking while clean and healthy, but even right now, she wouldn't exactly be disinterested.
She starts cleaning the wound, checking for an exit wound - if there's none, she's going to have to dig in, and he won't be having a good time of it.
"I genuinely don't understand how you ended up here, but -" She looks up into his eyes, serious and gentle. "I promise you, I'm very good at what I do, at least."
[ it's been weeks since she called him, and since he answered. but that doesn't mean the time has been absent of her. he needed stitches, just a few above his eye. he thought about what she had said, that it was different from the way he helped her. and maybe it was, she reminds him about dinner that night and he promises to let her know. and beyond that one mention their interaction is... professional. he'd never noticed before. they're in work mode here, in his tiny bathroom, his blood the only constant. that doesn't mean he couldn't make her a meal to thank her anyway, but it wouldn't feel - the way this does.
he can't remember ever looking in the mirror so many times, curling up his lip at his own grim visage. he pats the healing wound, eyes zeroing in on the patches of yellow that give him a sallow appearance though he's honestly taking better care of himself than he has in a long damn time. frank pulls on his jacket and looks again into the blurry image of his reflection. it's now or never, right? he can come up with an excuse not to go, or he can just go. it's a meal - what's the worst that could happen? frank squeezes his eyes shut and hears gunshots, hears himself screaming; and they pop open again. maybe he shouldn't use that phrase, even within the sanctity of his mind.
he shoots her a quick text: eta 10 minutes if only because it's a hard habit to break. and then he's out the door, so frazzled he forgets to lock his door on the way out. he hops into his truck and stares at the bottle of wine riding shotgun. is this... a date? maybe he should have put the pieces together before he was on his way to her apartment, but the flutter of nerves threatening to break apart his insides were a great distraction from the truth up until now in his defense. the only thing missing is flowers, but those keep burning him. better to stick with something safe, like alcohol.
frank parks at a meter this time which nearly kills him to do, snatching the bottle off the seat and paying his toll like he's a regular citizen or something crazy like that. he eyes the window he knows is unlocked, but walks up to buzz the front entry also like a real person. it's like he doesn't even know himself anymore. ]
It's me. [ he says dumbly into the intercom, shifting nervously from foot to foot. ]
[ Claire keeps on telling herself it's not a date. It can't be, because it's - Frank. Too plagued with demons, with memories that hurt him and keep him at a distance from everyone else. It can't be a date, at best, a dinner between tentative friends. Two people that see the same kind of shit every day, and can relate to each other.
Claire won't pretend a date wouldn't be something she's interested in, but she knows all too well how difficult it'd be. Frank is not exactly someone easy going and open, and Claire already spends too much time taking care of him, probably. There's an imbalance, deep in the heart of their relationship, and Claire doesn't know how to right it.
And anyway, it's not like she's been cooking for hours. She's kept it simple - the family recipe of ropa vieja practically runs in her blood, and by the time Frank rings her doorbell, the deep smell of a rich sauce has permeated her apartment, the beef is in the process of being shredded, and potatoes are going. She buzzes him in without even a reply to his greeting, and leaves the door slightly ajar for him to walk through - a show of trust, something she doesn't actually feel with many other people - and goes back to the kitchen to finish up the shredding.
He knows his way around. Still, when he does get into her space, she'll look up, licking a drop of sauce off of her thumb, a smile on her lips. ]
[ the buzzer spurs him into action, the heavy thump of his boots heralding his approach as he nudges through the door she left cracked for him. he toes it shut and deadbolts it behind him out of habit. the food smells great, and frank follows the pleasant aroma through to the kitchen, setting the wine down at the end of the counter where it will be out of her way. when she turns her gaze on him, he freezes in place, his eyes drawn to her lips and his throat drying up. all he can do is nod lamely at her inquiry, barely processing the words. ]
Can I, uh- can I help? [ he's asking, but things seem to be moving along quickly enough, and he takes a moment to compose himself by stripping off his jacket and hanging it on the back of a chair as he'd done before. then, steeling himself, he turns back to face her, waiting for instruction. ]
[ Her smile doesn't waver. Of course, Frank, being who he is, what he is, immediately would ask where he can help. Claire gives him an amused look, but nods towards the bowl on the kitchen table. ]
Salad needs assembling. Cucumber and tomatoes are in the crisper drawer in the fridge.
[ She doesn't stop doing what she's doing for a second, either. ]
You doing okay? [ She means more than 'physically', too. ]
[ he's almost surprised, but pleasantly, when she gives him a task and he nods, slotting in next to her to wash his hands. ]
That smells good.
[ frank lets out a breath as he catches her eyes, but then he's quickly making his way to the fridge to get the items she described. he puts all the ingredients into the bowl to take to a spare strip of counter, gesturing to her with a vague chopping motion for a knife while he starts opening cabinets at random to locate a cutting board. is he doing okay... compared to? what? it should be a simple question with an even simpler answer, but for him it's rocket science. only once she sets him up with the tools he needs to make their salad does he really mull it over, dicing a tomato while he tries to put together words like the assembly of vegetables before him. ]
...Yeah. I'm okay. [ and despite the long pause between the ask and reply, he sounds sure enough. then, he adds on for good measure- ] Better, I think.
[ he doesn't really have a litmus for his new life, still trying to make sense of his own routine. the man he's supposed to be now. how claire temple fits into that image. ]
[ Claire only realizes moments too late that the question could have been taken in a multitude of ways, could mean a million different things. Especially to Frank, who's battling with big things and tiny things and medium things in between, from feeding a dog to gaping wounds to the loss of his family. Are you okay, she asked like she would ask anyone.
Frank Castle is not just anyone. ]
It's my mom's recipe. [ Of course it is. She finished with the beef and puts it to the side to rest for a moment, before gathering up the cooking juices to pour over the potatoes. ] She always said that there nothing that meat and potatoes can't fix.
[ Claire nods, moving around Frank in her kitchen to bring out plates, cutlery, a bottle opener for the wine. ]
[ he doesn't take it poorly, already chopping vegetables and seemingly content with his task. any task would have done, but he especially thrives in repetitive, mundane actions where he can lose himself to the sound and sensation. like banging that hammer on the site over and over and over. it's comforting, but challenging, trying to stay present in the moment. trying to listen to claire and not slip away. it helps, though, hearing her voice. he wants to cling to it even when it brings his pain into focus - that's easy to shoulder when he's always in pain. ]
Smart lady. [ he swallows, thinking of maria. maria's mom was the same way, except they were italian so it was usually pasta and meat. his wife had made the best damn lasagna he'd ever had. the reminders are are there, but it doesn't make him shut down like usual. he's able to touch it without burning himself and he even finds himself smiling softly as he tosses the salad ingredients into the bowl and starts making a simple vinegarette to add. ]
Sleeping? What's that?
[ a lame joke as his eyes slide over to catch hers briefly. that's still the biggest hurdle, but he was never a great sleeper at 'home.' in his own bed he would toss and turn, but overseas he slept like a log without a care or nightmare in his head. Every time you come back it's like you leave a piece of yourself there. Come home to me, Frank. he turns away from claire quick to finish the salad and put it on the table before returning to the counter to open their wine. he's going to need it. ]
[ She doesn't miss the furtive looks, the way his eyes move, slipping past hers and away, retreating into his memories, his guilt and his pain. It's not the first time she sees him do this, and she knows it won't be the last, either. This is how he copes with everything.
She's not judging him for it. Instead, she hums, finishing up the food as Frank does the salad, then turns to the bottle of wine. ]
Fine. [ After setting the food at the center of the table, Claire leans back against the counter for a second. ]
But we're not going to have a silent dinner, are we? You need to give me slightly more than monosyllabic answers.
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out of time au
The pain his arm is blistering and terrible, the blood soaking through his shirt, but he has no time to go check on the bodies of his fellow rescuers and can't corral his horses and supplies because when he'd stumbled out of the little church, he'd found himself on the stoop of a place he doesn't recognize. There are things in the streets that dart past, like little trains, and the people are so noisy and so loud and wearing things he doesn't understand.
Hand tight to his guns, Vasquez struggles along and tries to ignore the pain, but the nip in the air means that it's next to impossible to do. It keeps biting at him, reminding him it's there, making Vasquez hate whatever this place is. He pushes through the crowd of people on the walkway, not sure what to do about how many there are, and when he sees a tall building that looks like it might have medical help, he stops in front of it with a decision.
With the bounty on his head, it's not smart to go in. If someone flags him, recognizes him, they could take him in. Maybe he's imagining all these things because of the strain of the battle or the blood loss, or maybe he just doesn't know what's going on and it's something that a power above him has done.
Whatever it is, he's hurt and he can't decide whether to go inside. People are inside with crutches and casts, treating maladies, and Vasquez's cold state makes his decision for him, but he only gets so far as one of the lobby doors before he presses to the wall with a curse in Spanish for the pain, sagging a little.
He curses at Sam Chisolm, because he knows that none of this had been part of their arrangement. Vasquez wouldn't have been stupid enough to agree if it were.
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A normal day, all in all, until she walks to the ER doors to wait for an arriving ambulance and is faced with a man that, for all intents and purposes, looks entirely out of time. He's dressed like a cowboy, dirt sticking to his clothes and skin, as much as - blood, that is definitely blood. He's also - Claire swallows down the curse word that threatens to escape her when she darts forward, and then stops herself. She has no way to defend herself if he decides to pull a gun on her.
"Are you openly carrying and walking into a hospital? What the hell is wrong with you?"
He looks visibly hurt, but Claire's heart is threatening to beat right out of her chest, worry and tension warring with her oath to help. Finally, with her hands held up, she takes another step forward, cautiously.
"Sir, I'm a nurse. You're visibly hurt. Did you get shot? You need help, but I can't have you come in with these guns, it's too dangerous."
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Then again, telling him that he can't use his guns isn't very nice. He keeps his hands near them, even as the left one trembles and shakes from the pain and the fact that the Gatling gun took out a chunk of muscle in the process. "I was shot, Gatling gun," he spits out the words, trying to haul himself into a sitting position. "I'm not leaving my guns," he warns. "They're protection."
He won't shoot unless someone shoots at him, but he's also not stupid enough to let go of them, not when Bogue's men might still be kicking around.
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"I'd like to help you. Would you let me do that? I can't do it in there if you keep these - you'll get arrested before you're through anything."
She doesn't know, exactly, why he thinks he needs this kind of protection while walking into a hospital, like he has no idea about laws and just - societal rules, but she can't quite let him bleed out by the front door.
"But in here, you're safe. You'll get your personal effects back once we've treated you, I promise. We're all medical professionals in here, and it's our job to make sure you're okay, and safe."
She pauses, takes another step. "Please?"
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"I can't give up my guns, I need to protect myself," he says, his words more rapid and sharp now that they're speaking in his native tongue. "I don't know you, I can't trust you," he warns, because he doesn't. She says 'safe', but other people have said safe too, before they called on someone who was ready to hang him.
"If I go in there, with or without guns and there is law, I get arrested," he hisses out, cursing as a fresh wave of pain hits him and he bites down on his tongue to stifle it. "No, no, I can't." He's already stumbling, fighting to his feet despite the lack of grace he has. "Show me where I can go, I'll patch it up myself," is his spat demand, because as beautiful as she is, he can't be tricked by beauty.
It's not safe, not for him.
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She takes a deep breath, and then holds up a hand, eyeing the open ambulance a few yards away.
"Okay, don't move."
She runs off to the back of the ambulance, grabbing an EMT bag before jumping out, slinging it over her shoulder as she walks back to the man.
"All right. I can help you, okay? I'm a nurse - I'm qualified for this. I'm not letting you stitch yourself up, you'll do a terrible job. Are you able to walk? I live three blocks away."
Being able to walk to work had been one of the best things about her shitty apartment, after all. Might as well try and make the most of it now.
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He's on his feet by the time she gets back, a mildly sheepish look on his face because it's not hard to figure out what he's doing. "I can walk," he says, seeing as he'd been in the process of it. His legs are fine, his body is fine, it's just his arm and the disorientation of wherever he is. "Who are you?" he demands, still speaking Spanish. "Where am I?"
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"My name is Claire. I am a nurse, I work in the emergency department of the hospital we just left. And we're in New York. Devil's Kitchen, to be precise. Where do you think you are?"
Depending on his answer, she might think he's concussed, or in worse shape than he looks...
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He winches when the fabric catches at the wound, staring over his shoulder at the building they just walked away from. He's never heard of an emergency department before. He's never seen anything like this place and he suspects it's not just the blood loss that's making him see these things.
"None of this can be possible," he vows.
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Okay. Ninjas and resurrection is a thing, in the world she lives in. She's seen it, with her own two eyes. She's met the Iron Fist, as much as a douche as he is. She knows a man who can't see but who can hear, for miles. Who can feel the flutter of a heartbeat in someone else's ribcage. She's lived through an alien attack.
So, time travel really isn't as crazy as it should be, or would have been, just a few years ago.
"Okay. Okay, I agree, it shouldn't be possible, but fact is, you're here, now. Just another block and we're at my place. We can talk there. Are you okay? Any dizziness?"
1879. Now, the clothes and the guns make a lot more sense.
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"I've felt better," is his smirking retort, because he's fairly sure that this is one of the worst he's felt in his life. He hadn't even been shot that badly, but then, he hasn't eaten much in hours, he just lost his almost-friends, he got shot, and now he's somehow in a strange city he doesn't recognize.
Grimacing, he leans on her a little more than he should, feeling guilty for it, but it's that or pass out on her and he thinks she'd prefer this.
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She gets him inside and on her couch, going straight to the bathroom for a couple of towels, which she drapes on the back of the couch, between his wound and the fabric.
"Can you take your shirt off, or should I cut through it?"
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He puts it out of mind, trying to forget it as he heads inside this strange set of rooms wondering where he's managed to get to and how. "I might need help," is his distracted reply, easing his hat and holsters down on the ground before he gives her a pressed-lip look, seeing as the one side can't really lift.
"You have a habit of taking strange men home and undressing them?" he wonders.
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"It's actually not that strange of a thing in this day and age, although usually it's about sex, not potential surgery."
Gently, she pulls the fabric of his shirt down his arms, helping him lean forward a little to expose the wound. She looks up into his eyes, still sort of amused. Obviously, she has to think back on Matt - not Matt, at the time, and how they met. Claire doesn't really live a regular life anymore, and this guy, on her couch, is further proof.
"But you could say I've done this a few times in my day. Be glad, I didn't pick you out of the garbage. Okay, can you tell me what happened?"
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"If it weren't for the hole in my arm, it could be about sex," he says bluntly, feeling like if he's going to end up dying of infection or something else, he might as well try and go out with a bang.
Huffing a soft laugh when the shirt comes off, he doesn't dare blink when she looks at him, half like a challenge. "I was shot in the arm, with a Gatling gun," he says. "I know I survived, though, I was going to go out in the field, looking for survivors, then all of a sudden, I was here."
go out with a bang, i see what you did there
"Oh yeah? What makes you think I'd be interested?"
Not that she wouldn't be. He's a handsome man - with the blood and the grime all over him. She imagines he's even better looking while clean and healthy, but even right now, she wouldn't exactly be disinterested.
She starts cleaning the wound, checking for an exit wound - if there's none, she's going to have to dig in, and he won't be having a good time of it.
"I genuinely don't understand how you ended up here, but -" She looks up into his eyes, serious and gentle. "I promise you, I'm very good at what I do, at least."
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look at me switching formatting for no reason???? i'm so sorry
pfft all good! I'll roll with anything :-p
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/scene?
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he can't remember ever looking in the mirror so many times, curling up his lip at his own grim visage. he pats the healing wound, eyes zeroing in on the patches of yellow that give him a sallow appearance though he's honestly taking better care of himself than he has in a long damn time. frank pulls on his jacket and looks again into the blurry image of his reflection. it's now or never, right? he can come up with an excuse not to go, or he can just go. it's a meal - what's the worst that could happen? frank squeezes his eyes shut and hears gunshots, hears himself screaming; and they pop open again. maybe he shouldn't use that phrase, even within the sanctity of his mind.
he shoots her a quick text: eta 10 minutes if only because it's a hard habit to break. and then he's out the door, so frazzled he forgets to lock his door on the way out. he hops into his truck and stares at the bottle of wine riding shotgun. is this... a date? maybe he should have put the pieces together before he was on his way to her apartment, but the flutter of nerves threatening to break apart his insides were a great distraction from the truth up until now in his defense. the only thing missing is flowers, but those keep burning him. better to stick with something safe, like alcohol.
frank parks at a meter this time which nearly kills him to do, snatching the bottle off the seat and paying his toll like he's a regular citizen or something crazy like that. he eyes the window he knows is unlocked, but walks up to buzz the front entry also like a real person. it's like he doesn't even know himself anymore. ]
It's me. [ he says dumbly into the intercom, shifting nervously from foot to foot. ]
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Claire won't pretend a date wouldn't be something she's interested in, but she knows all too well how difficult it'd be. Frank is not exactly someone easy going and open, and Claire already spends too much time taking care of him, probably. There's an imbalance, deep in the heart of their relationship, and Claire doesn't know how to right it.
And anyway, it's not like she's been cooking for hours. She's kept it simple - the family recipe of ropa vieja practically runs in her blood, and by the time Frank rings her doorbell, the deep smell of a rich sauce has permeated her apartment, the beef is in the process of being shredded, and potatoes are going. She buzzes him in without even a reply to his greeting, and leaves the door slightly ajar for him to walk through - a show of trust, something she doesn't actually feel with many other people - and goes back to the kitchen to finish up the shredding.
He knows his way around. Still, when he does get into her space, she'll look up, licking a drop of sauce off of her thumb, a smile on her lips. ]
Hey. Hope you're hungry.
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Can I, uh- can I help? [ he's asking, but things seem to be moving along quickly enough, and he takes a moment to compose himself by stripping off his jacket and hanging it on the back of a chair as he'd done before. then, steeling himself, he turns back to face her, waiting for instruction. ]
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Salad needs assembling. Cucumber and tomatoes are in the crisper drawer in the fridge.
[ She doesn't stop doing what she's doing for a second, either. ]
You doing okay? [ She means more than 'physically', too. ]
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That smells good.
[ frank lets out a breath as he catches her eyes, but then he's quickly making his way to the fridge to get the items she described. he puts all the ingredients into the bowl to take to a spare strip of counter, gesturing to her with a vague chopping motion for a knife while he starts opening cabinets at random to locate a cutting board. is he doing okay... compared to? what? it should be a simple question with an even simpler answer, but for him it's rocket science. only once she sets him up with the tools he needs to make their salad does he really mull it over, dicing a tomato while he tries to put together words like the assembly of vegetables before him. ]
...Yeah. I'm okay. [ and despite the long pause between the ask and reply, he sounds sure enough. then, he adds on for good measure- ] Better, I think.
[ he doesn't really have a litmus for his new life, still trying to make sense of his own routine. the man he's supposed to be now. how claire temple fits into that image. ]
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Frank Castle is not just anyone. ]
It's my mom's recipe. [ Of course it is. She finished with the beef and puts it to the side to rest for a moment, before gathering up the cooking juices to pour over the potatoes. ] She always said that there nothing that meat and potatoes can't fix.
[ Claire nods, moving around Frank in her kitchen to bring out plates, cutlery, a bottle opener for the wine. ]
You're sleeping at all?
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Smart lady. [ he swallows, thinking of maria. maria's mom was the same way, except they were italian so it was usually pasta and meat. his wife had made the best damn lasagna he'd ever had. the reminders are are there, but it doesn't make him shut down like usual. he's able to touch it without burning himself and he even finds himself smiling softly as he tosses the salad ingredients into the bowl and starts making a simple vinegarette to add. ]
Sleeping? What's that?
[ a lame joke as his eyes slide over to catch hers briefly. that's still the biggest hurdle, but he was never a great sleeper at 'home.' in his own bed he would toss and turn, but overseas he slept like a log without a care or nightmare in his head. Every time you come back it's like you leave a piece of yourself there. Come home to me, Frank. he turns away from claire quick to finish the salad and put it on the table before returning to the counter to open their wine. he's going to need it. ]
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She's not judging him for it. Instead, she hums, finishing up the food as Frank does the salad, then turns to the bottle of wine. ]
Fine. [ After setting the food at the center of the table, Claire leans back against the counter for a second. ]
But we're not going to have a silent dinner, are we? You need to give me slightly more than monosyllabic answers.
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It could be fun. [ his eyebrows lift with the suggestion, he's clearly trolling her. ] Like one of them... old black-and-white movies.