It's been a long day the day before and even longer night--it's always been hard for Frank to sleep and the unfamiliar yet strangely familiar surroundings along with his bed, too soft, keep him from fully dozing off. And yet, he still feels better when he awakens from a small nap than he has in a long time, which is almost more disconcerting than waking up in a seemingly different world.
However, it's been over forty-eight hours since he last ate which is easy to ignore, paranoid of what could possibly be in the food, but no water is another story. So, that's when Frank breaks and heads down to what looks to be a buffet. That's where he piles up a plate full of duck bacon (he hasn't had duck bacon since he was a kid, and it looks so good and crispy that he can't help himself), the fluffiest omelet he's ever seen in his life, and potatoes. With his hot plate balanced in one hand and a mug of black coffee in the other, Frank avoids bumping into any of the other guests in the buffet room in an effort to find a seat.
It's when he's beelining to a booth in the back of the big room that he almost drops his plate when his body stops him from passing by the person in the booth before his own. That's when he tries to move again and almost spills scalding hot coffee in himself.
"What the fuck?" he mutters, realizing with a flush over his features that he'd caught the attention of whoever happens to be at the table.
Instead of trying to move again, he sets his plate and mug down, slowly squeezing into the booth. It's as if he half can't even control his movements.
Fork digging into the eggs, Frank mutters from under the rim of his Yankees hat, "hope you don't mind."
III. TIME TO UNWIND.
He's always hated parties, hates big raves even more -- his days of that shit have come and gone, and even then, he hadn't enjoyed it. It's with the staff's urging that Frank goes down to the Rabbit Hole to get a stiff drink or two, and hopefully linger by the bar long enough not to be noticed. He's even dressed to assimilate--a visit to the boutique had proven that all the clothes here are nicer than anything he's ever worn in his life, and even the sweater and trousers feel so soft on his scarred skin that he almost can't stand it.
His whiskey burns as it goes down, it's so good, and he's surprised to find that it only takes one glass to get him feeling woozy. He's thinking to try another finger when someone asks:
"Is this seat taken?"
Frank shakes his head, adjusting himself to accommodate--he knows he tends to take up a lot of room, with his broad shoulders and build.
"No," he says, soft over the sound of the music from the nearby dance floor, "you're good."
frank castle ╼ nmcu
It's been a long day the day before and even longer night--it's always been hard for Frank to sleep and the unfamiliar yet strangely familiar surroundings along with his bed, too soft, keep him from fully dozing off. And yet, he still feels better when he awakens from a small nap than he has in a long time, which is almost more disconcerting than waking up in a seemingly different world.
However, it's been over forty-eight hours since he last ate which is easy to ignore, paranoid of what could possibly be in the food, but no water is another story. So, that's when Frank breaks and heads down to what looks to be a buffet. That's where he piles up a plate full of duck bacon (he hasn't had duck bacon since he was a kid, and it looks so good and crispy that he can't help himself), the fluffiest omelet he's ever seen in his life, and potatoes. With his hot plate balanced in one hand and a mug of black coffee in the other, Frank avoids bumping into any of the other guests in the buffet room in an effort to find a seat.
It's when he's beelining to a booth in the back of the big room that he almost drops his plate when his body stops him from passing by the person in the booth before his own. That's when he tries to move again and almost spills scalding hot coffee in himself.
"What the fuck?" he mutters, realizing with a flush over his features that he'd caught the attention of whoever happens to be at the table.
Instead of trying to move again, he sets his plate and mug down, slowly squeezing into the booth. It's as if he half can't even control his movements.
Fork digging into the eggs, Frank mutters from under the rim of his Yankees hat, "hope you don't mind."
III. TIME TO UNWIND.
He's always hated parties, hates big raves even more -- his days of that shit have come and gone, and even then, he hadn't enjoyed it. It's with the staff's urging that Frank goes down to the Rabbit Hole to get a stiff drink or two, and hopefully linger by the bar long enough not to be noticed. He's even dressed to assimilate--a visit to the boutique had proven that all the clothes here are nicer than anything he's ever worn in his life, and even the sweater and trousers feel so soft on his scarred skin that he almost can't stand it.
His whiskey burns as it goes down, it's so good, and he's surprised to find that it only takes one glass to get him feeling woozy. He's thinking to try another finger when someone asks:
"Is this seat taken?"
Frank shakes his head, adjusting himself to accommodate--he knows he tends to take up a lot of room, with his broad shoulders and build.
"No," he says, soft over the sound of the music from the nearby dance floor, "you're good."