greatexpectations | (open) elektra natchios (black sky)

Tony knows there's some ninja... stuff going on in Hell's Kitchen. It would be kind of hard to miss. But with all the regulations coming down, he feels like maybe he should get in touch with these people and see what side of the fence they're really on. And if they are good guys maybe warn them... or something. He'll figure it out when he gets there, which maybe isn't the best plan he's ever had. But if the Avengers get taken out of commission he might need a new crew to run with for a while. And there are these lawyer guys everyone seems to think know something.

He is extremely out of place here, in his hand-tailored Italian suit and big custom sunglasses. To be tactful, this office is a pit. And he doesn't see much lawyering going on. He leaves his name with the pretty blonde at the desk, who smiles to herself but otherwise doesn't let on that she knows who he is. It's been a long time since someone was coy with him, kind of adorable. Tony spins around to find a place to sit -- maybe a rickety old chair -- when he sees someone else who definitely doesn't belong.

Sitting in the seat directly next to her, he leans over and speaks in a hushed tone, like they're conspiring. Though he's never seen this woman before in his life. "I heard this was the place to go about vigilantism."

i think i'm in trouble.

[ just after he sends it he realizes that sounds a lot more ominous than he'd meant it, given his history. he doesn't need help burying a body, this is actually an exceedingly normal problem to have. ]

it's about a woman

Frank begins his walk over to her place around ten in the evening. It's become a well-established ritual by now, to the point where he doesn't bother calling ahead. Not to mention that would make it premeditated and he doesn't allow for that; he's just spending time with Leon, that's all. A young dog needs a masculine and a feminine role model in his life!!! Guess which one he is, no go on, guess.

He's light on his feet tonight, almost, almost in a good mood. Or as close as he ever gets anymore. He walks with his head up for a change and his hands stuffed in his pockets. There's still a chill in the air that won't quite leave, his nose tinged red from the weather as he makes his way along the lighted sidewalks for a change rather than zipping through back alleyways. Slowly but surely, he's learning to adhere to "normal" life, or whatever passes in Pete Castiglione's approximation of a life.

As he approaches the tall, empty building Elektra is occupying this week, he spots her silhouette in the doorway. The wind goes out of his sails as he somehow senses something awry, even from a distance. Frank jogs up behind her quietly, his hand on the kabar strapped on under his shirt just in case. But there's no one else around, it's just Elektra fumbling for the access code. "El..." he starts, trailing off as she suddenly falls unconscious. He manages to catch her before she hits the ground. Jesus, that's a lot of blood. And he knows who to blame for every last drop.

Picking her up in a fireman's carry, he pushes in her code with his elbow and wastes no time getting them to the penthouse where Leon awaits them anxiously. By the time she comes to, Frank manages to clean her up and keep most of her innards on the inside where they belong. there's a tight bandage around her middle doing just that job and he managed to get her into a tank top and sweats and her own bed, a steaming mug of tea that's meant to aid the healing process and a glass of ice water on the table next to it. He is predictably: on the floor with the dog who is currently sprawled across Frank's lap while they wait for her to come to.

He sits in wait at the specified diner at the specified time and squirms on his side of the booth. It's uncomfortable for him: being on this side of the equation. But he owes it to the people who sacrificed so much to keep him safe. The Liebermans, Madani... Not to mention all the bodies. He drums his hand restlessly on the counter and mean-mugs every guy who walks in the joint. It never occurs to him his correspondence would have been with a woman, especially not a drop-dead gorgeous one, but she's beelining his way.

"Hey, lady, I dunno who you think I am, but try a friendlier face, huh?" The real trip is: he looks soft and doe-eyed like the most loyal dog you've ever met while he says it. Good thing he has close to zero self-awareness, especially as he coos over the older woman who brings him his coffee, burnt to a crisp, just the way he likes it. Frank takes a long sip though steam is violently pouring out of the cup, and sits way back in order to study the woman's face. There's something familiar about the features he memorizes out of habit, but he can't place them or why he finds her familiar. He convinces himself she looks like an actress or some news anchor he's seen in one of a dozen motel rooms this past week or month or year. It starts to sink into his guts that she's not moving for a reason. She knows him, somehow. They know each other? He's racking the slide, but nothing falls out. It's a sinking feeling as much as it is elevating. For some reason, he thinks he might be excited. He looks down into his coffee like the caffeine is the problem, and takes another long, hot, and grounding sip.

"Alright, alright. Start talkin'. I'm all fucking ears."

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gently owns all ur posts

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