[ She wants to believe that this wasn't always what they were moving towards, that even after that first conversation where they were literally blind to one another had ended with her revealing more than she'd intended she would've assumed her distance β but then she'd figured out who he was, and from that point on, there was something about him that had piqued her curiosity enough to keep her coming back to find out more.
Maybe it was in how he'd looked at her, that quick darting of his gaze toward her face that had eventually been replaced by steadier, longer glances. Or in all those subsequent convos with a diner table in between them that had gradually teased out more and more of his humor β his willingness to humor her, at the very least.
She could've partially blamed their first kiss on other influences, alcohol and that candy newly dissolved on her tongue when she'd responded to the press of lips against her own, heated in spite of the intense and sudden chill. She'd been looser, more pliant, more responsive to the idea of being touched and running her hands over someone else in exchange. Her judgment had basically been nil, allowing her to write it off later as a product of a desire to impulsively lose herself in a strong mouth and surprisingly gentle hands.
But, as far as she knows, she can't point the finger at anyone else for this save herself, especially not once the kiss deepens and she moans into his mouth, a softer, higher-pitched thing in contrast to his deeper tones that cause her to feel the vibrations of it in his chest where she's pressed flush against him. And her lips part for him too, as her hand clutches more firmly along the side of his face, fingers pushing up and into the longer strands of his hair. That first graze of tongues makes her greedy, but she doesn't chase it right away, choosing to tease it out more instead through that delicate rhythm.
If she had more of a sense of herself, this would be the moment where she'd remember that she hadn't come over to do this, to wind up in his bed, on top of him, kissing him with heat and intent, the blankets a decisive barrier between more of her body and his. But she doesn't think about any of that when the edge of his palm skirts across her lower back and her hips unconsciously press forward, unconcerned with whether she might be crushing him with her weight.
[ He'd always been better with control, with keeping himself from falling victim to selfish emotional urges like this, to focusing his intents solely on whatever self-assigned mission he's placed himself on, such as the initial one in which he'd concentrate on the task of getting out of this town. Exhaustion had been his proclaimed excuse for kissing her that first time, and though she'd been the one to initiate it now, he can't find enough evidence to pin the blame of his responding lips simply to the medication.
Something still feels foggy in his mind, a haze that makes the entire scenario seem disconnected from sense, such as the question of how she'd ended up in his bed in the first place, or rather, why she would have curled herself some comfortably against him at all. And how had it been so easy to accept this as an alternative to everything else he's regulated himself to prior, restraining himself from seeking spontaneous romances, from settling into something safe when all he knows is a life of war, the fight constantly alive and preventing him from basking in moments like this.
He has none of the answers, but he's ensnared from pursuing them, distracted wholly by her mouth, sighing when he feels the soft rumble of a moan from it, followed by that casual twirl of a tongue that greets his own with a concoction of sweetness and heat all at once.
Hand clasped at her back, the other holds her hair, gathering the strands to keep from falling over his cheeks as she hovers above him, fingers trapping them in a gentle grasp at her neck, tips kneading over her skin in a slow rhythm that matches the steady patient pace of their lips. He won't filter the low sound that evokes in response to her pressing hips, the weight of her warm and welcoming, prompting a gentle nip to her lip. ]
[ She has no deeper motivation in this beyond the desire to be close, however that pans out, though she doesn't necessarily attempt to propel things forward, to push the physical boundary ahead another marker for them, content to remain here as long as it means she gets to continue touching him, gets to feel his touch on her in return. That's not to say that the stroke of his fingers along the underside of her hair, the collection of it in his grasp, doesn't fill her with something, doesn't make her tremble even just a little bit over top of him.
In a normal set of circumstances she'd be frustrated with herself for letting her want be rendered so plain on her face, in the sounds she gives voice to, those whimpers absorbed into the unspoken tempo of their kissing, such bare disclosure of her need and how much she's enjoying this that it almost doesn't feel like her. Usually she's better at not showing her hand like this, at not giving away the signs of the effect he's having on her, but this is satisfying that unconscious longing she has to just be near him in more ways than one.
It could be the heat of the moment that's left her thoughts hazy too, jumbled and non-linear, unable to perceive much apart from this and him and this, ignorant to their surroundings. Maybe they should stay in bed all day, she thinks to herself, just enjoying this unrushed exploration of each other.
She's so caught up in it that she doesn't realize her hand has drifted down from his face to his bandaged shoulder, covering it lightly, a non-offensive contact that won't cause any inadvertent pain until he delivers that teasing nip and she squeezes with her fingers, a reflexive reaction and the product of so much forgetting wrapped up in how satisfied she is solely from their shared proximity, skin against skin. ]
[ It falls back into that instruction, that shared guideline she'd presented to him, no more running. Because for all that their lips shift and seek the continued pursuit of wet warmth, there's a stillness in the way they lay together, a tangle of sheets separating their legs and the lethargic motivation to simply remain in the closeness. The wrap of her body pressed against him, thighs perched around his and trapping that blanket tight over his legs, leaves him with an overwhelming heat, strong enough that the incoming breeze from the open window isn't enough to soothe away.
But there's no rush to steer this in any other direction except where they already are, only testing smaller boundaries like the playful roll of his tongue proding hers and the firm grazes of his fingertips at her bare skin. There's time, he thinks, whether or not it actually exists, but simply because they proclaim it does, content to stop β for now β the persistent running that their minds and bodies are trained for.
Still, it's only natural for other instincts and physical urges to be stirred, a passion in their noisy mouths, exchanged moans falling free between them without filter, and the eventual nip that leaves her pressing into him a little more firmly, including that clutch to his shoulder.
When he groans this time, it isn't a pleasured one, a pained gasp that breaks their kiss from the instinctive reaction. ] Shit. [ He mutters under his breath, usually more in control over his responses to pain, but distraction lets the curse slip in the beat of that second.
Though his nose scrunches, wincing a little at the pulsing throb that lingers, he manages an honest chuckle, leaning his forehead to hers. ] Shit. [ He says again with a sigh, suddenly trapped in a bashful smile he tries to hide by dipping his nose against her cheek. ]
[ She's conscious of him everywhere β the glance of his fingertips across that expanse of skin recently exposed by the rise of her shirt, sensitive spine and the small of her back, not to mention the intermittent tangling of their tongues, evolving the kiss from soft and careful to passionate, probing. And it doesn't occur to her to stop, to pull away from him right up until the moment that he tears his mouth away from hers with a sharp hiss and she figures out exactly where her hand's fallen, immediately relinquishing her grip on him with a wordless sound of alarm before actually stumbling through an apology. ]
Oh my God, I β I'm so sorry β [ Her gaze instantly shoots down to that tender area, wondering if she's pressed hard enough to aggravate his injury beyond a sudden throbbing, but before she can even check in with him he's bringing their faces together, prompting her to drop out of her frantic, worried tone into a softer hum. ]
You okay? [ It seems there's no significant harm done but she doesn't want to neglect the possibility that he's stifling down a stronger response; he's handled the sting of alcohol against a wound and probably more than that besides without even offering so much as a wince to signal any discomfort. ] Here, let me β [ Either way, she gently slides her hips away from him, easing over onto that uninjured side again, knee half-bent as her thigh notches over his.
And then she briefly hides her face against his shoulder, nose and cheeks buried there, and she laughs too, mostly at herself, shoulders shaking with it until she's recovered enough to lift her head again, to find him, cheeks hurting with how much she's trying to subdue the intensity of her grin. ] I'm pretty sure this isn't part of the normal treatment for serious stab wounds.
[ Despite the persistent throbbing at his shoulder, the sting where she'd pressed the bandage unintentionally hard against the still healing skin, he doesn't fully withdraw from the apparent spell they've put themselves under. He's still so prominently aware of all of her, the panic that flutters into her eyes with genuine concern up until she's burying herself into his opposing shoulder, the press of her nose notched at that juncture, her laughter vibrating over warmed skin. ]
Not too sure, doc. It was a fierce stealth attack. She got me good. Can't say I'll survive it. [ His own soft laughter seems to aid in a pleasant distraction from the lasting pain as it begins to ease back gradually to something more hummed and steady from before. When she readjusts herself to his side, he moves subconsciously in tugging at the sheet over his legs, loosening them free to drape over both their bodies, tucking it to her opposite side.
Sinking himself back against the pillow, his fingers roll up to the back of her head, light caresses petting at her hair as he peers down to her glancing face, his own lips curved into a soft smirk. ] I'd argue that. Think your methods have been working pretty well so far.
Well, damn. [ It wouldn't be wholly accurate to say there'd been tension between them before, in those moments when the conversation had floated a little too closely to a space that couldn't entirely be considered platonic, but in the aftermath of kissing him all she feels now is relaxed, comfortable even if the latter end of that had started to kindle a different kind of warmth from low within.
It becomes even cozier once he tucks her in under the blanket with him, both of them sharing that space, recirculating all that body heat, and her hips tip forward as he bunches it behind her, effectively swaddling her into him. ]
If you're not gonna make it, any last wishes before you go? [ That brand of question would be better off delivered in the midst of one of those Eastwood movies he likes so much; here, with her obviously amused tone and the smoothness with which she wraps her arm around him, it adopts a significantly less serious implication.
She resumes the use of his good shoulder as a makeshift pillow, but her face remains tilted up to hold that gaze, absorb that delivery he punctuates with fingers trailing through her hair and the upturning at one edge of his mouth. ] You don't think you might be biased just a teeny-tiny bit?
[ It isn't the first he finds himself unguarded in front of her, those little previews of a more relaxed form, muscles lacking their more common tenseness, when he'd revealed smaller trivia of himself or let her briefly explore the surface of his most tragic loss. But he's much more aware of it here, conscious of the ease he finds in laying here with her, in wrapping her beneath the blanket with him because it instinctively feels right, because it only makes sense that this would be how they find themselves after that intimate brushing of mouths, passioned kisses that have left his lips warm and his spirit lifted in a way that he isn't prone to. ]
Eh. [ He makes a doubtful noise at her implication of being biased, nose scrunched as if to be offended by the accusation. ] Considering the circumstances, I think I'm allowed to be a little biased here, right?
[ In fairness, it has played a bit of a satisfying distraction, only jostled again by it with that accidental press, which he's already moved on from even if at ghost pulsing from it still lingers faintly. It's also an improvement to however he would have bothered taking care of it in the first place, her bandaged up work possibly the most effective treatment he'd allow to it with his brand of stubbornness. ]
But if we're talking wishes here β coffee. [ He peers away to the edge of the bed, almost wistful in his gaze as if the word alone could steer him into a dreamlike state. ] Won't lie, Judy. Think you might have nailed it with the best coffee in town.
[ Strong, just how he likes it. Though with the way he keeps his arm well pressed over her shoulder, locking her to where she's nestled at his side, he's no intentions on making her actually fill him up a pot. ]
[ She remains convinced that part of this thing between them is due to this town, the power of a place that brings people together in spite of themselves β because none of them would be able to survive otherwise if they tried to go it alone, solitude less of a powerful ally than aligning themselves with one another instead. Nothing forces folks to bond like a common goal, a common enemy β even if the evils that have reared their terrifying and ugly heads have only been partially within her wheelhouse of expertise.
But more than just collectively agreeing to have each other's backs, they've confided in one another too, revealed some harsh truths and brutal traumas, and she can't say she ever planned on letting it go that far.
She's careful now, more mindful of his injury than she'd been before, but still conscious of the closeness, her curves nudged along his firmness, the scent of his skin when she casually nuzzles her cheek into his shoulder. The thought that her hesitation to remove herself from his bed could be a result of anything else hasn't even occurred to her; he's just so warm and solid and overall really nice to cuddle up to.
She smiles, the expression creating tension in her face from where she has it pressed against him, but there's a laugh in it too when his voice goes distant, yearning, like he and that potential mug of java might need to have a minute alone; it quiets down when that compliment slips in about how she makes it, though, and her fingers curl instinctively to hug him to herself, an act of expressing her thanks for it when she doesn't get around to actually saying the words. ]
If this is your way of trying to flatter me into making you some, Harry, you might have to try harder. [ The tease leaves her freely, no second thought behind it, although she knows that brewing a fresh pot means she'll have to get up and she's really not a fan of anything that would force her to have to do that β not when there's a security that accompanies the sensation of being held between his arm and his torso. ]
[ He doesn't consider the implications of anything outside of this bed; what it all means that she's here, that they're this tangled together under the sheets, doesn't cast a weight on his shoulders with the why's and how's, and he finds he'd rather distance himself from that reality. The warmth that she provides to his left side, the shifting of her lips to his shoulder, leaves him selfish, clinging to a safety that's only ever slipped free from his fingers when he's tried to grasp it.
Perhaps a part of him, a flicker deep within his chest, is prepared for the worst, for the inevitable departure of the feeling, knowing its habits of being fleeting before being forcibly ripped away. But she steers away the fears when she embraces him tighter, his fingers curling to her shoulder as his nose bruses gently at her forehead.
He smiles at the accusation, humming a soft, rather pleased noise. ] Me? I'd never. [ A vibration of quiet laughter follows, a gentle kiss pressed to her hairline and followed with a sigh that seems to release any remaining hints of tension left in him. ] I think I β I think I like you right where you are. [ Right here, with him, for however much longer it can be allowed. ]
But I'll definitely be trying harder later. [ The grin curves up against her skin, his own tease as easily exchanged as hers. ]
[ (Much, much later, she'll look back on this and continue to question just what percentage of it had been her after all, whether what she's breathing in now with every inhale had twisted the scope of respect and reliance she already possesses or if it had intensified a feeling she hadn't even been consciously aware existed. There'll be no way of knowing, no means of trusting that this was anything but a manipulation β and they'll be the ones who will have to pay for it in doubt and confusion.) ]
Mmhmm. [ She infuses that sound with enough emphasis to make it evident that she doesn't believe him for a single second, but doesn't move to make any other type of counterargument β or move, period, for that matter, rendered loose and peaceful. She closes her eyes at the press of lips to the crown of her head, a quiet sigh leaving her in the wake of his. ]
Yeah, I guess it's not so bad here. I could stick around. [ She tries to muster a breezy version of the words, turning her face against his chest to hide her smile from his view.
His follow-up coaxes her back into looking at him, though, lips moving through the formation of a series of different answers to that comment and not being able to settle on anything remotely appropriate considering the places her thoughts are taking her to. Eventually, one makes it out. ] Well, you're gonna need your rest for that, then.
[ (It's a feeling he'll shut away, trap within a box, and store away to remain untouched and untampered. The truth of whether it's an honest emotion or some false fantasy doesn't ultimately matter, because it won't be something he pursues, not when he's already accepted that a peace like this, the serene stillness with that gentle embrace, isn't what he deserves, isn't the life that he's meant for. He's been denied it enough already β Maria, Karen, Beth β that this won't be any different.
Whether a part of him, small as it may be, wants to consider the possibilities of its truth, or not. ) ]
Oh, you'll stick around, huh? [ His laugh is more of a soft easy breath, the heat of it sighed over the skin of her temple where he lingers, even as his eyes shut to let himself sink into the moment, into the warmth she supplies better than the blanket draped across them both.
But he peeks an eye open again when he senses her movement, and the response that follows instantly prompts the subconscious raise of his brow, the soft swipe of his tongue over his lip more an indication of his concentration than anything actually intentional. ]
Yeah, you think so? [ The question sprouts before he has the sense to think it over, but he keeps his gaze on her nonetheless, index finger gently stroking back loose strands of her hair from her face. ]
[ (It'll be easier, in the days that follow, to blame it all on the product of some pollen infestation that had caused her brain to go all loopy for a hot minute, making her say and do things she'd never be caught dead saying and doing if she was feeling even remotely like herself.
That's what she'll attempt to convince herself of, anyway, even while she tries to forget about what the heat of his kiss feels like.) ]
Mmhmm. I kinda like it here. [ She watches his eyes fall shut in the wake of that lull that settles over them again, the peace of the moment, just basking in the ability to lay in his arms like this without the need to make it anything more, to drift off with him still holding her.
But then he's looking at her again, and without her even realizing it her gaze has dropped to his mouth, tracking the sweep of a pink tongue that moistens a lower lip and makes her tilt her chin up a fraction of an inch, as if she intends to chase it, to seek it out for herself. ]
Oh, I know so. [ It takes only the slightest shift of her weight for her to give him her mouth again, a soft press that isn't lacking in a kindling heat β a casual hint, maybe, of what he's in for if he does make that greater effort later, after more of him has healed. ]
[ There's a lot that can be carried in those words, a promise silently transferred in the lingering press of her kiss. His palm finds her cheek, cupping it firmly as his mouth parts, another slow swipe of his tongue dancing on her lip, dangerously close to losing himself in that hypnotizing distraction.
(How honest was it really, to kiss her and want it to last, to have something to hold on to, to linger in something that made him stop feeling so alone?)
Before the heat can be ignited further, he breaks the rhythm of caressing lips with a soft chuckle, a low vibrating sound that gets lost to the seam of her mouth, a spread smile present before he can sneak another swift peppered kiss. ] Guess I'll need that rest then.
[ Fingers slip between them, thumb gently stroking over the lines of her mouth, swiping that wet line of evidence on her lip where his tongue had lingered. ] But you might want to work on not being so distracting.
[ Right now, she's feigning ignorance over anything she might or might not be promising in the play of her lips over his, edging more than a little past teasing with how they readily part for his tongue, and likely that gives her away, that and the soft groan that slips out of her as that kiss deepens, an intense build attained more quickly given that this isn't the first time they've done this now.
He chuckles and so does she, smiling too broadly to enable another, lingering kiss after her initiation, and she's grinning from behind closed eyes right up until the moment they flutter open to take in the details of him from this close.
(She'll remember it later, that smile, more than anything else made hazy by the particles currently floating in the air around them, and more than anything, think about ways to coax it out of him again.)
Her lips, already half-parted, go slack beneath the slide of his finger, let him smear that moisture across the swell of her lower, her gaze magnetized to his as if she can't even consider anywhere else to look, and she can't explain why her breath suddenly catches, why warmth suddenly floods through the very center of her. ] I'm distracting? You're lucky I manage to get anything done when you look like you do.
[ Even with the play of his fingertip, the curving stroke that draws a damp line against her lip, he isn't intent on steering this to a warmer direction, even under the air of her focused gaze. Bright eyes trap him under their spotlight without a reliable hideaway, and he won't be able to conceal the bashful turn of his expression, smile still present with an air that almost isn't suitable for someone so prone to stoic grimaces under public watch.
Yet, she catches him in a moment that is so private, so personal, because it's not the polite kindness of Pete Castiglione, nor the ferocious rage of the Punisher β she snaps a brief flicker of Frank Castle, in all his naked sincerity, even if she isn't entirely aware of that secluded corner of him.
(But Frank Castle is dead, and all that's left is the mask of Pete Castiglione to veil the scars left in the wake of the Punisher. She can have his smile for those fleeting minutes, but it was never made to last, even if he yearns to find it again with the memory of that fantasy.)
He hums with her question, gnawing at his lip as a way to tire out their helpless spread. ] Well, shit, is that so? And how exactly do I look that it has you all ... distracted?
[ It's almost more electrifying, the knowledge of possibility, of more to come even if either of them isn't eager to direct this into a more intimate territory, instead toeing the line between something closer to innocent and just bordering on implicative. She can't hide the effect this is having on her β the subtle dilation of her pupils, breath hitched just drastically enough to be apparent. She can't let it go without some kind of answer too, tongue briefly flicking out to catch the pad of his finger as it drifts by.
She knows that right now, with him, she's glimpsing more than he's ever allowed her to see before, and that in itself feels like its own draw, the invisible rope that pulls her into him from somewhere in the vicinity of their hips β and maybe she lets some of her own guards go too, emboldened by his choice to reveal.
(Blaming all of this on that mysterious pollen will be much easier than admitting that even the smallest part of her had wanted an excuse to do it.)
She's grinning too, lips pulling tight in that shift, both indents in her cheeks irrepressible and undeniable, and her hand skims up along his side to brace against his chest, heel and fingertips resting there lightly. ] Come on. All those times you've been conveniently shirtless in front of me? You think I didn't notice all of β this? [ Her hand waves vaguely in the air, gesturing in his general direction, before resuming its original placement on his warmth. ]
[ He feels that brief flicker of a tongue against his finger, the motion making him chew once more on his lip as he takes in a sharp breath, but ultimately he draws his touch away from her mouth, if only because he doesn't want to shield that widening smile from his gaze, warmed in a different manner by the press of her dimples.
Instead, his palm finds a new safe haven in the curve of her neck, thumb brushing over the soft skin behind her lobe. ]
Conveniently. [ He repeats, another light chuckle shaking him, as if the word alone was enough to garner it. ] Oh, I know you notice. Did a good deal of complaining about it that it was hard to miss. [ His lips briefly purse, memory obviously drawn to the extended complaints she offered in relation. ]
If it helps, I'm not β I'm not actually trying to show anything off. [ His shoulders present a vague shrug, for as much as they could move where he's positioned on the bed, free fingers running circles to the exposed skin where her shirt had ridden up on her back, more an absentminded gesture with distracted thought than anything intentional. ] I'd ... I'd rather you didn't see.
[ It isn't the sculpted lines of muscle that rouse that uncertainty, but the exposure of scar tissue, marked lines and molten skin that expose a different kind of truth, one that he still hasn't entirely unveiled. ]
[ Leave it to her to be physically unable to let anything slide without making it dirty, at least in part; when he relinquishes the thumbing over her mouth to lightly cup her nape instead, she has to repress another shiver, the sensitivity of that area surprising even her for a minute. ]
Yeah, well. Maybe it's something you should be aware of, because it's kind of a problem. [ Her voice, however, holds none of the insistent protestings he's likely become well-accustomed to in their shared time here; instead, she's soft in her declaration, feigning annoyance, a brief narrowing of her gaze ruined by the twitching at the corners of her mouth.
That all fades, though, when his tone drops, that shrug preceding his real admission, and her brow furrows lightly, less with confusion and more with concern β because for all her teasing, she'd never once considered the possibility that he might be bothered by it, that he's uncomfortable with those certain aspects of himself being on display.
And in response, she eases herself up, one elbow bearing the weight of her upper body. ] So I sort of already figured you weren't just some guy who knew a thing or five about fixing sinks, even before I saw these. [ And he might have another scar to add to that number now, depending on how his shoulder heals; her fingers find the circular one beneath his clavicle, trace its shape absently. ] But that doesn't mean I don't like what I see.
[ He shudders with that touch, the scar itself not bearing any pain, but the light trace over it enough to draw on a sensitivity that isn't entirely physical. Eyes shut during the brief seconds that follow, taking in a breath before they open once more, their gaze peering down to her gentle fingertips reaching over a different corner of himself. ]
Marine Corps. [ It's a whisper, a simple answer that might fill in some of the present blanks, even as more remain without their filling. Even the next word falls even quieter, ] Some.
[ His own fingers draw back to rest over her wrist, but he doesn't grip it, doesn't try to nudge her touch away. Still, he doesn't look to her, seemingly distracted with an inner battle in his own thoughts. The comfort in this bed has been lasting, the continued warmth of her still, continuing to lure him into that quieter space of his mind. But the air feels heavy, and he wonders if the dishonesty is tugging at him, both inside and out, taunting. ] If you really saw, I don't β you won't like it. And you shouldn't.
Yeah? [ Lying this close, she can't not pick up on the twitch of skin beneath her hand, just like she can't help wondering if the same sensitivity carries over to the other places on him marred by reminders of injury, trauma, those ones on his arm that clearly look like knife wounds, whereas the one under her fingers β well, she knows what a gunshot leaves behind, even if she wishes she didn't. ]
Guy I worked with, he's β he was a Marine, before. [ He'd had his scars too, but he'd also had those demons both literal and metaphorical, the former having followed him all the way over from his time in Afghanistan; she swallows, eyes distant and a little glossy at thinking of him now.
But Pete reels her back in with that murmur, the closure of fingers around her wrist, and she tilts in, brings her forehead to the edge of his jaw; she's not moving to separate them either, much as the decision of whether or not to tread forward genuinely terrifies her. ] I've got my own shit too, you know? Stories I don't tell people. Because I'm afraid of how they'll look at me after. Because I don't want it to change anything after the truth comes out. So β we can just meet each other in the middle on this. Whatever you want to tell me, or don't, it's β that's okay.
[ He catches the change in the midst of her words, the minor strain that reveals the possibility of her own loss, and on instinct, his fingers at her back wrap over against her side to squeeze her in a little closer.
As she carries on, his eyes shudder close once more, allowing that press of her forehead to his jaw lure him into that focus that only encircles her. He isn't the only one with scars, even if his happen to have a more prominent physical presence, and he knows she carries something she isn't unveiling, knows it has something to do with the way she'd been abandoned as a kid, how concerned she is to make sure Laura doesn't face the same path.
They don't know their secrets, and he can't guarantee that whatever comes out on either side won't change what's happening in this bed now, that the aiding comfort they hold in one another's arms won't slip at further confessions. But it won't last forever.
(And it shouldn't.)
He tilts forward, brushing his lips against the top of her head, not quite a kiss but just as close, taking in a breath with the consideration of her words. Whatever you want to tell me, or don't, it's β that's okay. When he draws back slightly, his eyes open to peer off to an altered corner of the room, there's a weight of confessions on his tongue, the debate of what should slip off from it pouring through his mind. But when he parts his lips, there's only a single word that falls. ]
Frank. [ It's soft, almost a breath, a swallow following afterwards. ] My name. It's Frank Castle.
[ She hadn't intended the slip, just like she doesn't intend it to trigger some kind of response from him in turn, the tighter curve of fingers against the base of her spine, but it's not as if she's objecting to it β the opposite, in fact.
She has the reminders of her own battles to look back on, after all, but it's not like some of them are visible, like his; they all reside in her memories instead rather than on her skin. She'd once said that she'd be lying if she claimed she doesn't torture herself with those twisted souvenirs, the repetition of her ghosts; it didn't end the night she accidentally pulled the trigger on Ward. No, as it turns out, life was just getting started ensuring that she'd have many more names to add to that list. And she doesn't know when, or if, she'll ever make it around to confessing all of them; when she'd made that offer to Pete, to take it all one step at a time, it hadn't been a completely selfless suggestion.
No, that's not right, she realizes, not when he retreats enough to put more space between their faces, the sensation of his lips pressed against her crown abiding right up until the second he says the name β his actual name, not the one that she's learned to attach to his face over these last few months.
And she feels β well, she doesn't know what she feels about it at first, because that confession sends her mind spiraling in about a hundred different directions to a thousand unique questions: when he changed his name, or why. There are the obvious jokes, of course, about whether he's been in some form of witness protection this entire time, and if whoever's trying to kill him hasn't been able to follow him here. There's the part of her that almost wants to be mad about the lie, or unsettled, but instead, she just looks at him, exhaling deeply.
(When she recognizes this for the honest truth that it is, she'll be forced to wonder exactly how much of the rest had been a part of it too.) ]
Wow. Uh β [ She's still processing, but that doesn't mean she's going to stop talking, because it's her. ] Well, I gotta be honest, you never really felt like much of a Pete to me to begin with.
[ It isn't a lot, just a name, but so much of himself is carried in that name even if it doesn't expose the truth of all of his scars just by speaking it. But somehow, all the same, once it slips from his lips, he feels a grand weight lifting from his shoulders for just that small step, despite not knowing why he shares it, why he ever feels a need to tell her, when she doesn't seek to bring it out of him.
She isn't even the first to hear it; Red knew who he was in an instant, plus there was the whackjob in red leather who knew much more than he should. Chloe knew something, though she was fairly convinced that he wasn't the same man that she knew, which name or not, was actual truth. Yet it's the first time he feels that instinctive need to share it, to have this be honest, because she deserves to know it, wherever this entanglement of theirs ends up leading.
(He won't regret it, but he'll still wonder if he should have spared her from it, from being taken in a step further towards the truth of his reality. Or if she'd seen more than enough of his scars that anything further would be entirely dangerous for them both.)
He isn't certain of what reaction will come, but it isn't quite that either, and with it comes a raise of his brow, an extended pause before the release of a soft held breath. ] Can't tell if that's an insult or a compliment. [ Whatever it is, he'll take it. ] Can't really change this one, so I hope you ain't too disappointed by it.
[ He doesn't need to say much of anything at all; she can tell by the way he lets that breath go that he'd been waiting for some kind of response, any response, to revealing that to her. The truth on her end is that she'll be mulling over this for a while afterward, long after they've parted ways and she's gone back to that rundown house they've made her responsibility here.
She'd assured him that he only has to go as far as he's willing in regards to his secrets, but she won't deny that she's curious, especially in regards to why he felt the need to use an alias in the first place. And she can't help but wonder how many people have been clued in on this secret of his, aside from her.
Still, she won't inquire further along those lines, not while his arms are still wrapped snug around her frame, but she does peer up at him, a faint narrowing of her eyes like she intends to study him further until her expression relaxes, shifts into a half-grin at his comment. ]
Frank. [ She tests it out first, quietly and almost to herself, before repeating it a little louder, for his hearing. ] Sorry, I don't have any replacement names to give you, though. Still Earp. [ Or Wynonna, or Judy, or whatever other names he feels like ascribing to her depending on the time of day; she lowers her head until her chin presses against his chest, all of her bobbing slightly when she talks. ] Nice to meet you, Frank.
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Maybe it was in how he'd looked at her, that quick darting of his gaze toward her face that had eventually been replaced by steadier, longer glances. Or in all those subsequent convos with a diner table in between them that had gradually teased out more and more of his humor β his willingness to humor her, at the very least.
She could've partially blamed their first kiss on other influences, alcohol and that candy newly dissolved on her tongue when she'd responded to the press of lips against her own, heated in spite of the intense and sudden chill. She'd been looser, more pliant, more responsive to the idea of being touched and running her hands over someone else in exchange. Her judgment had basically been nil, allowing her to write it off later as a product of a desire to impulsively lose herself in a strong mouth and surprisingly gentle hands.
But, as far as she knows, she can't point the finger at anyone else for this save herself, especially not once the kiss deepens and she moans into his mouth, a softer, higher-pitched thing in contrast to his deeper tones that cause her to feel the vibrations of it in his chest where she's pressed flush against him. And her lips part for him too, as her hand clutches more firmly along the side of his face, fingers pushing up and into the longer strands of his hair. That first graze of tongues makes her greedy, but she doesn't chase it right away, choosing to tease it out more instead through that delicate rhythm.
If she had more of a sense of herself, this would be the moment where she'd remember that she hadn't come over to do this, to wind up in his bed, on top of him, kissing him with heat and intent, the blankets a decisive barrier between more of her body and his. But she doesn't think about any of that when the edge of his palm skirts across her lower back and her hips unconsciously press forward, unconcerned with whether she might be crushing him with her weight.
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Something still feels foggy in his mind, a haze that makes the entire scenario seem disconnected from sense, such as the question of how she'd ended up in his bed in the first place, or rather, why she would have curled herself some comfortably against him at all. And how had it been so easy to accept this as an alternative to everything else he's regulated himself to prior, restraining himself from seeking spontaneous romances, from settling into something safe when all he knows is a life of war, the fight constantly alive and preventing him from basking in moments like this.
He has none of the answers, but he's ensnared from pursuing them, distracted wholly by her mouth, sighing when he feels the soft rumble of a moan from it, followed by that casual twirl of a tongue that greets his own with a concoction of sweetness and heat all at once.
Hand clasped at her back, the other holds her hair, gathering the strands to keep from falling over his cheeks as she hovers above him, fingers trapping them in a gentle grasp at her neck, tips kneading over her skin in a slow rhythm that matches the steady patient pace of their lips. He won't filter the low sound that evokes in response to her pressing hips, the weight of her warm and welcoming, prompting a gentle nip to her lip. ]
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In a normal set of circumstances she'd be frustrated with herself for letting her want be rendered so plain on her face, in the sounds she gives voice to, those whimpers absorbed into the unspoken tempo of their kissing, such bare disclosure of her need and how much she's enjoying this that it almost doesn't feel like her. Usually she's better at not showing her hand like this, at not giving away the signs of the effect he's having on her, but this is satisfying that unconscious longing she has to just be near him in more ways than one.
It could be the heat of the moment that's left her thoughts hazy too, jumbled and non-linear, unable to perceive much apart from this and him and this, ignorant to their surroundings. Maybe they should stay in bed all day, she thinks to herself, just enjoying this unrushed exploration of each other.
She's so caught up in it that she doesn't realize her hand has drifted down from his face to his bandaged shoulder, covering it lightly, a non-offensive contact that won't cause any inadvertent pain until he delivers that teasing nip and she squeezes with her fingers, a reflexive reaction and the product of so much forgetting wrapped up in how satisfied she is solely from their shared proximity, skin against skin. ]
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But there's no rush to steer this in any other direction except where they already are, only testing smaller boundaries like the playful roll of his tongue proding hers and the firm grazes of his fingertips at her bare skin. There's time, he thinks, whether or not it actually exists, but simply because they proclaim it does, content to stop β for now β the persistent running that their minds and bodies are trained for.
Still, it's only natural for other instincts and physical urges to be stirred, a passion in their noisy mouths, exchanged moans falling free between them without filter, and the eventual nip that leaves her pressing into him a little more firmly, including that clutch to his shoulder.
When he groans this time, it isn't a pleasured one, a pained gasp that breaks their kiss from the instinctive reaction. ] Shit. [ He mutters under his breath, usually more in control over his responses to pain, but distraction lets the curse slip in the beat of that second.
Though his nose scrunches, wincing a little at the pulsing throb that lingers, he manages an honest chuckle, leaning his forehead to hers. ] Shit. [ He says again with a sigh, suddenly trapped in a bashful smile he tries to hide by dipping his nose against her cheek. ]
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Oh my God, I β I'm so sorry β [ Her gaze instantly shoots down to that tender area, wondering if she's pressed hard enough to aggravate his injury beyond a sudden throbbing, but before she can even check in with him he's bringing their faces together, prompting her to drop out of her frantic, worried tone into a softer hum. ]
You okay? [ It seems there's no significant harm done but she doesn't want to neglect the possibility that he's stifling down a stronger response; he's handled the sting of alcohol against a wound and probably more than that besides without even offering so much as a wince to signal any discomfort. ] Here, let me β [ Either way, she gently slides her hips away from him, easing over onto that uninjured side again, knee half-bent as her thigh notches over his.
And then she briefly hides her face against his shoulder, nose and cheeks buried there, and she laughs too, mostly at herself, shoulders shaking with it until she's recovered enough to lift her head again, to find him, cheeks hurting with how much she's trying to subdue the intensity of her grin. ] I'm pretty sure this isn't part of the normal treatment for serious stab wounds.
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Not too sure, doc. It was a fierce stealth attack. She got me good. Can't say I'll survive it. [ His own soft laughter seems to aid in a pleasant distraction from the lasting pain as it begins to ease back gradually to something more hummed and steady from before. When she readjusts herself to his side, he moves subconsciously in tugging at the sheet over his legs, loosening them free to drape over both their bodies, tucking it to her opposite side.
Sinking himself back against the pillow, his fingers roll up to the back of her head, light caresses petting at her hair as he peers down to her glancing face, his own lips curved into a soft smirk. ] I'd argue that. Think your methods have been working pretty well so far.
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It becomes even cozier once he tucks her in under the blanket with him, both of them sharing that space, recirculating all that body heat, and her hips tip forward as he bunches it behind her, effectively swaddling her into him. ]
If you're not gonna make it, any last wishes before you go? [ That brand of question would be better off delivered in the midst of one of those Eastwood movies he likes so much; here, with her obviously amused tone and the smoothness with which she wraps her arm around him, it adopts a significantly less serious implication.
She resumes the use of his good shoulder as a makeshift pillow, but her face remains tilted up to hold that gaze, absorb that delivery he punctuates with fingers trailing through her hair and the upturning at one edge of his mouth. ] You don't think you might be biased just a teeny-tiny bit?
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Eh. [ He makes a doubtful noise at her implication of being biased, nose scrunched as if to be offended by the accusation. ] Considering the circumstances, I think I'm allowed to be a little biased here, right?
[ In fairness, it has played a bit of a satisfying distraction, only jostled again by it with that accidental press, which he's already moved on from even if at ghost pulsing from it still lingers faintly. It's also an improvement to however he would have bothered taking care of it in the first place, her bandaged up work possibly the most effective treatment he'd allow to it with his brand of stubbornness. ]
But if we're talking wishes here β coffee. [ He peers away to the edge of the bed, almost wistful in his gaze as if the word alone could steer him into a dreamlike state. ] Won't lie, Judy. Think you might have nailed it with the best coffee in town.
[ Strong, just how he likes it. Though with the way he keeps his arm well pressed over her shoulder, locking her to where she's nestled at his side, he's no intentions on making her actually fill him up a pot. ]
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But more than just collectively agreeing to have each other's backs, they've confided in one another too, revealed some harsh truths and brutal traumas, and she can't say she ever planned on letting it go that far.
She's careful now, more mindful of his injury than she'd been before, but still conscious of the closeness, her curves nudged along his firmness, the scent of his skin when she casually nuzzles her cheek into his shoulder. The thought that her hesitation to remove herself from his bed could be a result of anything else hasn't even occurred to her; he's just so warm and solid and overall really nice to cuddle up to.
She smiles, the expression creating tension in her face from where she has it pressed against him, but there's a laugh in it too when his voice goes distant, yearning, like he and that potential mug of java might need to have a minute alone; it quiets down when that compliment slips in about how she makes it, though, and her fingers curl instinctively to hug him to herself, an act of expressing her thanks for it when she doesn't get around to actually saying the words. ]
If this is your way of trying to flatter me into making you some, Harry, you might have to try harder. [ The tease leaves her freely, no second thought behind it, although she knows that brewing a fresh pot means she'll have to get up and she's really not a fan of anything that would force her to have to do that β not when there's a security that accompanies the sensation of being held between his arm and his torso. ]
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Perhaps a part of him, a flicker deep within his chest, is prepared for the worst, for the inevitable departure of the feeling, knowing its habits of being fleeting before being forcibly ripped away. But she steers away the fears when she embraces him tighter, his fingers curling to her shoulder as his nose bruses gently at her forehead.
He smiles at the accusation, humming a soft, rather pleased noise. ] Me? I'd never. [ A vibration of quiet laughter follows, a gentle kiss pressed to her hairline and followed with a sigh that seems to release any remaining hints of tension left in him. ] I think I β I think I like you right where you are. [ Right here, with him, for however much longer it can be allowed. ]
But I'll definitely be trying harder later. [ The grin curves up against her skin, his own tease as easily exchanged as hers. ]
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Mmhmm. [ She infuses that sound with enough emphasis to make it evident that she doesn't believe him for a single second, but doesn't move to make any other type of counterargument β or move, period, for that matter, rendered loose and peaceful. She closes her eyes at the press of lips to the crown of her head, a quiet sigh leaving her in the wake of his. ]
Yeah, I guess it's not so bad here. I could stick around. [ She tries to muster a breezy version of the words, turning her face against his chest to hide her smile from his view.
His follow-up coaxes her back into looking at him, though, lips moving through the formation of a series of different answers to that comment and not being able to settle on anything remotely appropriate considering the places her thoughts are taking her to. Eventually, one makes it out. ] Well, you're gonna need your rest for that, then.
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Whether a part of him, small as it may be, wants to consider the possibilities of its truth, or not. ) ]
Oh, you'll stick around, huh? [ His laugh is more of a soft easy breath, the heat of it sighed over the skin of her temple where he lingers, even as his eyes shut to let himself sink into the moment, into the warmth she supplies better than the blanket draped across them both.
But he peeks an eye open again when he senses her movement, and the response that follows instantly prompts the subconscious raise of his brow, the soft swipe of his tongue over his lip more an indication of his concentration than anything actually intentional. ]
Yeah, you think so? [ The question sprouts before he has the sense to think it over, but he keeps his gaze on her nonetheless, index finger gently stroking back loose strands of her hair from her face. ]
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That's what she'll attempt to convince herself of, anyway, even while she tries to forget about what the heat of his kiss feels like.) ]
Mmhmm. I kinda like it here. [ She watches his eyes fall shut in the wake of that lull that settles over them again, the peace of the moment, just basking in the ability to lay in his arms like this without the need to make it anything more, to drift off with him still holding her.
But then he's looking at her again, and without her even realizing it her gaze has dropped to his mouth, tracking the sweep of a pink tongue that moistens a lower lip and makes her tilt her chin up a fraction of an inch, as if she intends to chase it, to seek it out for herself. ]
Oh, I know so. [ It takes only the slightest shift of her weight for her to give him her mouth again, a soft press that isn't lacking in a kindling heat β a casual hint, maybe, of what he's in for if he does make that greater effort later, after more of him has healed. ]
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(How honest was it really, to kiss her and want it to last, to have something to hold on to, to linger in something that made him stop feeling so alone?)
Before the heat can be ignited further, he breaks the rhythm of caressing lips with a soft chuckle, a low vibrating sound that gets lost to the seam of her mouth, a spread smile present before he can sneak another swift peppered kiss. ] Guess I'll need that rest then.
[ Fingers slip between them, thumb gently stroking over the lines of her mouth, swiping that wet line of evidence on her lip where his tongue had lingered. ] But you might want to work on not being so distracting.
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He chuckles and so does she, smiling too broadly to enable another, lingering kiss after her initiation, and she's grinning from behind closed eyes right up until the moment they flutter open to take in the details of him from this close.
(She'll remember it later, that smile, more than anything else made hazy by the particles currently floating in the air around them, and more than anything, think about ways to coax it out of him again.)
Her lips, already half-parted, go slack beneath the slide of his finger, let him smear that moisture across the swell of her lower, her gaze magnetized to his as if she can't even consider anywhere else to look, and she can't explain why her breath suddenly catches, why warmth suddenly floods through the very center of her. ] I'm distracting? You're lucky I manage to get anything done when you look like you do.
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Yet, she catches him in a moment that is so private, so personal, because it's not the polite kindness of Pete Castiglione, nor the ferocious rage of the Punisher β she snaps a brief flicker of Frank Castle, in all his naked sincerity, even if she isn't entirely aware of that secluded corner of him.
(But Frank Castle is dead, and all that's left is the mask of Pete Castiglione to veil the scars left in the wake of the Punisher. She can have his smile for those fleeting minutes, but it was never made to last, even if he yearns to find it again with the memory of that fantasy.)
He hums with her question, gnawing at his lip as a way to tire out their helpless spread. ] Well, shit, is that so? And how exactly do I look that it has you all ... distracted?
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She knows that right now, with him, she's glimpsing more than he's ever allowed her to see before, and that in itself feels like its own draw, the invisible rope that pulls her into him from somewhere in the vicinity of their hips β and maybe she lets some of her own guards go too, emboldened by his choice to reveal.
(Blaming all of this on that mysterious pollen will be much easier than admitting that even the smallest part of her had wanted an excuse to do it.)
She's grinning too, lips pulling tight in that shift, both indents in her cheeks irrepressible and undeniable, and her hand skims up along his side to brace against his chest, heel and fingertips resting there lightly. ] Come on. All those times you've been conveniently shirtless in front of me? You think I didn't notice all of β this? [ Her hand waves vaguely in the air, gesturing in his general direction, before resuming its original placement on his warmth. ]
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Instead, his palm finds a new safe haven in the curve of her neck, thumb brushing over the soft skin behind her lobe. ]
Conveniently. [ He repeats, another light chuckle shaking him, as if the word alone was enough to garner it. ] Oh, I know you notice. Did a good deal of complaining about it that it was hard to miss. [ His lips briefly purse, memory obviously drawn to the extended complaints she offered in relation. ]
If it helps, I'm not β I'm not actually trying to show anything off. [ His shoulders present a vague shrug, for as much as they could move where he's positioned on the bed, free fingers running circles to the exposed skin where her shirt had ridden up on her back, more an absentminded gesture with distracted thought than anything intentional. ] I'd ... I'd rather you didn't see.
[ It isn't the sculpted lines of muscle that rouse that uncertainty, but the exposure of scar tissue, marked lines and molten skin that expose a different kind of truth, one that he still hasn't entirely unveiled. ]
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Yeah, well. Maybe it's something you should be aware of, because it's kind of a problem. [ Her voice, however, holds none of the insistent protestings he's likely become well-accustomed to in their shared time here; instead, she's soft in her declaration, feigning annoyance, a brief narrowing of her gaze ruined by the twitching at the corners of her mouth.
That all fades, though, when his tone drops, that shrug preceding his real admission, and her brow furrows lightly, less with confusion and more with concern β because for all her teasing, she'd never once considered the possibility that he might be bothered by it, that he's uncomfortable with those certain aspects of himself being on display.
And in response, she eases herself up, one elbow bearing the weight of her upper body. ] So I sort of already figured you weren't just some guy who knew a thing or five about fixing sinks, even before I saw these. [ And he might have another scar to add to that number now, depending on how his shoulder heals; her fingers find the circular one beneath his clavicle, trace its shape absently. ] But that doesn't mean I don't like what I see.
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Marine Corps. [ It's a whisper, a simple answer that might fill in some of the present blanks, even as more remain without their filling. Even the next word falls even quieter, ] Some.
[ His own fingers draw back to rest over her wrist, but he doesn't grip it, doesn't try to nudge her touch away. Still, he doesn't look to her, seemingly distracted with an inner battle in his own thoughts. The comfort in this bed has been lasting, the continued warmth of her still, continuing to lure him into that quieter space of his mind. But the air feels heavy, and he wonders if the dishonesty is tugging at him, both inside and out, taunting. ] If you really saw, I don't β you won't like it. And you shouldn't.
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Guy I worked with, he's β he was a Marine, before. [ He'd had his scars too, but he'd also had those demons both literal and metaphorical, the former having followed him all the way over from his time in Afghanistan; she swallows, eyes distant and a little glossy at thinking of him now.
But Pete reels her back in with that murmur, the closure of fingers around her wrist, and she tilts in, brings her forehead to the edge of his jaw; she's not moving to separate them either, much as the decision of whether or not to tread forward genuinely terrifies her. ] I've got my own shit too, you know? Stories I don't tell people. Because I'm afraid of how they'll look at me after. Because I don't want it to change anything after the truth comes out. So β we can just meet each other in the middle on this. Whatever you want to tell me, or don't, it's β that's okay.
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As she carries on, his eyes shudder close once more, allowing that press of her forehead to his jaw lure him into that focus that only encircles her. He isn't the only one with scars, even if his happen to have a more prominent physical presence, and he knows she carries something she isn't unveiling, knows it has something to do with the way she'd been abandoned as a kid, how concerned she is to make sure Laura doesn't face the same path.
They don't know their secrets, and he can't guarantee that whatever comes out on either side won't change what's happening in this bed now, that the aiding comfort they hold in one another's arms won't slip at further confessions. But it won't last forever.
(And it shouldn't.)
He tilts forward, brushing his lips against the top of her head, not quite a kiss but just as close, taking in a breath with the consideration of her words. Whatever you want to tell me, or don't, it's β that's okay. When he draws back slightly, his eyes open to peer off to an altered corner of the room, there's a weight of confessions on his tongue, the debate of what should slip off from it pouring through his mind. But when he parts his lips, there's only a single word that falls. ]
Frank. [ It's soft, almost a breath, a swallow following afterwards. ] My name. It's Frank Castle.
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She has the reminders of her own battles to look back on, after all, but it's not like some of them are visible, like his; they all reside in her memories instead rather than on her skin. She'd once said that she'd be lying if she claimed she doesn't torture herself with those twisted souvenirs, the repetition of her ghosts; it didn't end the night she accidentally pulled the trigger on Ward. No, as it turns out, life was just getting started ensuring that she'd have many more names to add to that list. And she doesn't know when, or if, she'll ever make it around to confessing all of them; when she'd made that offer to Pete, to take it all one step at a time, it hadn't been a completely selfless suggestion.
No, that's not right, she realizes, not when he retreats enough to put more space between their faces, the sensation of his lips pressed against her crown abiding right up until the second he says the name β his actual name, not the one that she's learned to attach to his face over these last few months.
And she feels β well, she doesn't know what she feels about it at first, because that confession sends her mind spiraling in about a hundred different directions to a thousand unique questions: when he changed his name, or why. There are the obvious jokes, of course, about whether he's been in some form of witness protection this entire time, and if whoever's trying to kill him hasn't been able to follow him here. There's the part of her that almost wants to be mad about the lie, or unsettled, but instead, she just looks at him, exhaling deeply.
(When she recognizes this for the honest truth that it is, she'll be forced to wonder exactly how much of the rest had been a part of it too.) ]
Wow. Uh β [ She's still processing, but that doesn't mean she's going to stop talking, because it's her. ] Well, I gotta be honest, you never really felt like much of a Pete to me to begin with.
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She isn't even the first to hear it; Red knew who he was in an instant, plus there was the whackjob in red leather who knew much more than he should. Chloe knew something, though she was fairly convinced that he wasn't the same man that she knew, which name or not, was actual truth. Yet it's the first time he feels that instinctive need to share it, to have this be honest, because she deserves to know it, wherever this entanglement of theirs ends up leading.
(He won't regret it, but he'll still wonder if he should have spared her from it, from being taken in a step further towards the truth of his reality. Or if she'd seen more than enough of his scars that anything further would be entirely dangerous for them both.)
He isn't certain of what reaction will come, but it isn't quite that either, and with it comes a raise of his brow, an extended pause before the release of a soft held breath. ] Can't tell if that's an insult or a compliment. [ Whatever it is, he'll take it. ] Can't really change this one, so I hope you ain't too disappointed by it.
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She'd assured him that he only has to go as far as he's willing in regards to his secrets, but she won't deny that she's curious, especially in regards to why he felt the need to use an alias in the first place. And she can't help but wonder how many people have been clued in on this secret of his, aside from her.
Still, she won't inquire further along those lines, not while his arms are still wrapped snug around her frame, but she does peer up at him, a faint narrowing of her eyes like she intends to study him further until her expression relaxes, shifts into a half-grin at his comment. ]
Frank. [ She tests it out first, quietly and almost to herself, before repeating it a little louder, for his hearing. ] Sorry, I don't have any replacement names to give you, though. Still Earp. [ Or Wynonna, or Judy, or whatever other names he feels like ascribing to her depending on the time of day; she lowers her head until her chin presses against his chest, all of her bobbing slightly when she talks. ] Nice to meet you, Frank.
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