4. Frank Castle, Foggy Nelson, Matt Murdock

  Gimmie Three Steps || Accepting

4. write a book with, read a book to, hit with a bookI. Write a book with:He’s been transcribing depositions for days. To the point where Beth thinks that Foggy and the chair have formed a symbiotic relationship and she almost feels like an intruder. She reaches an arm across from her to put down a cup of coffee ~decaf, as much as it pains her to do so~ and offers him a smile. “Come on, pea ki’i. Fry wantons I brough’ over are gonna go all soft an’ da four-season fry rice is gonna get cold. Tell ya what. You drink dis coffee. Get some food. Small nap. An’ I’ll do a round of dem foldahs ya got dere. T’ink of me as ya lawyery menahune. Which is li’dat… house elf. Only way cooler cause ya know. Da accen’ an all.”She prepares to dig trenches in the sand, call out the national guard ~not that she thinks Matt will answer his phone, he rarely does these days~ and whatever else she has to to make sure Foggy doesn’t work himself to death. The last ditch effort she can think of is stealing his lap top. Possibly because she thinks she can run faster scared than Foggy can mad, and possibly because she hates seeing him so tired. “I’ll even double space and everyt’ing.”~*~

II. Read a book to:

“….“I’m going to tell you something once and then whether you die is strictly up to you,” Westley said, lying pleasantly on the bed. “What I’m going to tell you is this: drop your sword, and if you do then I will leave with this baggage here” -he glanced at Buttercup- “And you will be tied up but not fatally, and will be free to go about your business. And if you choose to fight, well, then, we will not both leave alive.” ….”

She glances over at Frank. Asleep on her couch, asleep for the first time that she can remember. In sleep he looks different. Awake he is dangerous. He’s held in the grip of a kind of madness that can’t be tamed. She knows that Frank well by now. But asleep? Asleep he looks softer. Less made of marble and steel and unfathomable pain. She tucks the silk book mark between the well loved, well worn pages of her favourite book. Gets up from her brother’s chair and picks up the throw blanket from its place, draping it over him. She knows not to get too close, but still, her fingertips whisper like ghosts along the side of his jaw.”G’night, Frank.”~*~III. Hit with a book:

Beth has never been a creature of violence, with the patience of the Buddha at times. Whether it’s the yoga and meditation, whether it’s the vague memories of the fights between her Mother and the Admiral that often ended with her brother trying to hand her off to someone else so he could pick up the pieces ~sometimes real, sometimes metaphor~ she couldn’t really say, but she was at her heart a lifelong pacifist.So it’s nearly as much of a surprise to her as it is to Matt when she takes her bible off her lap and smacks him dead centre in the chest with it before trying to scoot as far away on the pew as she can get.

“And who’s fault dat? Grown man runnin’ aroun’ in a leaddah suit like he da second coming of Supah-man. Don’ t’ink I no can hear ya wheeze every time ya take a breath.”The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen isn’t the only one who has certain…abilities. “Come by da ER later. M’shift starts in two hours. An’ heaven help ya Matt’ew Murdock, if I goddah come fish ya out a dumpster or pull your carcass out a morgue drawer.”She really needs to find a new church.

🍓

Fruit Basket || Accepting

Strawberry: What things entice my muse? 

Should Beth be concerned about having Frank Castle… the infamous Punisher…himself sitting on her couch? 

Probably.Is she? 

Not even a little. 

In fact what she’s doing is pouring him another cup of coffee. The man needed a home-cooked meal and about ten thousand years of sleep and he has never once whispered the threat of real violence against her. And while he is technically a convicted criminal and on the run…well, she can think of worse things for him to be. A politician. Her father. The guy down the street who spends way too much time watching kids gather at the bus-stop and she might have to look very carefully into that.

And he’s being engaging though he never struck her as the type to whom conversation came easy to. The question itself makes her smile. Not the over-bright, full teeth showing kind, but no less warm, no less generous.

“I’ve nevah turn down a good full bodied Italian.” Okay, so hopefully the wink tells him she’s teasing. “Wine. I mean wine. Merlot. Burgundy. Something warm and bloody on the tongue. Just goddah be careful with dat unless ya want it stickin’ with ya in da morning.”

She’s trying to speak better Ha….English, so he doesn’t struggle with the way she talks but little bits of the islands linger.

“Dancing. My…hearing…is a little…da kine. Weird? But like, the feel of skin on skin. Dat sweat and heat and music throbbing all around ya. Not something ya have t’ overthink, ya know? Makes me feel…little less lonely. Little less…disconnected.”

Colour steals its way into her cheeks and she glances at her cup rather than his face.

“What ‘bout you? What’s yer temptation, ah?”