Photos, albums — yeah, yes, things he both wishes he'd taken, and that he's glad he hadn't. He'd get lost in them, he knows. They'd consume him, every waking moment. He wouldn't be able to stop looking at them, thinking about them, mourning. He couldn't. Laura's perfume... smart, that's smart, too. He can't remember what Maria smelled like anymore, it's just-- gone. Scent's supposed to be the strongest sense tied to memory, but the exact smell, the exact smell, that's gone, his mind can't recreate it.
When Clint nearly doubles over with that sweeping rush of feeling, it takes everything in him not to reach out again. He wants to; he wants to drag the guy into an embrace, wants to give him something he's not even remotely ready to accept yet, something that won't do anything, won't fix anything.
Maybe they've still got those, uh- Christmas totes upstairs, those ones with all the tangled strings of lights that are a bitch and a half to untangle and hang every year, but every year they do it anyway. He could dump 'em out, use that to store some things. The lights themselves'll be fine on the floor.
He gets about halfway across the kitchen before Clint stops him with a name.
He'd been doing the same goddamn thing Clint has, except he's been better at it because he can channel his whole mind to a task that hasn't ended, one constant thread of an objective in taking care of his friend, it's been easier to block out. And now it's gone.
He left her purse on the ground. Left the handgun spilled out onto the rug. Locked the door behind him, so maybe nobody'll break in — except Murdock, if he's still alive, Frank doesn't know. He didn't check. He went to Karen first, she was closer, and then he drove straight here. Can't pretend to give enough of a shit about Red to even think about checking on him.
But Karen-
A muscle in his jaw twitches, flexes. He brings a hand up to chew on a thumbnail, absent, distracted. It might be bleeding, or maybe he just always tastes blood.
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When Clint nearly doubles over with that sweeping rush of feeling, it takes everything in him not to reach out again. He wants to; he wants to drag the guy into an embrace, wants to give him something he's not even remotely ready to accept yet, something that won't do anything, won't fix anything.
Maybe they've still got those, uh- Christmas totes upstairs, those ones with all the tangled strings of lights that are a bitch and a half to untangle and hang every year, but every year they do it anyway. He could dump 'em out, use that to store some things. The lights themselves'll be fine on the floor.
He gets about halfway across the kitchen before Clint stops him with a name.
He'd been doing the same goddamn thing Clint has, except he's been better at it because he can channel his whole mind to a task that hasn't ended, one constant thread of an objective in taking care of his friend, it's been easier to block out. And now it's gone.
He left her purse on the ground. Left the handgun spilled out onto the rug. Locked the door behind him, so maybe nobody'll break in — except Murdock, if he's still alive, Frank doesn't know. He didn't check. He went to Karen first, she was closer, and then he drove straight here. Can't pretend to give enough of a shit about Red to even think about checking on him.
But Karen-
A muscle in his jaw twitches, flexes. He brings a hand up to chew on a thumbnail, absent, distracted. It might be bleeding, or maybe he just always tastes blood.
And he says, "She wasn't home."