[ She isn't going to ask. It doesn't matter if she wants to ask because she's already decided the end result.
But, having decided the end result of not asking doesn't keep her from the wandering wanting of it. Doesn't keep her from staring at a bright, blank phone screen in the dark while she lays wide awake in those terrible middle-of-the-night hours, when you're most painfully aware of how alone you are.
Did you find him, she can guess the answer (probably, Clint is stubborn). Is he okay, that one she doesn't even need to guess. She knows the answer is no. None of these answers change anything. The questions just keep her stuck, so she doesn't ask. She won't ask.
Which is great, except for when she drops her phone on her face. The keyboard smacking against her forehead and nose produces a very eloquent: ]
[Everything about everything about Frank fucking sucks. What happened sucks. The reaction sucks. Everyone else's reactions have sucked. Frank's ongoing bullshit sucks.
But if shit didn't suck, Clint's not sure what he would do with himself. There's always something to do, something to fix, because...because. Things being hard is not a good reason to just give up. It makes sleep difficult, though, because Frank's sleeping like shit, too. And they've shared that dark, empty void before. To the point where it's usually impossible to tell who the sensation originated from.
He thinks he'll be able to get back to sleep if he just rolls over and lets the exhaustion take him for a good solid several hours. But his phone buzzes, and his hand is already immediately reaching out. He knows it's not Frank. Frank is so thoroughly uninterested in talking to him that he'd be even more worried if it was.
It's Furiosa, and it's incomprehensible, and he squints at the screen in the dark.]
You okay?
[It wasn't a call, but it's late and abrupt and unfinished, and if she was in trouble--
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text. not me fucking up my own planned ic misfire.
But, having decided the end result of not asking doesn't keep her from the wandering wanting of it. Doesn't keep her from staring at a bright, blank phone screen in the dark while she lays wide awake in those terrible middle-of-the-night hours, when you're most painfully aware of how alone you are.
Did you find him, she can guess the answer (probably, Clint is stubborn). Is he okay, that one she doesn't even need to guess. She knows the answer is no. None of these answers change anything. The questions just keep her stuck, so she doesn't ask. She won't ask.
Which is great, except for when she drops her phone on her face. The keyboard smacking against her forehead and nose produces a very eloquent: ]
d
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But if shit didn't suck, Clint's not sure what he would do with himself. There's always something to do, something to fix, because...because. Things being hard is not a good reason to just give up. It makes sleep difficult, though, because Frank's sleeping like shit, too. And they've shared that dark, empty void before. To the point where it's usually impossible to tell who the sensation originated from.
He thinks he'll be able to get back to sleep if he just rolls over and lets the exhaustion take him for a good solid several hours. But his phone buzzes, and his hand is already immediately reaching out. He knows it's not Frank. Frank is so thoroughly uninterested in talking to him that he'd be even more worried if it was.
It's Furiosa, and it's incomprehensible, and he squints at the screen in the dark.]
You okay?
[It wasn't a call, but it's late and abrupt and unfinished, and if she was in trouble--
If she was in trouble, who would she contact?]
no subject
I'm fine.
Don't worry about it.
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Get some sleep.
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