( Christ in heaven, can this kid go a week without getting into some kind of trouble? Seriously, she's like a magnet for it.
Those familiar boots round the car parked beside hers, one measured step after another, until he slows to a halt some three or four feet away with his arms deliberately crossing over his chest. He can imagine what she probably thinks is gonna happen. That he's gonna pull out a gun or something, plug these drunk assholes right here in this parking lot without an hint at remorse. Leave her to walk away from the corpses sprayed in a fine mist of blood.
That's not what he intends to happen right now. There's a world of difference between taking a knife to an innocent civilian in an attempted robbery, and making a jackass of yourself by being an obnoxious drunk. Granted, yeah, there's absolutely a world where these idiots cross the line and make themselves valid targets, but they're not there yet, and he's not an impulsive bloodthirsty psycho. Usually.
There are a few steps to go through before bullets start flying. )
Everything okay here, Nashville?
( He speaks up loudly, voice deep and hoarse and scraping like gravel over concrete — the kind of deep that penetrates the drunken haze of the guy trying to insert himself between her thighs and into her bag for the keys. Dude freezes, then peels back a few uncertain inches.
"That your dad or something?" he asks stupidly, visibly hesitating. Frank doesn't bother hiding the way his eyes roll — he's maybe, what, thirteen, fourteen years older than her? It's not inconceivable, but it's a hell of a leap to make, unless Frank's looking a lot rougher these days than he realized. )
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Those familiar boots round the car parked beside hers, one measured step after another, until he slows to a halt some three or four feet away with his arms deliberately crossing over his chest. He can imagine what she probably thinks is gonna happen. That he's gonna pull out a gun or something, plug these drunk assholes right here in this parking lot without an hint at remorse. Leave her to walk away from the corpses sprayed in a fine mist of blood.
That's not what he intends to happen right now. There's a world of difference between taking a knife to an innocent civilian in an attempted robbery, and making a jackass of yourself by being an obnoxious drunk. Granted, yeah, there's absolutely a world where these idiots cross the line and make themselves valid targets, but they're not there yet, and he's not an impulsive bloodthirsty psycho. Usually.
There are a few steps to go through before bullets start flying. )
Everything okay here, Nashville?
( He speaks up loudly, voice deep and hoarse and scraping like gravel over concrete — the kind of deep that penetrates the drunken haze of the guy trying to insert himself between her thighs and into her bag for the keys. Dude freezes, then peels back a few uncertain inches.
"That your dad or something?" he asks stupidly, visibly hesitating. Frank doesn't bother hiding the way his eyes roll — he's maybe, what, thirteen, fourteen years older than her? It's not inconceivable, but it's a hell of a leap to make, unless Frank's looking a lot rougher these days than he realized. )