Mourning should fucking matter, in every way, up to and including the whiskey. Mourning deserves the highest shelf shit there is.
But Christ, Red.
Christ.
Frank shakes his head and teethes whiskey from his bottom lip. "To the women we've loved," he just repeats, setting the glass back down on the table. Maybe Red's made his amends, made them good enough to say shit like that. It's only fresh to Frank. "To be fair, from what I've seen you know how to pick 'em." Maybe he would have liked Elektra too but they'll never know. Like Maria, she's just an empty shape where a woman once was.
He exhales. Lets it go. "You got anything tonight that needs sewing up? Gonna have to tell me; I can't sniff it out." But the first-aid box was taken out before he got here, so there's something.
no subject
But Christ, Red.
Christ.
Frank shakes his head and teethes whiskey from his bottom lip. "To the women we've loved," he just repeats, setting the glass back down on the table. Maybe Red's made his amends, made them good enough to say shit like that. It's only fresh to Frank. "To be fair, from what I've seen you know how to pick 'em." Maybe he would have liked Elektra too but they'll never know. Like Maria, she's just an empty shape where a woman once was.
He exhales. Lets it go. "You got anything tonight that needs sewing up? Gonna have to tell me; I can't sniff it out." But the first-aid box was taken out before he got here, so there's something.