[Fingernails too short to catch trace through an inch of bristles before stopping, shy of anything that could be called a caress. There's no real pressure in the touch. Someone else, maybe anyone else, Frank would have handled to his liking - and maybe he will, later, when Murdock's doing the same to him. But not right now.] Green, yellow. [Like the sky just before a bad storm.
His thumb moves, settling just to the left of center, where the leading knuckle must have made contact.] And red. The color of your suit. [He's not Murdock's dog but that doesn't mean the metaphor is false. Frank's fingers curve against the sharp line of Murdock's jaw, turning the man's face just so into his own. Hangs there, breath heavy, mouths separated by not even inches.
There's loyalty for a hand that reaches out, even after it's been bitten. Especially then.]
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His thumb moves, settling just to the left of center, where the leading knuckle must have made contact.] And red. The color of your suit. [He's not Murdock's dog but that doesn't mean the metaphor is false. Frank's fingers curve against the sharp line of Murdock's jaw, turning the man's face just so into his own. Hangs there, breath heavy, mouths separated by not even inches.
There's loyalty for a hand that reaches out, even after it's been bitten. Especially then.]