( Frank, for his part, is posted up on the motel bed, clothes changed into something a little less tainted by blood — both hers and theirs — on top of the still-made bed, legs crossed at the ankles, reclined against the headboard with the TV remote in his hand. On television, of all the goddamn things, is The Andy Griffith Show, because apparently they get that in other dimensions — but it's episodes he's never seen before, and he's starting to think it might be some kinda alternate universe variation. He doesn't like to think about it too hard. )
Almost two. ( Comes the bored drawl; he doesn't even bother peeling his eyes off the screen. ) Pick a lane, Boston. Go back to sleep or go home.
( Which is to say, he's been waiting her out. Tempted to knock out himself, but leaving her to wake up in a strange motel room with a strange ass man snoring across the room's a little awkward, and she can't exactly deadbolt the door behind her if she sneaks out. That's a cardinal sin against home security considering the type of city they're in.
He's not gonna kick her out, but they're also not gonna have a chatty little tea party together. )
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Almost two. ( Comes the bored drawl; he doesn't even bother peeling his eyes off the screen. ) Pick a lane, Boston. Go back to sleep or go home.
( Which is to say, he's been waiting her out. Tempted to knock out himself, but leaving her to wake up in a strange motel room with a strange ass man snoring across the room's a little awkward, and she can't exactly deadbolt the door behind her if she sneaks out. That's a cardinal sin against home security considering the type of city they're in.
He's not gonna kick her out, but they're also not gonna have a chatty little tea party together. )