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[ he should have just left well enough alone but... here he was instead.

She'd probably bash his head in for just showing up like this after cutting it off -- which is why he sneaked in instead of using the front door, but she wasn't home yet.

It was the perfect excuse to leave again, but he found himself waiting for here instead of taking the perfect opportunity.

god-fucking-damn it. ]

[ at least this way, the sound of keys in the door warns him that she's arrived. it's better than the hypothetical reverse, something with her kicking the door in and waking the neighbors with her hysterics, her shouting. it's probably dangerous now, how worked up she gets, now that her belly is round enough to show.

the door opens. she pauses in the entryway to balance a bag of groceries on her hip, flipping on the lights. she looks tired, like she hasn't been sleeping well -- but the second she sees him, her face changes. anger rises over fatigue, and her voice is downright threatening when she demands: ]

What the hell d'you think you're doin' here.

[ He's not going to fight her when she's like this: too much risk. Besides, with her power, it's not very likely that he'd win. She looks ready to kill him, and he doesn't budge from where he stands. ]

Waiting.

[ she doesn't know what it is that pisses her off this time -- the sudden rush of feeling in her chest, pulling her lungs tight, or the shortness of his answer, or the fact that he's there at all.

she does look ready to kill him. maybe on bad days, she's even wanted to, because he hadn't been there. her face is angry, but she doesn't mean it, can't possibly mean it when she stands between him and the door like this: ]

Get out.

No. [ There's no tone of argument in his voice now. Though he should get out -- all his better sense tells him to, and he isn't sure what makes him ignore it. ] You don't want that.

[ tension rises in her shoulders when he calls her out like that -- and maybe that's the only thing that keeps her from escalating to something more aggressive, like physically trying to throw him out. she isn't sure what to do with that truth yet, because she is the kind of woman who never forgets, who always holds a grudge, but he's right. she doesn't want that.

so, instead, almost petulantly, she slams the door shut behind her with a careless, effortless push of her hand, storming past him into the kitchen with her groceries. she sets them down on the counter much harder than she needs to, glaring daggers at him pointedly. ]

Oh yeah? Fuckin' wise guy. What the hell do I want then, huh?

Something I can't give you. [ There is no hesitation in his reply, but rather a hesitation in his posture. While he's saying these things, he's here lingering for no reason. The actions don't match his words. ]

Here. [ He follows her to the kitchen, taking the bag from the counter. ] Sit.

[ her glare follows him as he moves into the kitchen, but for once, she listens, sitting down in one of the dining chairs. she blames it her swollen belly-- invulnerable though she might be, and as physically strong as she is, pregnancy is nothing to scoff at. still, the anger lingers in her face. some days anger comes as naturally to her as breathing, and it's hard to tell which one she needs more. anger protects her.

but anger can't cure the tightness in her chest or the knot in her stomach. she runs her fingers impatiently through her hair. she needs to get it together. she can't be like this, she just can't. and she hears what he's saying, maybe even believes it, that he just can't give her what she wants, but without really knowing why, she still opens her mouth on futile, frustrated words: ]

Stay with me.

[ He unloads her bags slowly. Not putting anything away, since he doesn't know how she organizes it, but also because that's not his intent. He finds a glass in the cabinets, pours her water, and offers it to her.

'Offer' being used lightly -- he expects her to drink it. She went out; she probably hadn't eaten in awhile now.

Then he goes back to the bags, retrieving bread and vegetables. He glances into the fridge, finding deli meat and mustard. He starts throwing a sandwich together, which is about the extent of his abilities with food. ]

For awhile.

[ she takes the glass from him, her eyebrows still furrowed, and her stare still pointed. she isn't really listening to him at first, because she thinks she knows what he's going to say, and she's already regretting her moment of weakness -- ]

Whatever, Frank. Fine. It ain't like --

[ she stops. eyes him a second like she's finally processed his answer and isn't sure she understood right. ]

What'd y'say?

[ The response is actually not what he expects -- and that suits him fine enough. He finishes what he's doing, simple as it is, and turns back to her, holding the plate out for her to take. ]

Eat something.

[ He knows she heard what he said; he's not going to repeat it. ]

[ for lack of a better way to respond, she thoughtlessly takes the plate from him, watching him like she still isn't sure what to make of it, because she was so sure she'd have to rage and fight. she doesn't know what to do, now that she's actually getting something she wants.

finally, she sets the glass and plate down on the table, getting up and moving towards him. it's hard to tell what she means to do, if she means to be violent or not, because she's hardly ever rational and she's the sort of woman you should keep at arm's length, and he probably knows that better than most by now -- but it's not violence, not like that, even though she gets a hold of his clothes, even though she's using her height shamelessly.

she just kisses him, bruisingly hard and grateful. ]

[ He is still when she approaches him. If she intends to lash out, he's not going to run from it. She's earned the right to hit him if she wanted to do it.

What came instead wasn't startling, but the way she kissed was almost rough enough to still count as violence.

Frank allows it for several seconds longer than he should, before he turns his head aside, his hand finding her hip. ]

Eat the food.

[ she's hardly so easily rejected, lingering close for another passing moment or two. it's strange, what she looks like when she isn't totally furious -- the shape of her eyes when she isn't scowling, the shape of her mouth when she isn't spitting venom. her grip on his clothes loosens, and she even pauses to smooth the fabric out with her hands before she steps back, listening for once.

letting the space open up between them, she sits, pointedly taking a bite of the sandwich, chewing, swallowing, and washing it down with a drink of water -- as if to say, look, she can behave, if she wants. ]

Happy now, hon?

[ it's a little mocking, but not mean. not like she can be. ]

[ Frank watches her as she withdraws. He can't deny that he's grown used to how her body moves, how her voice sounds and the way her mouth tastes. It's all signs that he should pull away, but he doesn't.

Instead, he moves to sit across from her at the table, the scene seeming a bit too domestic for his liking. ]

Wrong word to use.

[ lil can't remember the last time they sat at the same table like this. he might not like it, but it's a small comfort to her. it gets that angry chaos inside of her to calm a little bit, because it's been lonely for her. she misses him, that's the worst part, and that's why she's always so furious, when she sees his face again.

right now though, she's not angry. she's watching him across the table, resting her chin in the palm of her hand, elbow propping her arm up. absently, she picks at the crust of her sandwich. at length, she responds in her plain way: ]

Y'really gonna stay?

Depends. [ Frank's own posture is far from slack. He hunches over somewhat, his forearms resting on the tabletop. He watches her, but he isn't scrutinizing. It's almost cautious. He doesn't ask how she's been, because that is too much of a betrayal. ]

There's only so much I can do.

[ caution probably isn't unfounded. even when she's like this, lil is entirely unpredictable. she's always two steps away from snapping at any given moment. "crazy" would be a fair word to use.

it's almost dismissive when she responds: ]

I can take care a'myself. I don't need babyin'. That ain't it.

[ whatever "it" is though, she isn't volunteering any clarification. ]

Didn't offer that.

[ He speaks blandly, very wary. Lil is moody at the best of time, let alone when she's carrying all the extra hormones that come along with pregnancy. ]

What is it you want?

[ it's probably a good thing there's the table between the two of them. even like this, when she's not raging, lil possesses a natural sort of intensity, maybe in the weight of her attention and how singular it is, or maybe in the constant threat of her aggressive nature, combined with her superpowers and her unusual height. she's a human battering ram when she wants to be, and besides, she has more baggage than most.

but under all that, she's just a woman.

that question makes her pause and glance away. her voice comes out vaguely annoyed and a little impatient, but for once, her tone doesn't quite match her face: ]

What the hell kinda question is that when I'm carryin' your baby?

A valid one. [ His tone isn't confrontational, but rather blunt and honest. ] You can't expect the usual out of me.

[ And he said this a million times, but it hadn't sunk in yet. ]

[ it probably never will, not fully anyway. lil's too stubborn for that, and she always gets too invested -- worst of all, she rarely learns her lesson.

she purses her lips at him a second, idly running her index finger around the rim of her water glass. she knows he isn't picking a fight with her, not right now, but she still feels a little twinge of defensive annoyance at nothing in particular. her voice comes out dismissively: ]

I ain't expectin' nothin'. I ain't a sixteen-year-old gal with a high school crush. Just wouldn't mind seein' your stupid face more than once every few goddamn months.

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