Dangerous

Chapter Ten

A/N: ten chapters posted in like, within the hour. Gotta be a new record for me.

This chapter is short af

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Day 2.5; 8:00 pm

Xx

So, now I'm plopped back on Frankie's couch -- honestly, at this point in time I think it's more my couch than his, anyway -- with my still-dirty feet, well... on his couch, laying in his vacated apartment.

Why was it vacated?
Yeah, beats me.

He got me situated on the couch again, same position as I usually was and everything. He made sure I was all comfy and such, and then he just... left.

If a series of question marks had a noise, I'd be making said noise at the moment.

That was... oh, I dunno, an hour ago, maybe, that he walked out the door. My internal clock was telling me it was around eight at night and I was wide a-fucking-wake with nothing to freaking do.

I wasn't tired at all, so I couldn't just... fall asleep...

        Tick...

Tock...

        Tick...

Tock...

        Tick...

Tock...

        Wow, his ceiling is so interesting....

Tick...

        Tock...

Tick...

        Tock...

Goddammit! I sat up, swinging my feet off the couch so I could stand up. The floor was cold, but it was a nice type of cold, and I wiggled my toes as I slowly moved towards the kitchen counter.

When I got near the edge of it, I just let myself fall hands-first into the edge of it so I could kind of just... draaaaag my feet across the floor, "The hell?"

I found Delilah.

She, my knives, and my other pistol -- Daniel -- were all laid out nice 'n neat on the countertop. I can't believe that I hadn't noticed them all before.

My pistols were unclipped, the clips emptied and extra bullets -- there were only the two bullets from Delilah, I'd emptied the clip on Daniel -- were set together in a precise, straight line. The knives had been sharpened and cleaned, and both pistols cleaned as well.

"That's... strange... that he cleaned my weapons for me..." I mused, "Nice of him to do so, but strange altogether."

Why does he even know how to do that?

Doesn't matter. What does matter is that I'm bored out of my fucking mind and I have no source of entertainment. The man doesn't have any books, no TV, not even a freaking radio... he has about three police scanners, though, and I could hear them buzzing with chit-chat, but nothing decipherable.

Even so, I went over to the table they sat on, running my left hand's fingers gently over the tops of them. In the light filtering in from the window, my hand looked terrible. Bruised and scabbed knuckles, cuts and scrapes. That lil' ol' Deathly Hallows tattoo near the base of my thumb.

The end of the table was situated near the window, so I pulled open said window and dragged the chair nearer to it, sitting myself down with my arms folded on the windowsill. There was a light breeze blowing through town and with it came the smell of... well, the city. Various foods and beers, but also car exhaust and gasoline with the faint smell of nearing autumn. Even the wind had a tint of coolness to it.

I laid my head on my arms, sighing heavily as I closed my eyes, listening to the soothing, familiar sounds of Hell's Kitchen.