memezilla | Denny's Meme

[She gets a little too much triumph out of making The Punisher smile. He's much more entertaining than people give him credit for.]

A little? [She scoffs, dropping the few fries in her hand back onto the plate as she struggles to keep down the two she already regrets eating.] You put a man through a baby grand piano tonight, Castle. Not on top of, but through.

[She washes down the stale taste of cold potato with the rest of the coffee out of his mug, making a face and swiping the sticky plastic menu off the table again.]

Any chance they started serving booze here?

[Oh my god, Frank is so offended right now. He looks into the forlorn emptiness of his mug as soon as she sets it back down, and waits approximately 0 seconds before waving towards one of the employees wandering around for a refill. Again. This is definitely cup number eleven; if there weren't visual evidence of the redness of his blood, one would be forgiven for assuming he is made entirely of coffee, muscles and skin. The poor Denny's waitress just plops a whole pot down on the table with the most wan of smiles before he can say a word and turns towards Sara to see if she'll be requesting anything else off the menu that she's holding.]

I'll put you through a baby grand piano. [He grumbles, while pouring. Stealing a man's coffee, that's got to be a cardinal sin. Right? Been awhile since he's gone to mass, but he's pretty sure.] And I think you're supposed to get drunk before you come here, not during.

[Either she just unwillingly put herself in the line of fire with that coffee swipe, or she knows and doesn't care. Either way, there's a grin on her lips at the completely scandalized look on his face, and she thanks the waitress for surrendering her pot of coffee to them.]

You can try. [She turns a sweet smile to the waitress, ordering up a chocolate peanut butter milkshake for herself instead. Before, huh? Well then I guess you and I fucked up.

[Frank snorts, but appears mostly mollified after taking a long pull from his fresh cup of coffee. It's hot enough to burn, but he just wrinkles his nose, winces, and then drinks again.] Being at Denny's at all could probably be considered fucking up. [He's not going to mention that he doesn't get drunk period, not anymore. He's maudlin enough while stone cold sober, thanks, he would probably be a complete disaster with the addition of booze.

And it is definitely harder to snipe with beer goggles on.]

Police are probably going to have enough to start looking for us in the next hour or two.

[How he can chug down that much diluted crap so quickly and still have the balls to complain about her eating french fries is beyond her. But the sentiment does make her wonder what he's like drunk and what might be the best possible way to get him there.]

Yeah, probably best to take this after party somewhere more private. Preferably with whiskey. [She shoots him a grin, digging around in her cleavage for a few bills and tossing them on the table.

[Aw, and right after he got the pot. Frank holds up a finger, knocks his mug back like it's a goddamn shot then pours another and does the same to that one. Well. Now he's awake. He pulls out a roll of bills of his own (stolen, of course, off of one shitbag or another who deeply deserved it), and pays for his coffee and a tip big enough to be just this side of ridiculous.

He's genuinely tempted to bring the coffee pot with them, but resists and slides out of the booth, tugging his suit jacket back into some semblance of order.]

Your place or mine?

[Fair warning, his place has a giant slobbering dog and a distinct lack of creature comforts.]

[She wrinkles her nose as he knocks back the coffee, wondering fleetingly if his internal organs are just as worn and calloused as the rest of him is.

Stooping to strap the ridiculous stilettos back onto her feet, she slides out of the booth and reaches over to adjust his bowtie.]

My place has a hotel mini-bar begging to be plundered, so unless you have a better offer...

[The waitress is kind enough to offer Sara her milkshake in a to-go cup, which she takes gratefully as they make their way to the exit.]

I don't.

[He only just manages to talk himself out of reaching up to untie the bowtie and slip it into the trash on the way out, but he still cases every corner and doorway like he's never broken himself of the wartime habit of clearing rooms before walking into them the whole way to the hotel.

He makes a beeline for the complimentary coffee pot on the counter as they enter her room because he's the world's most ridiculous human being.]

Planning to skip out on the bill? Those mini-bars cost a goddamn fortune.

[He's definitely not offering to help pay.]

[She leads them up to a cushy looking bungalow in one of the city's highest rated hotels, choosing the back way in where she's already looped the camera feeds.

She kicks her shoes off the moment they get inside, shrugging off her jewelry and dumping it in a pile on a nearby side table.]

I routed the bill to a mid-level mob boss in town. Trust me, he won't even notice. He's about to have a hell of a lot more on this plate to worry about than fraudulent charges.

[While he's busying himself with the coffee pot, she hops up on a generous looking mini-bar, rummaging around for a half-bottle of champagne and popping the cork.] Mazel tov.

[See, that's why he likes her. While the coffee is busy trickling very slowly out, he tugs the bowtie off and leaves it next to her jewlery pile, draping his suit jacket over the back of one of the chairs just to be rid of it.

He leaves the shoulder holsters and mini uzis strapped inside them on.]

Well, as long as it's for a good cause.

[He finds the little bottle of Irish whisky—not nearly enough to get someone his size drunk, but enough to give a pot of coffee a good kick—and tears the seal open with a thumbnail.]

Where'd you learn to fight?

[He makes it a point to not care about people's pasts or their dayjobs, in this business, but he can't help but be a little curious about her.]

[She takes a swig of champagne, eyeing him curiously as he unravels himself from the uptight tuxedo get-up. He's a little more in his element now, and it shows - he wears it well, anyway.

It may not seem like there are many places to hide weapons under the sleek black gown she's wearing, but Sara's managed well enough. She tugs off a few holsters at her thighs, knives tucked into the sides of her dress and even her cleavage.]

Here and there. Southeast and central Asia, mostly. Kind of a long story. [It's easier to hand-wave than go into details about being marooned on an island with a mercenary and joining the League of Assassins, anyway. Besides, he doesn't seem the type who appreciates a sob story.

You were military, right? Gotta be. Marines?

[He doesn't pry because people (in their line of work) generally don't like prying, but he doesn't totally mind listening, either. To certain individuals, anyway: she'd get a pass.

Especially since she guessed the branch right and everything. Inter-military rivalries demand he be personally, deeply insulted every time someone dares to assume he's Army or Air Force, or even just regular Navy. Marine Corps or bust, oorah. He fights down the urge to smile, not entirely successfully.]

Yeah. Scout sniper, couple tours. [More than a couple, but who's counting?] Guess I just still can't believe there's so much ninja shit in the middle of New York City. [Listen, ranged fighting with guns is by far the better option let him talk you into that shit Sara.]

[If she were the prying type, it'd be easy enough for her to dig into the life and times of Frank Castle. Most of it had been aired out in the press during his trial, anyway, but Sara isn't much for the media. Spending the bulk of the past 5 years underground - literally and figuratively - will do that.

In any case, it's nice to unravel a story like his the old fashioned way. He reads like a battered novel, unexpected and unpredictable.

She can't help but smile back at him, sipping at her champagne and swinging her legs playfully as they dangle over the bartop.]

We ninja like to travel. Got some pretty awesome frequent flyer miles out of it, anyway. [She grins, eyeing him curiously.] Think you could take a former ninja assassin in hand-to-hand, soldier?

[Frank snorts. He always excelled at MCMAP, and nobody sane ever tries to corner him in a fistfight, but that ninja shit is something else.]

Maybe. I wouldn't put money on it. [He's got an ego, but it's not about that. And even if it was, Red would have kicked it into submission by now, all that goddamn flipping around and shit. For looking like such ridiculous asshole in his little devil costume doing somersaults through the air, he packs a mean fucking punch.

But Frank proved that he can ring his bell with a .380 perfectly fine, whether or not he's outclassed with bare hands.

He smirks, dumping his little bottle of whiskey into the coffee pot and finding the supply of Styrofoam cups, pouring himself one.] If most combat took place within ass-slapping distance I'd be more worried about that. [Or he'd just fight dirty and hide handguns in his shoes, you know, like you do.]

[That snort puts a grin on her face, and she knocks back the rest of her champagne bottle before jumping off the bar to her feet.]

C'mon, let's see whatcha got. [She may be quite a few inches shorter than him, and a hell of a lot more petite, but based on the fight earlier tonight she can still do her fair share of damage.

Just to punctuate her point - and, maybe his - she reaches out to tap his ass with the back of her bare foot in a playful rendition of a spin kick.]

No weapons, just arms and legs. You could stand to pick up a few things for the next time The Hand decides to drop into Hell's Kitchen.

Denny's Meme

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