fighterfrankie:
She had hoped that her comment would be enough to make him roll his eyes and move away. Perhaps he would just shut up when confronted with her annoyance at his voiced thoughts. Confrontation seemed to always work with Frankie – it hadn’t failed her yet so perhaps she was merely hitting a wall with this guy. Or maybe he was just as eager to get into it as she was. Putting down the sad excuse for a sandwich that she had in her hand, she slid the plate away from her and turned to him. Now he would have her undivided attention. Her hazel hues met his bright blue ones as the question passed from his lips, the rough lilt of his accent distracting her slightly.
As a child, Frankie hadn’t been exposed to people that much different than herself. The only other accents she had heard ranged from Rich Prep Kid to Inner City Street Squatter. Axel being the exception, she didn’t often hear an accent that was so authentic that she had trouble understanding what the person was saying. Hell, he probably thought she sounded boring as fuck with her flat, blunt Chicago Street tone. Try as she might to change it, she gave up once she realized that the thing that was making her so crass sounding was the cuss words that spewed from her mouth like water from Niagara Falls. But after awhile Frankie stopped giving a fuck and just embraced it. She thought it added character.
“You were wanna know what’s got my panties in a twist, St. Patrick?” There was no hiding the challenge in her voice and she took no care to smother the cocky smirk on her lips. “I’ve been cooped up in this god damn fuckin’ shit hole for longer than I like. So, to be frank, I’m itching for a fight because I respond to situations like these with physical aggression.” She stared at him, then went back to eating her a sandwich. “If you really wanna fuck with me then by all means, continue to voice your completely useless thoughts.”
He couldn’t help but laugh, it was small but it was there, attitude was everything here-- in this new kind of world and he wasn’t exactly Prince Charming-- or whatever the term was for desirable men these days. But he wasn’t good at having a good attitude, Lance always had something up his ass or a bone to pick with someone, it was just how he was--- what kept him going, what preoccupied him. So he shifted, brows arching as he nodded at her comment towards his accent, one he’d heard most definitely a million times before. Oh how he loved the challenge in her voice, it gave him more of an edge in his shift towards her and the roll of his velvet tongue. “St. Patrick, y’need some new material love-- t’at shit is older t’an dirt.” Lance started before his lips curled upwards and he nodded in agreement. “I can feel ye t’ere, normally about now I’d be shit faced an’ eggin’ some dumbass on fer a brawl.” He meant if this were the normal world, if he had been in a bar right now with a good pint or five in his system.
Lance snorted and coughed back yet another laugh, one that would have been more prominent than before. “T’ere not t’at useless, yer j’st t’e one wit’ a stick up yer ass. But if yer lookin’ for a brawl, m’game fer t’at-- j’st take it easy, wouldn’t wanna hurt ye o’course.” It was most certainly a challenge, because like her, Lance dealt with things with aggression and sarcasm. But most definitely aggression, bruised flesh and bloodied masses were like artwork to the Irishman, they were his bread and butter.















