Frank Goodnight
pinkerton - brother - aristocrat tracking; frankgoodnight indie ripper street rp blog
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written by: eve
Send “Dance with me” to pull my muse in for a slow dance.
Alice smiled up at Frank as he pulled her into dance with him. It had been a while since she had danced with anyone and she was worried that she would end up stepping on his toes. After a minute or two, she stopped concentrating so much on avoiding his toes and looked back up at him. “Why are we dancing?”
The music drifted around the room like a soft breeze, and Frank found the overall tranquility carried him with each transition in it's timbre. He watched Alice focus on her feet, a brow half raised in silent amusement as he did so, before he met her eyes asked she spoke.
"Just felt like it." He replied, the honesty in his tone sounding unusual even to his own ears. He slowed, "'Less you don't want to?"
Susan eyed him warily; Frank Goodnight on her doorstep had always meant one thing, trouble. She couldn’t be sure who sent him or whether this wasn’t some elaborate ruse to do god knows what, and yet there were too many eyes watching her these days to be able to afford the consequences of not finding out why he had come here.
Grabbing his arm, she all but pulled him inside, a million questions and scenarios blossoming in her mind. In keeping with their longstanding custom, however, she decided to be blunt, “And what precisely do you think I can do in regards to this matter?”
To say appearing at Miss Hart’s door at this time of day in a state of such an unprofessional nature alone made Frank feel as though he wished to crawl out of his skin and make a hurried departure from the streets of Whitechapel was a considerable understatement.
Yet, here he was. Blood slowly staining the rich fabric of his dark grey jacket as he stood before her, two pairs of harsh, world-weary eyes clashing for a lengthy and uncertain pause before he was taken off guard and pulled roughly, stumbling clumsily as he all but fell through the door. Regaining his balance, Goodnight masked a short cough with a gloved hand, straightening his shoulders to face the woman.
"Miss Sw—Hart,” He corrected, inhaling quietly. “I trust you are aware that I wouldn’t call upon your door unless I had exhausted every other option available to me.” Another breath, and the moment's silence that followed hung in the air. "And as it so happens, I have done just that."
what’s your name? Eve.
when is your birthday? 17th Oct’
where are you from? UK
have a crush? lol
what’s your favorite color? blue/brown/grey/black
write something in caps? BARROW.
got a favorite band/artist? Not really...
favorite drink? Mocha.
tag ten people: Whoever hasn't done it yet? gunpowderred?
This is a tumblr hug. Pass this to at least 10 of your favorite tumblr followers to show how much you love them as best buddies. Make sure you don’t break the chain. Happy tumblr hugs ~!
This is a tumblr hug. Pass this to at least 10 of your favorite tumblr followers to show how much you love them as best buddies. Make sure you don’t break the chain. Happy tumblr hugs ~!
This is a tumblr hug. Pass this to at least 10 of your favorite tumblr followers to show how much you love them as best buddies. Make sure you don’t break the chain. Happy tumblr hugs ~!
“Y’keep lookin’ at her with those eyes and Swift’ll catch on.”
Matthew reluctantly pulled his gaze from the ornate golden haired beauty that sat across the room from him in the parlour to his new friend and colleague, Frank Goodnight. He exhaled through his nose as he spoke. “Catch on t’what exactly?” Leaning forward in his chair he took a half filled glass of whiskey from the table and brought it to his lips, an eyebrow raised slightly at the other. “That I’m doing what he paid me t’do?”
“Swift don’t pay y’to ogle his daughter, Judge.” Goodnight’s voice was barely audible, an animosity flaring up in an undertone. Matthew hadn’t known him for long since he’d joined the Swift household but he’d immediately taken note of Frank’s venomous attitude towards the new Pinkerton having anything to do with Caitlin Swift.
Green eyes narrowed as Matthew took a swig from his drink, his line of sight falling on Caitlin once more whom appeared oblivious to the men’s conversation, her gaze locked on a book she was holding. “It ain’t like anything bad’d happen, Frank.”
A familiar, sterile scent struck sharp and overbearing in the yankee’s sinuses, intruding upon his comatose state and pulling him from the delirious void that he had been trapped within. His eyelids felt heavily weighted, it took no short amount of willpower to force them open as the light met his iris’ almostly violently, blinding him as he squinted.
Jackson’s lips parted as he inhaled, each shallow breath causing a dull, numbed pain in his chest. The inside of his mouth was painfully dry, his tongue providing no respite for his discomfort. The pungent smell once again penetrated his thoughts, his eyes settling on his surroundings as he navigated through the haze of his memories as for why he was in a hospital bed.
Foolishly he attempted to sit up, failing to raise himself even an inch as his body refused to obey him. The best he could do was tilt his head, and as he did so he caught a man sitting next to him in his peripheral vision. His clothes were rumpled and stained crimson, his face drawn and fatigued. A moment passed between the two of silence and it was only when Jackson focused in on those unmistakable piercing blue eyes that he realized it was Reid.
Questions formed on the American’s lips instantaneously, but no sound came other than a low groan and a rasp of breath. He steadied himself, forcing out but one word. “Water-”
Reid jumped in surprise, pupils blown wide as he straightened up so quickly that it sent a jolt of pain down his back, but he didn’t care, simply nodded and dove for the carafe that had been left on the bedside table nearest them. He poured some of the water into a glass, hands shaking so hard that he frowned, lips pursing as he cursed himself, but he managed not to spill too much of it. Then, turning, he leaned forward and pressed the glass to Jackson’s mouth, one hand going ‘round to cup the back of the yankee’s head.
“Slowly, Matthew, slowly,” he murmured softly, voice weary but full of hope.
The door to the room creaked open, and the woman who edged in bearing a tray of food made a soft cry, looking fit to burst out of her skin. The two of them must look an absolute fright, Reid mused; both bloody and exhausted, their faces thick with shadow and eyes sunken in from exhaustion.
“Will you please inform Doctor Monroe that Mr. Jackson has rejoined the land of the living?” Reid asked politely, ever courteous as he dipped his head once. He moved his gaze back to his friend, withdrawing the near-empty glass to set it on the table once more. “We may have a need for more painkillers and some hot broth as well.”
He dislikes the stillness. Even in the thick of emergency, a hospital always seemed to remain still; unmoving and calm. Life slowed in them, down to the very last torturous fragments of survival, until all was snuffed out in a simple, single second. It was so slow, yet so fast, and the contemplation of such polar opposites merging with one another was almost too much to comprehend. It bewildered many – how a place in which so many instilled their hope could become a waking Hell for those who actually experienced hospital life, and its subsequent ordeals.
And the smell. Christ the damned smell. It was death. Jesus, sometimes it was worse than death Sometimes it was like some horrific nightmare, and this meant, in some twisted logic, that life and death really just smelt the same.
A row of chairs lines one wall of the bland waiting room, the walls looking as anaemic as those lying in the morgue in the room below. Three men sat upon these chairs; Goodnight, Carson and Delaney. The latter having being dragged along “out of courtesy”. Either way – they’d all earned an extra tip in their pockets thanks to such a notion on Swift’s part. Visiting Judge was crucial , apparently, or at least to Theodore that had seemed to be the case. It had confused Frank to some extent, but then he’d concluded that if Matthew wasn’t dead, Swift would insist on a “better job being done” next time around – which, in the language of the pistol-wielding kind (or, more specifically, Frank’s ilk), meant no more shit shots from a certain Charlie Sirigo.
Lennox drums his fingertips on his knee, earning a threatening glare from Frank, and a supressed laugh from Henry. Lennox then opts to fidget around with the lapels of his jacket – also rewarded with yet another dagger glare from Frank, and another not-so-discreet snort of amusement from Henry, and all of that only achieves a distasteful look from an elderly gentleman sitting opposite, which is how Carson loses all his – admittedly, little – remaining control and doubles over in what could only be accurately described as hysterics, no doubt induced from the last forty-five minutes of sheer and utter bloody boredom.
The bruising jab of an elbow in his bicep quickly silenced him, though, and Henry found himself glaring at Goodnight, who returned his eye-contact with a subtle tightening of his jaw. Essentially telling the both of them that if they thought they weren’t going to hear about this later, they were severely mistaken. That earns a slightly worried look from Lennox, who goes on to behave as angelically as a child who’d been threatened with a belting once this was all over.
Another half hour passes, and a screaming woman is carted in. She’s in labour, and when the father sits next to Frank and starts telling him about “my twins”, the Pinkerton sighs loudly, folding his arms and turning to the father-to-be with a raise of his brow, accompanied with the words, “Yeah, congratulations.” His tone dry and meaningless. The expectant father either didn’t notice or had chosen to ignore it, as he proceeds to talk about food, clothes and baby equipment for another twenty minutes. It was very much a one man conversation – with Frank’s input not exceeding an audible huff or a curt nod of his head.
It was when the stranger starts his next sentence with the words, “And then of course there is the matter of breast-feeding–“ That Frank immediately cuts him off, and Carson loses it for the second time that day, having to rely on Lennox’s quick – and flinching – reflexes to actually keep himself upright and still in the chair. Goodnight decided to make a hasty exit then, electing that using the excuse that he needed to relieve himself was his best chance of escape, and which, in certain contexts, was really quite true.
He walked the wide corridors, eyeing staff with a delicate prudence – no doubt coming across as though he were about to stab a needle into some unknowing passer by and inject them with a potent drug. Either that or some perverted lurker, in which given the choice he’d prefer the former to be thought of him. Yet, even his own suspicions seemed unfounded, as no one looked at him oddly, nor did they seem wary of him.
Though it was when he heard a disturbingly familiar voice that Frank stopped dead in his tracks. Reid. The tone was distinguishable – after all, the last time he’d seen the owner of such a voice had only been a day beforehand. Or had it been two? Goodnight couldn’t be so sure; each day had only seemed to bleed into its week as of late. Putting more distance between himself and the door, he made a note of the room location, and turned, heading back towards the waiting room.
Hopefully that moron of a man wouldn’t still be hanging around awaiting the news of his wife’s condition.
Frank made sure to take a cautions peek around the side of the door beforehand, and finding the coast was clear, entered, stating as he did so; “I found Judge.”
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