#francis dash

[irina-irina-irina]

Francis Dash

[fawnward-blog]

where: fawn’s apartment when: may 2 who: @frankbarnes

Things feel a little odd for Fawn. Chiefly because she’s starting to fit in at the MACUSA Eastern Squad. There are friends there, though none closer than Frank, people she recognizes by sight and gives a slight nod, Winter, and she’s even developed something of a system for dealing with Snow. Even after the chaos that was the President’s Gala (or maybe even especially because of), Fawn felt like she might have found her place. Or, at least, a place.

That is, in large part, thanks to Frank. His quiet presence is comforting in a way that Fawn can’t describe and wouldn’t have expected. She finds herself near him more days than not. Somedays, she’ll even slip off to the Closed Case room to curl up in her puma form and Frank will be along shortly after to sit with her. It’s nice. It’s familiar. 

“Have a seat anywhere,” Fawn says, ushering Frank into her apartment. She doesn’t keep much in general so there isn’t much to make a mess. Waving him toward the couch, she starts for the hall that leads to her bedroom. “I’ll bring the little baby out here.” She found a kitten on the street the other day and something in her didn’t let her just walk pass. So now she has to name the thing and she figured Frank would be good help in that.

Before she can step much further though, there’s a whine of high energy and then, with a snap, all the lights in her apartment go off. There’s an odd hum surrounding the room and Fawn knows it’s the sound of magic gone haywire -- this isn’t the first time this has happened. With a groan, she turns on her heels and heads for the kitchen instead. “Don’t worry,” she calls to Frank. “This is unfortunately normal.”

Reappearing in the front room, Fawn carries two tumbles and a bottle of fine firewhiskey instead of a cat. “Mr. Wilkerson, he lives on the first floor. He’s this super big-deal powerful wix apparently, but he’s getting up there in age. Sometimes he loses control or something and the whole building goes on the fritz.” She frowns and flops on the couch, setting about pouring them two glasses. “It’s all safe, but we’re more or less trapped here for the next couple of hours.”

With a sheepish smile, she hands across the glass of firewhiskey to her friend. “Sorry about this. We could play one of those drinking games from Ilvermorny?”