capeandcowllogs | They say good fences build good neighbors

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They say good fences build good neighbors

WHO: HOODED JUSTICE and FRANK CASTLE
WHERE: On the way to the b a n k
WHEN: UH THURSDAY AFTERNOON
WARNINGS: It includes HJ, warnings are likely, I'll edit if necessary
SUMMARY: silent bros being maybe not so silent but we'll see
FORMAT: words

He'd intended, at first, to pull out all his money from that damnable machine what felt like ages ago. When he'd been on the streets, there was a harsh reality to how much it cost just to survive, and Hooded Justice, who wasn't used to even thinking about money, had been slapped in the face. He'd seen the balance on the screen, several thousand dollars. He'd intended to pull it out, and not have to go to that place again, find something to do with the cash, whether it was keep it somewhere in his room, or maybe even buried somewhere. At least until he needed it, which was looking sooner, rather than later. Although perhaps not for the same reason that he'd needed cash last month. He circled around the thought, of what he would do with it, if he wasn't going to hold onto it. Even so, having it out would be better than leaving it with the bank. He'd made a point to do some research, before deciding that he would keep his money to himself.

He still had a lot on his mind, thoughts still churning in a turmulous mess, day in and day out. Despite the way he'd desperately grasped for what made sense, when faced with a potential he'd never considered, it still wasn't settling well. Getting out of the house during the day only did so much. There was little to find in the City during that period, and only so many times could he work his fists into a punching bag before it got old. The first time he tried the bank was because he'd figured out the machine wouldn't give him all his money. He'd entered, stepping into the pristine, too-perfect lobby, and he'd been asked to leave by a guard with a hand on his belt, hands quivering, but standing steadfast, accusing him (him!) of being there to rob the bank. The insult, while something that made Hooded Justice's fists tighten, wasn't enough for him to push. He left with no words, only to return the next day.

The next day, though, he'd tried something new. Something he didn't want to do, but he did it anyway. Desperation, or rather, his mistrust of this place drove him to do it. He made sure to leave differently from the house, sneaking out the back, head down, watching carefully to make sure he wasn't seen, keeping to the shadows when he walked. He looked out of place, even so. His bulk made him look more like a caged animal, in one of the suits from Nelson. He even felt ridiculous in the dammed thing, but he wasn't willing to leave a trace of who he was when he went out. No sign that the man who'd been there before was the same. Even with his head down, his stride was silent, but not cautious. He wasn't watching the ground, but his eyes kept scouring left and right, and forward, darting perhaps just a touch too erratically, while he looked everywhere for a sign of trouble. He could've been anyone, on the street, with his cropped gray hair and carefully groomed facial hair, he didn't look like he were the sort to tug on a costume, at least from face alone, but that wasn't the only sign, not with the way his stride was too careful, too much like the person he was. Subtle, guarded cues that nobody should be able to pick up. Anxiety, of all things was high, when he closed in on the institution. He hated this, with everything he had. Taking off his hood for Nelson had been one thing, different but something he could excuse, this felt like he was giving in to this place. That he was accepting the fact that he was here, and some motivations were stronger than others. Yet the unsettling reality had already set in, that he didn't have anything left anywhere but the City.

In and out, he kept thinking. He would be back to normal soon enough. That kept his pace quicker than it perhaps should have been.

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As much as he kept to himself, Frank understood how people worked. Most misunderstood: mistook his deliberate aggression and insult as meaning that he was graceless when it came to social cues. They were wrong; Frank knew enough about what made people tick and what to expect of them. Just because he wasn't courteous didn't mean he was ignorant to that. He was purposefully unkind, because sentiments didn't get him anywhere he needed.

There was a reason the man on the opposite street stood out to him. The way he glanced about didn't sit right; it was suspicious but not in the usual means. Darting glances like that usually were practically a confession of guilt, but there was nothing else in his posture that betrayed any threat. In anything, he simply looked uneasy -- like he was more concerned about being the victim of a crime, rather than attempting one himself. Even that didn't fit exactly right, and the more Frank looked at him, the more he seemed familiar.

It couldn't be.

Frank slipped his hands out of his jacket pockets and crossed the street.

The feeling of being watched was an odd one, it made the back of his neck feel like the hairs were rising, prickling, and his stride moved just a touch faster, he moved quicker down the streets. Not rushed, but a long stride was a touch longer, moving down the street comfortably, but quickly.

His arms were shoved into his pockets, his jaw clenched. He felt like he had a spotlight on him, but he was starting to think it was paranoia. It had to be.

Who would be watching him, anyway? It was ridiculous, he knew it. Stupid, to be so paranoid about it, but he still felt that nagging, lingering feeling. His head still down, he tipped it, slightly, to get a look at the street behind him. Just to make sure it was all in his head. He'd learned to trust his instincts, and they hadn't failed him yet.

While Hooded Justice was making paranoid glances behind him, the one who is actively seeking him out was approaching head-on. He stopped a few paces ahead of him, his good eye narrow, and he scrutinized him: his posture was stiff but not confrontational, despite how standoffish the approach seemed.

It had to be him. He could have been exaggerating, as it was also tricky trying to put a face to the man who hid himself so completely, but despite the obvious unease there was still a power to his presence and his very stride.

His reaction would be the telling part.

He'd been paying too much attention to behind, instinct saying that he was being watched, and he worried that someone had somehow, through some miracle, figured out where the man had come from. The neighborhood was quiet, but HJ didn't trust the average person to not be suspicious and nosy.

His eyes swung back, with his head down, every now and then, to catch what was in front of him, but when there was a figure in front of him, there was a flicker of recognition.

Not much, and not very obvious, but the slight widening of his eyes, before he turned his head, attempting to brush past, a soft grunt of something that could either be a dismissal or an apology, depending. He attempted to shove past, jaw clenched tight. He had nothing to worry about, of course. The man had never seen him, he was likely suspicious. He would be suspicious, if it weren't him. He kept walking, although the tightness in his shoulders, increased, even if he didn't realize it.

Somehow, the utter lack of a reaction was even more revealing.

Frank is very aware of his own appearance: he's tall, and his eye is covered by a mess of sterile gauze. He's going to stand out, and someone is going to blink or look twice if they nearly walk right into him.

But he didn't -- Hooded Justice didn't.

Frank turned, good eye narrowing at his back. He hadn't gotten too far away that Frank had to shout after him. All he had to do was raise his voice slightly.

"Is that all?"

He'd been expecting him to not realize who it was. He'd been banking on it. The fact that his face was never seen should have been enough leeway. Maybe he'd been curious, but the lack of recognition should had been a tipoff. His feet slowed, while he debated options.

He could keep walking, feign that he hadn't heard him, but his feet slowing was a dead giveaway that he may have heard him, if not that he recognized his voice. He didn't turn around. Maybe he'd not seen enough, and Hooded Justice's fingers, already balling into fists, tightened, nails digging into the meat of his palms.

A wave of nausea hit him. Nelson had been one thing, but even then, he hadn't exactly handled it well, considering. The brutality he normally showed had increased in the days following, while he worked through -- accepted -- the fact that he'd been seen by someone else. No matter that it had been the one person who he knew wouldn't say anything.

The fact that this man had seen him, and apparently recognized him, somehow, made him feel sick. His feet slowed to a stop. He didn't turn around.

"Do you always shout at strangers on the street?" he asked, in perfect, carefully chosen english. He was careful to remove any inflection from his voice, but his voice was recognizable enough. That he couldn't change, even if his words were carefully chosen, and deliberately stated.

The man's posture stiffened noticeably, and his voice was undeniable. Frank had heard him speak up close, and even if he tried to disguise it, the thin layer of his mask did not muffle him enough to be past recognition.

"You're not a stranger."

He said so bluntly, and without any hesitation. To be blunt, a lot of Hooded Justice was unknown to him -- so he practically was a stranger, by most definitions, but Frank still felt that he understood this man more than others, due to the similarities between them.

However, as of late, he had been doubting just how alike they may have been.

The man had recognized him.

It was every reason why Hooded Justice never went out without his required hood. It was like the nightmare scenario that kept him forever locked into the costume he always wore came true. Hooded Justice -- the person -- didn't exist. Hooded Justice -- the vigilante -- was the sum of all of his parts, and had been for so long there was nothing else left.

The face didn't even mean anything, and yet, it was still something, his ace in the hole, his last contingency that he had, in case he needed it. One person knowing, the one person he could trust to keep it quiet, had been one thing. Someone else?

He couldn't escape. No matter what, he'd be trapped, if this person wasn't trustworthy. If this person told one person what he looked like, it was over. He couldn't escape. Even if he wasn't wearing his noose, he could feel it tighten around his neck.

"Am I not?" His voice didn't shake, but he still didn't turn. The tightness in his shoulders never let up. "I think you have made a mistake."

It took Frank a moment, but he realized that while Frank had singled out Hooded Justice, the man hadn't likewise recognized him in return. He had been too busy trying not to be noticed.

Frank's frown deepened. "I don't make mistakes."

That was a matter of debate, truthfully, but for the moment he's direct about it. His posture stays firm and he takes a few steps to further close the gap between them.

"Turn around," he said firmly. There was military in his tone now.

The fact of the matter was, Hooded Justice did know who it was. He'd heard him speak before, and the longer he continued, the more certain his ears confirmed what he'd been to distracted to figure out with his eyes. It made no difference to HJ, who hadn't even trusted someone he'd shared his bed with for fifteen years with his face, this person? Never.

He didn't turn, perhaps defiant in a small way, perhaps hoping the man's memory wouldn't be sharp enough. Even the sharp, clipped inflection, the influence of the military couldn't stir him. He knew that tone, because he'd taken on parts of it before himself, although in an entirely different context.

"I do not take orders," said simply, just as sharp. He did not take commands, and if this person, this somewhat familiar person thought that he would, he didn't understand Hooded Justice at all, and it wasn't even the implied insult, or even that he'd spat an order, but he was asking for something from HJ, something he didn't give up. He was requesting to see his face -- again.

He did not move, and didn't even turn his head slightly.

Frank knew men like this -- or he at least knew something similar. Hooded Justice kept surprising him, in odd ways, and now he felt more curiosity than frustration with the man's insistence on secrecy.

He lets the silence linger for a moment. No, he wouldn't take orders, no matter who gave them; he wasn't the type. However, Frank was not dissuaded in the slightest. He considered him carefully for a moment before he spoke with deliberate phrasing:

"What are you afraid of?"

Insinuation alone was enough to spark Hooded Justice's anger, and it showed, in the small subtle ways that he changed. The tension caught him tighter, and if presence was something that Hooded Justice had in spades, it could be said that somehow, in that one, angry moment, he even from behind, there was the impression that he could -- and would -- let that anger out at any moment. As if being in his presence was enough to draw his ire.

This one was trying to poke a beast with a stick, and wondering what would happen.

Hooded Justice still didn't turn his head. His voice, however, took on an edge. "It's not fear," and he would reiterate it all he needed to. Nobody, not one person had understood the point, the reason for it. Maybe there was something to be said about his devotion to his mask -- and it may have been fear -- the kind that Hooded Justice absolutely refused to accept in any way, shape or form. "If you assume it is that, then you do not understand."

The reaction was obvious to him. Another man might have missed it, but those subtle but strong changes stood out to Frank like nothing else. He narrowed his good eye and he stood his ground.

"Then what is it?" he asked bluntly. His tone indicated no frustration and it was not belittling, but he honestly could not comprehend this.

Frank believed he understood a great deal about this man, but he did not understand this.

"Why won't you face me?"

The man asked this like he had a right. Hooded Justice didn't think anyone, not one person should, he'd conceded once, but that was different. Compared to this man, he was the closest someone had to having a right.

Hooded Justice still did not tip his head. He still faced directly away, even if it was somewhat ridiculous. He didn't care. Thankfully, the street was rather empty, and he'd been stopped in front of an empty house.

"It is unimportant." He said it so simply. He meant the face itself, but Frank's opinion of it, but that was a close second. "Seeing it provides you with no advantage."

"If it's unimportant, then it shouldn't make any difference if I see or not," argued Frank plainly."Why do you give a damn?"

Usually, Frank wouldn't care one way or another, but now he was growing frustrated since the reasoning made no damn sense to him.

He wasn't afraid. He wasn't defensive. He wasn't proud. The man had admitted that he didn't feel vulnerable to be caught exposed, so then what remained?

He didn't put himself on such an altar that Frank had to be worthy before he was allowed to see him, did he?

That was bullshit.

Hooded Justice was a man who didn't exist, in the humane sense. He was a vigilante, and his face, it was a thing that existed. It wasn't important, it wasn't him. To see it was to see something that even Hooded Justice didn't consider that existed.

He wasn't this person.

This man wanted to see what didn't exist. There was no point. If anything, seeing him was something Hooded Justice couldn't abide. He itched, for his hood, while he stood there. His fingers twitched, tensing and loosing, his eyes narrowed, and his jaw kept clenching. In the sunlight, it was too bright, and he felt cagey -- nervous.

This all felt alien, wrong for him. Like so much that was about this City, it was so wrong, it made his stomach churn. It made his head swim with disgust. He felt a shiver, the prickling of his skin at the back of his neck, like he could feel the man's eyes on him, and he could do nothing to alleviate it.

"I should not have to explain my wishes. The reason is unimportant to anyone but myself. Leave it."

Frank has never worn a mask; he has never felt the need. However, it isn't as if he can't comprehend the reasons other would have for them. It's common sense and protection; it's a necessity in a life like this. However, Hooded Justice's dedication went far beyond precaution, and now his reaction to being exposed was even more bizarre.

Either way, Frank doesn't feel entitled to look at the man's face in the slightest. However, what agitates him is how he doesn't understand this insistence. For a man who he thought he understood, this is a complication.

That, and another problem that's been on the forefront of his mind:

"Has he seen it?"

It didn't take a genius to figure out who "he" was. The first place HJ's mind went was to the only person he really knew in the City, and every muscle seemed to tense just a touch more. Even if it wasn't obvious, underneath real clothing, the shift was there.

He hadn't expected him to know of Nelson, let alone, that --

Well, Hooded Justice hadn't given anything away, so the fault obviously lied with Nelson, didn't it?. The fact that he asked about that too, Hooded Justice, despite himself, let his eyes close for just a moment, strain touching every part of him. He wanted out of this, and there was no easy way, not like this.

It still felt wrong. "That is not your business," he responded, voice shorter than probably necessary, a touch of the strain. Why was he asking? Did he know? How did he know? He was quick to center blame onto Nelson, even in his mind.

Frank was unsurprised and unimpressed. He kept his gaze on Hooded Justice's tensed form, and his hands slipped into the pockets of his jacket. He knew it was playing dirty to draw up this subject, like it was a trump card, but it had been lingering on his mind since the night he helped Gardner hobble back to his house. 'Their' house.

He didn't know how he felt about it: the way he saw Gardner that night, after Hooded Justice went missing, was strange. It wasn't something he had insight on, by any means, but the something about it didn't sit well with Frank.

"Do you really expect me to just let you keep walking?" he asked bluntly.

The fact that he'd brought it up now made the space between his shoulders itch, his head too hot, like he was under the spotlight, like someone was investigating, and would figure him out. Like he already knew, and just waiting for Justice to come clean about it.

He wouldn't, of course. Whether or not someone knew, safety came in denying a truth, even something like this. He didn't want him to keep on this, and the question was an out that he reached out and took, fingers tightening around that, instead of continuing on with the line of questioning.

"Why wouldn't you?" what was he getting at? Did he want congratulations that he'd found him? Picked him out among the rest on the street? Did he think Justice came out like this lightly? "I've done nothing to warrant the attention."

Frank lingered, giving Hooded Justice a narrow look. The paranoia was something he didn't grasp. There was a great deal of the costumed world that baffled him, but he could at least comprehend the motivations -- this was eluding him, and he very much doubted Hooded Justice would elaborate.

That was fine. Frank let that be, for now; Gardner might actually be more illuminating.

"Where are you going?" he asked instead.

Frank may just want to start looking toward HJ's other half for any measure of illumination in general. HJ simply didn't think it was anyone's business but his. It said enough, likely, that he almost refused to speak about anything regarding him, anything about him.

A part of him, somewhere, recognized that maybe this was a problem. That it caused problems that he could avoid.

But if he wanted it easy, he could have gone about his life any number of ways that he hadn't taken. He appraised the road in front of him. Perhaps it would be easier if he simply stopped. Did this later. Maybe next time he wouldn't deal with this, but he refused to back out yet. He would not back out. "To deal with business."

Frank figured the reply to be dismissive at first, but then the more he thought about it, the more genuine it appeared. That explained the added level of irritation in Hooded Justice's body, didn't it? He was out here like this because his hand had been forced.

Slowly, his lips turned upward. This was a rare enough appearance on the features of Frank Castle.

"Yeah," he said simply. "A lot of the real world needs you to have a face first."

A rare appearance that HJ didn't see, his face still facing away, refusing to even allow someone who'd seen him to see more. More than anything, this wasn't on his terms. This was outside of his control, and it stung even more with that knowledge.

"They want something that they shouldn't have."

HJ was too used to operating outside of the real world. He didn't need to live like that where he came from. He'd had what he needed, without dipping into this world. He was a protector, but that didn't mean he should integrate with the rest of them. Especially this foul, poisoned world.

He didn't belong, he wasn't a part of it, but he would save it, if he had to.

"Are you done gawking, now?"

Frank considered his reply for a moment. It wasn't as though they're making a scene, exactly, but it was more than a bit odd to see two men having a conversation when one of them wouldn't turn around. More and more people were giving lingering looks, and Frank knew better than to escalate this.

"Sure," he said, "seen enough."

Or too much, would likely be Hooded Justice's assumption.

"Enjoy your errand."

It was lucky for him that they were still far enough apart, and that lashing out would only get him noticed more. HJ, for all his temper and inability to control it, was not that stupid. Calling attention to himself would mean he wouldn't be someone invisible.

Still, the urge was there. Seen enough, indeed.

"Forget our conversation," stated as an order, and not a question. He could threaten him, but he knew it wouldn't fly with this man. Empty words, and wasted effort wouldn't go far. He didn't bother with it.

But his shoulders tensed, when he started to walk again, his head down even more than it had been before.

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They say good fences build good neighbors

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