It was easy to hide it, to bundle it up behind altruism, to excuse the violence as protecting people. To stand next to people that carried the legacies of people like Captain America and Thor; James with his shield and his belief that it was possible to fix things. And so Francis pretended he was cut from the same cloth. That the world hadn't ruined him in ways people didn't see.
"I 'unno, you've still got your looks," he quips with a smile that's razor-sharp, because he's never had a great grasp on boundaries. Francis flirts because it's easy, it's something he can lose himself in. But in honesty this is more about the violence and the competence which is the flip-side to the same thing. "How old do you think I am, anyway?" His tone is casual disregard. It didn't really matter to him, and he grew up hard, grew up fast; all young and bloody until he wasn't quite so young.
His breath catches a little as the knife touches his skin, and the other man doesn't even ask for his sins, just writes it in the flesh of his arm. Like he already knows and just prints the letters in scarlet. Murder. And he's right: the cuts against their flesh slow and then pause, like a reward for good behavior, although the door out stays locked.
Francis isn't ashamed, and there's clarity in his eyes, because Bullseye was right about him. There's a slight shiver in his shoulders at the blood, the idea that someone saw through him this clearly, could put together the things no one else ever did was more than he'd expected. He hasn't been hiding that he was a little broken, sort of twisted, a mess of fractured pieces that didn't quite fit. But this is Francis all raw and exposed, the truth of just how dirty his hands are. Blue eyes flicker up, and he doesn't bother trying to pretend that there are excuses.
"Your turn," he murmurs low. "Should get it over with before it starts up again." It's a deflection, but a convenient one.
no worries at all. glad you're okay tho!
"I 'unno, you've still got your looks," he quips with a smile that's razor-sharp, because he's never had a great grasp on boundaries. Francis flirts because it's easy, it's something he can lose himself in. But in honesty this is more about the violence and the competence which is the flip-side to the same thing. "How old do you think I am, anyway?" His tone is casual disregard. It didn't really matter to him, and he grew up hard, grew up fast; all young and bloody until he wasn't quite so young.
His breath catches a little as the knife touches his skin, and the other man doesn't even ask for his sins, just writes it in the flesh of his arm. Like he already knows and just prints the letters in scarlet. Murder. And he's right: the cuts against their flesh slow and then pause, like a reward for good behavior, although the door out stays locked.
Francis isn't ashamed, and there's clarity in his eyes, because Bullseye was right about him. There's a slight shiver in his shoulders at the blood, the idea that someone saw through him this clearly, could put together the things no one else ever did was more than he'd expected. He hasn't been hiding that he was a little broken, sort of twisted, a mess of fractured pieces that didn't quite fit. But this is Francis all raw and exposed, the truth of just how dirty his hands are. Blue eyes flicker up, and he doesn't bother trying to pretend that there are excuses.
"Your turn," he murmurs low. "Should get it over with before it starts up again." It's a deflection, but a convenient one.