[ around ten of eleven, frank appears as a veritable tower of a man outside of familiar house six. he misses it in a perverse way, but he isn't going in. not with that annoying demon guy and his flute inside. it's simpler to wait outside anyway, taking note of bethany's den still there underneath the porch that he'd helped her carve out. the leather bracelet she made him is still hanging around his wrist. as ever, he's in his black uniform of jumpsuit - beanie - combat boots - hoodie, the zipper on the last item swapped for big sewn-on buttons. there's a pistol at his hip, but instead of noisy bullets it dispels silent tranq darts. his kabar is strapped around his ankle out of sight but close enough to be a comfort to him.
he waits patiently for buffy to emerge from the house, only having faith's descriptors to go on. 'blonde' and 'small' seemed like enough, even if the house did have a high quantity of slight blondes if he thought about it. when he spots a perky ponytail and hears the near-silent click of the door behind her, he takes a guess that this is her. he signs to her, banking on her picking up the simple message or at least having her device in her hand to translate. ] You B-U-F-F-Y?
[ It feels wrong to be going out on 'patrol' without a stake, but it's not as if they're going hunting vampires, so she keeps telling herself she'll just have to get over it. Whatever can hurt these monsters, it's probably not a giant splinter. Hopefully they won't run into them though -- as much as she's itching to do something, she's not prepared for that fight, and she isn't keen on dying again anytime soon.
Leaving the house as quietly as humanly possible, she moves across the porch with bare feet, blonde hair tied up to stay out of her way. The man waiting for her is... well, not entirely what she'd expected, but she's not the judging type. Not anymore, anyway. His message goes right over her head at first though, and she frowns while trying to remember way back to elementary school when they'd learned the alphabet in sign language. B... F, F... Oh. She pulls her device from a pocket in her jumpsuit (way to be prepared there, Buff) and types out a reply. ]
[ it feels wrong without a fucking sniper rifle so he feels u girl. frank snatches his device out of his pocket so he can catch what she's saying too, but he prioritizes falling into step with her on the path over responding. ]
i'm frank [ frank, hotdog. get it?? anything??? he figures she's "safe" since faith already knows his whole fucking story anyway and is probably bound to slip to a friend from home. ]
[ Slipping one hand casually into a pocket, she types with the other, only half her attention on where they're walking. It's her usual style, though, and that half is probably more than most people manage for such a task. She's perhaps a bit? too reckless with her device, unconcerned with keeping a firm hold on it -- she's never really been the clumsy type, though. ]
How long have you been here? [ Yeah, she's gotten some details from Faith, but they're still working their way through some things, so entire life stories haven't really been shared just yet. ]
likewise [ he even smiles, though it's a little tense. everything about his expressions usually carry a degree of tension, and he's watching her juggle her device bemusedly. frank has a firm grip on his in contrast, keeping a close eye on the path ahead. ]
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we're light on overnight patrol. but you should make time to sleep too. [ he clearly... sucks at that. but he can still lecture her!! ]
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Count me in for that, I'm used to patrolling at night. And sleep isn't really a thing I do much these days.
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he waits patiently for buffy to emerge from the house, only having faith's descriptors to go on. 'blonde' and 'small' seemed like enough, even if the house did have a high quantity of slight blondes if he thought about it. when he spots a perky ponytail and hears the near-silent click of the door behind her, he takes a guess that this is her. he signs to her, banking on her picking up the simple message or at least having her device in her hand to translate. ] You B-U-F-F-Y?
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Leaving the house as quietly as humanly possible, she moves across the porch with bare feet, blonde hair tied up to stay out of her way. The man waiting for her is... well, not entirely what she'd expected, but she's not the judging type. Not anymore, anyway. His message goes right over her head at first though, and she frowns while trying to remember way back to elementary school when they'd learned the alphabet in sign language. B... F, F... Oh. She pulls her device from a pocket in her jumpsuit (way to be prepared there, Buff) and types out a reply. ]
Guilty as charged.
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i'm frank [ frank, hotdog. get it?? anything??? he figures she's "safe" since faith already knows his whole fucking story anyway and is probably bound to slip to a friend from home. ]
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[ Slipping one hand casually into a pocket, she types with the other, only half her attention on where they're walking. It's her usual style, though, and that half is probably more than most people manage for such a task. She's perhaps a bit? too reckless with her device, unconcerned with keeping a firm hold on it -- she's never really been the clumsy type, though. ]
How long have you been here? [ Yeah, she's gotten some details from Faith, but they're still working their way through some things, so entire life stories haven't really been shared just yet. ]
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80 days, give or take.