She stands for what feels like hours, pistol held aloft. Her arm is beginning to shake, her hand cramping from where it's folded around the metal.
Wesley's starting to fade, there's a sheen of sweat on brow and neck that's beginning to make his hair curl and there's an unnatural pallor growing across his cheeks. He's slumped more, keeping his face upturned to hers, refusing to look away.
They're trapped in this twisted game of chicken until help arrives. Her legs are just beginning to tremble when there's a dull thud and then a creak as the door is pushed open and thank fuck, Karen thinks. But then Foggy calls out and she thinks, oh fuck.
"What the hell kinda place is this K?" his words are running together, he's halfway between annoyed and afraid and she can hear it clear as day. He's still drunk, drunker in fact, but at some point in the last hour or so he must have crossed from "borderline suicidal" to "so fucking wasted man."
She just hopes he sobers up soon.
"You called him?" Wesley sneers.
Karen seriously considers shooting him again.
"Is this some kind of weird sex thing?" Foggy's slurring, "Because I told you, I don't like weird! Kinky? Hell yeah! But fucking - fucking abandoned warehouses? No thank you!"
He rounds the corner, dazed and happy (and she'd be fucking elated that he's smiling if this were any other situation but as it stands), "Foggy," she croaks.
"KAREN!" he beams, then he frowns, "What've you got that for?"
Her mouth falls open but the words don't come out and then Wesley laughs and says, "This is who you brought to help?"
And Foggy goes very pale and looks around at Wesley, blinks once, twice and looks back at Karen, eyes a little less unfocused, mouth hanging open, "Karen, what the fuck?"
FILL: [untitled rn] 2/?
She stands for what feels like hours, pistol held aloft. Her arm is beginning to shake, her hand cramping from where it's folded around the metal.
Wesley's starting to fade, there's a sheen of sweat on brow and neck that's beginning to make his hair curl and there's an unnatural pallor growing across his cheeks. He's slumped more, keeping his face upturned to hers, refusing to look away.
They're trapped in this twisted game of chicken until help arrives.
Her legs are just beginning to tremble when there's a dull thud and then a creak as the door is pushed open and thank fuck, Karen thinks. But then Foggy calls out and she thinks, oh fuck.
"What the hell kinda place is this K?" his words are running together, he's halfway between annoyed and afraid and she can hear it clear as day. He's still drunk, drunker in fact, but at some point in the last hour or so he must have crossed from "borderline suicidal" to "so fucking wasted man."
She just hopes he sobers up soon.
"You called him?" Wesley sneers.
Karen seriously considers shooting him again.
"Is this some kind of weird sex thing?" Foggy's slurring, "Because I told you, I don't like weird! Kinky? Hell yeah! But fucking - fucking abandoned warehouses? No thank you!"
He rounds the corner, dazed and happy (and she'd be fucking elated that he's smiling if this were any other situation but as it stands), "Foggy," she croaks.
"KAREN!" he beams, then he frowns, "What've you got that for?"
Her mouth falls open but the words don't come out and then Wesley laughs and says, "This is who you brought to help?"
And Foggy goes very pale and looks around at Wesley, blinks once, twice and looks back at Karen, eyes a little less unfocused, mouth hanging open, "Karen, what the fuck?"