@hamndgirig -- post season 2 starter-call. ( Accepting )
HER TEETH CLICK TOGETHER. This silent work of her jaw. Her apartment felt too ———– QUIET. She’s not one to mind this, normally, but frankly – she’d gotten use to Malcolm’s buzzing annoyance. To having someone else’s presence.
So – she goes out for a WALK. The thought is bitter. This kind-of ugly thing, with annoyance behind it.
( They say running and walking helps with TRAUMA – she still thinks it’s bullshit. There’s no self-help book titled: for-when-your-mother-who-you-thought-was-dead-comes-back-to-life-as-a-raging-murderer-and-then-is-later-shot-by-your-best-friend. Try looking that one up in the library. )
It does help – kind of. Fresh air and all that bullshit. But so does slamming her fist into walls of abandoned buildings. But she’s TRYING not to do that. But –
( A benign external action to soothe internal strife. )
It HELPS. Kicking at pieces of rubble far away from people instead of going to a bar and drinking and getting into fights. Less of a chance of ACCIDENTALLY MURDERING SOMEONE.
Unless if some IDIOT decides to come poking around here.
“I wouldn’t recommend coming over here.” She hears the footsteps over the clatter of stone. Her knuckles are bloody but it’s fine. “Rubble could crush your skull.”
she’s slow. and quiet. the faint click of her lighter meets the end of her cigarette, before quickly being pocketed away.
lisbeth salander does not like people. company is a liberty she doesn’t care for; they give her headaches. nausea. there’s something about people that makes her skin itch and her fingers flex til there’s something else to do. she spends her life trying to avoid at all cost, seconds from packing up her mac and going to live off the archipelago in a remote summer cabin that blomkvist keeps for his vacation days.
--- yet she sees the silhouette tucked beneath the back of a hoodie and she still watches. waits. (jones, jessica. thirty two. private investigator. spends too much on alcohol and too little on anything else. does not play well with others.)
“it won’t.” her research hasn’t been as thorough as she’d like, but the city’s beginning to wear on her a little. (she remembers how stockholm suffocates her. she remembers the way kalle fucking blomkvist had his hand around her throat without even knowing it. fuck you, kalle blomkvist.) it won’t, because there’s a woman who can pick the rubble up and crush it there and then. it won’t, because there’s only a bottle of whiskey and intense, burning fucking hate between them. or maybe there’s not.
she’s not here to stop her -- she eyes the knuckles with the same blank stare she regards everything with and takes a long drag on the cigarette. your hands will sting when the adrenaline wears off is what she avoids, and even though she stands at 4′11″, 90lbs with matchstick arms, her next words are only confident and flat:
“i can take care of myself.”
(she may not be powered, but she’ll get the fuck back up until her kneecaps shatter.)
“what do you know about human trafficking in this city?”
