Home, sweet home.
frances—farmer:
[The words allot her so much relief, she can physically feel the weight being pulled from her shoulders. She, too, is exhausted after having battled the war his absence provoked, after having mourned the relationship that may have never reached the expectations her mind had set for it. Still, she can feel herself teetering between what’s fantasy and what’s reality. Would the rug be pulled from under her feet once more? How long would it take before Satan himself realized just how happy the pair were together, and obliterated the both of them to prevent an appeasing eternity? Most importantly, would these spurts of amnesia continue to rob Vince of the only thing he’s ever put faith in? These questions continue to buzz in a crown around her head as she her frantic eyes meet Vince’s lifeless, pleading ones. It doesn’t matter now, none of it does. What matters now is that he is here, and she must relish in his unpromising presence for as long as she can. She does as she’s told, collapsing into the wall beside him and resting her head onto his shoulder. She curls into him as if to be a puppy of sorts. She missed this. She missed his contradicting warmth, his lack of any real words, and coming to this realization reinforces a pang, accompanied by tears.] I thought you were gone for good this time.
[Vince wrapped one arm around her, pulling her tiny body taught against his, a wash of relief for both of them. He missed her. How odd it was to think that such a feeling was common with others, yet with him, only exclusive to her, that most of his pain was only allowed with her. Slowly, his fingers reached up to her jaw, tilting her head upward. He needed this. He needed to remember who she was completely, he needed to remember who he had become, someone better, someone capable of understanding love rather than possession and property. He let out a soft sigh before he captured his lips into hers softly and fleeting, but there and begging.]
(Source: hollow-vince)
Home, sweet home.
frances—farmer:
[She observes with precaution, as if her reaction may alter the results. She is unsure of what to say, what to do — just how are you supposed to comfort a person who doesn’t remember you? More importantly, just how are you supposed to comfort Vince? With precaution, she decides. With ease. With patience. His eyes meet hers, and a flicker of hope encourages her to stand a little straighter than before. The look she is so fond of, the look that admitted to her that he is trying his best to be a better person. The glint of love that lined the chocolate brown hue in his almond shaped eyes. She’s almost positive this is the Vince she’s known, and indubitably the Vince she loves. She looks to confirm this, just to make sure.] Vince?
[Vince looks at her, then away, pressing his lips together for a moment before he sinks down against the wall. He’s exhausted, having done too much for the controller of his being in the past several months. He lets a breath ease in and out of himself before he nods only once. His voice is low as he speaks and empty, but the words themselves, plead.] Come here.
(Source: hollow-vince)
Home, sweet home.
frances—farmer:
You should stop thinking, then. [Her retort, much louder than the initial provocation as if to make a point, rings of such nonchalance, it almost shocks her. Still, she continues on her path, though it suddenly dawns on her that she hasn’t tried everything. Her next move will be as erratic as her very being, though it may be effective.. just maybe. She makes a turn in the opposite direction so quickly, it would evoke dizziness if equilibrium still posed as a problem. She approaches him with such haste, such a rush of self-confidence, she thinks she may have caught a hint of surprise in his expression, but she figures she’s only seeing what she wants to see. Within a matter of seconds, her fingers clasp the fabric of his shirt aggressively, as if it would provoke the desired outcome. She pulls him down to where they meet face to face, and there lips collide forcefully at Franky’s will.]
[Vince, at first, wants to pull back, but some blind force keeps their lips together and his attach gratefully into hers. It doesn’t last long enough. He pulls back, stumbling back a step as his head falls and he brings his hands up to cover his head at the sides as pain courses through it, like a migraine never felt by a human soul. He slowly backs into the wall for support, discontented noises coming from his throat at it all. He whimpers before the pain slowly subsides and he leans his head back against the wall. There’s a hint of euphoria for the smallest of seconds, the relief from the pain just felt. He doesn’t need to, but his breathing focuses and his head comes up to look at the female before him: Franky. His throat closes and his eyes widen slightly before he realises what happened. His gaze is hollow, but the hints of her love are back even if confused within him. He doesn’t say anything, not quite sure what words might give justice or comfort.]
(Source: hollow-vince)
Home, sweet home.
frances—farmer:
Sorry, kiddo. This is one toy that hasn’t squeaked for quite some time. [She silently debates whether or not she should disclose the fact that he is the one to have taken the squeak in the first place, but decides against it. Instead, with a solemn expression, she strategically works her way around him. She can’t even look at him without wanting to punch him. Without wanting to kiss him. Without wanting to yell, to cry, to smile. Her emotions are so conflicted, she can’t even maintain her “no expression, no reaction” rule.. so she doesn’t. Instead, she continues on, silently hoping he doesn’t have any inquiries to obstruct her path, though not doubting the idea entirely.]
[He turns to watch her walk away, a slight smile on his lips. His voice isn’t loud enough to be heard by a human, but maybe by her.] And here I thought you might be interesting.
(Source: hollow-vince)
Home, sweet home.
frances—farmer:
[The gesture is greets her with such haste that her body willingly succumbs to the force his hand exerts. Though no physical pain can be felt, her heart aches with an unbearable amount of misunderstanding. Had she in some way warranted an absent-minded Vince? Was it something she said? Did? It’s likely. It’s very likely, but she cannot recall. Not while his hand is wrapped ever so skillfully around what used to serve as passage for air — a substance that is no longer a necessity. Not while she’s already scrambling for some form of her own identity. This is all too much. Her eyes reluctantly meet his, and she catches glimpse of the same old familiar glint of nothingness that had been so prevalent from the beginning.. except something is missing. No traces of happiness, no traces of love. She is now just another victim.] Sorry to disappoint. I’ve never been much of a fighter myself. [She reciprocates the apathy in his tone, and toward her imminent ‘re-death’. She fully accepts whatever fate has in store for her, at this point. It’s knocked her off her feet once, it can do it again.]
[Vincent’s eyes flicker, the amusement dead now that she’s complied with it. He blinks, then lets her down, hearing the thunk of her dropping to her feet again.] It’s not fun if the toy doesn’t squeak.
(Source: hollow-vince)
Home, sweet home.
frances—farmer:
[Frances suppresses a laugh at the words, “so you ought to be afraid,” though something of a smirk does catch the fluorescent lighting. It dawns on her that this may not actually be some sort of a joke, though furrowing her brow at her apprehension. She maintains this sense of reality until a threat is made, in which she flutters the long lashes lining her cobalt orbs in a manner that signifies that she’s offended. Her suspicions have been confirmed. He has truly forgotten who she is. She searches for her next words, but out of habit, his name exits her lips at a low whisper.] 
Vince.. [She shakes her head, as if the disbelief is too much for her to compute all at once. She may have been able to get over him with his absenteeism contributing to the cause.. but he wasn’t absent anymore. Not physically.] Vince, it’s me. It’s Franky. Look at me. [She pushes his shoulder in a brash manner, as if to be bullying him to comply.] Look at me, god dammit!
[Vince flicks his cigarette, staring at her idly. He doesn’t appreciate her physical force and he doesn’t hesitate. His fingers curl around her throat and he pushes her to the next wall. A dark snarl crosses his lips and his eyes, the work of the devil shining through. His words are seething, a way he’d never talk to the female if he had remembered who she was.] I’m giving you one more chance to be nice to me. You may be a demon, but I enjoy a challenge.
(Source: hollow-vince)
Home, sweet home.
frances—farmer:
[she bites her tongue, restraining her anger as she sucks in a sharp breath, then proceeds rather monotone]
So help me God, Vincent Holloway, I will send you straight back to the bounds of Hell if you don’t cut the shit.
[Vincent looks up from his shoes, pulling his cigarette away from his lips. He stares, then cracks his neck, turning it menacingly in each direction.] I told you, I don’t like to be spoken to that way. You obviously know who I am, so you ought to be afraid.
I will not take your medication, I will not attend therapy sessions, and I will kill you if this continues.
(Source: hollow-vince)
Home, sweet home.
frances—farmer:
Lucifer is the least of your god damn problems at present, Sir Holloway.
So that’s just it, huh? Come strollin’ the fuck in here like you were invited. On your own fucking terms. I get it.
Invited may not be the correct term, short stuff.
And I don’t know who the fuck you are, love, but I don’t enjoy being spoken to that way. So perhaps you could try again. Or not. Either way, I suppose I’m not very bothered, am I?
(Source: hollow-vince)
Home, sweet home.
How fucking kind of you, dearest Lucifer.
