When Debra Morgan missed modern times the fucking most were when she was running. Running had become a haven to her, and she missed running to the sound of music bringing peace to her ears. It was moments (days) like this really where Debra missed the music the most. The last couple of days had been one giant ass cluster fuck of bad news and bullshit, and now she needed to try and sort out her feelings about it.
Thankfully the dress that West had put her in had easily been shed, even if the engagement and wedding ring were another matter. An entire bar of soap, a large amount of vegetable shortening and plain old pulling had given Deb nothing more than a sore fucking hand and several more god damn complexes.
So now she was out running on the street, dressed in a man's sweater and boy's shorts, running as fast as she could through the Peaksville streets on a desperate search for calm.
Frank shoved his hands in his pockets, this place was a bit odd. His brow furrowed, it was then that he saw her. "Debra?" Sure not many people called her that.
When she heard someone call her Debra, Deb faultered in her step. It was the tone more than the word however that had caused her to trip over her shitty 1950s sneakers and fall down. This place had to be fucking with her; there was no way that Frank Motherfucking Lundy could have just called her motherfucking name.
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Thankfully the dress that West had put her in had easily been shed, even if the engagement and wedding ring were another matter. An entire bar of soap, a large amount of vegetable shortening and plain old pulling had given Deb nothing more than a sore fucking hand and several more god damn complexes.
So now she was out running on the street, dressed in a man's sweater and boy's shorts, running as fast as she could through the Peaksville streets on a desperate search for calm.
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