kingdomsofrain | picture prompt meme

[ Michael is much more overt in his curiosities about the woman. Rather than continue to tower over her, he leans in and cocks his head like a curious bird, making sure to survey her from head to toe. ]

Wow. You're tiny. Are you a child or an adult? Maybe you're just sick?

The Photojournalist doesn't look any different from the men in Olathe. This one just has the decency to wear a shirt. As for Buddy's appearance, she's clad her her usual poncho with a mask on her face, obscuring her feminine features and hair. At his question, she doesn't speak much at all, choosing to nod at his response.

She'll have to play everything by ear and sight.

Twelve women make for a noisy, noisy, apartment, it can't really be avoided. (That's if you don't factor in the fact nearly all of them are nubile and sexually active, with others and among themselves.) Most of the time they are fortunate to live next to people to can't hear it, don't care, or are bribed easily to shut up.

At least the door is answered and a person comes out to greet Dean. A tall beautiful woman with supermodel-worthy looks with straight ink black hair and icey blue eyes answers coldly.

"What do you want?"

Isolde has never seen someone so ugly in her life.

When he'd seen them moving in, Dean had thought the women could be considered attractive by anyone who cared about those things. This, though. This woman is almost unreal.

"Charming, aren't you?" Of course Mrs. 'I Stepped Out Of A Fashion Magazine And Into This World' would have no time for pleasantries. (As if Dean usually offered pleasantries, himself. As if he hadn't been ready to jump in and start giving the woman an earful.) "I came to inquire whether this grotesque symphony of sound is going to be continuing past... let's say now. You aren't alone here, you know."

Edited 2018-03-18 04:42 (UTC)

"Always am." It wasn't a boast, Victor Zsasz wasn't one to boast. It was just true. Thanks to Don Falcone he had enjoyed the position of number one enforcer to the head of Gotham basically ever since he started this job and even now, his reputation ensured him a similar status. Almost symbolic to who wielded power in Gotham, being able to employ him. Oswald Cobblepot didn't have his loyalty the same way Don Falcone had it, but he liked working for him. He was fun. Maybe that was part of why the man's position wasn't questioned much. Victor wouldn't be surprised and he didn't have to sit back and analyse it. He just kept to the rules of Gotham and he managed to keep up with the changes that were befalling his city. Same old. As he said, he always was.

"Suit yourself. Maybe you'll manage to stay out of things." He lifted a shoulder in a shrug, clearly expressing his doubts there without a word. It was Gotham. The city had a way of sucking people in. He couldn't imagine it would be any different for Daud, largely because he couldn't imagine it would be any different for anyone. "Dunno if Gotham is going to stay out of you."

It had a way of getting to everyone. "Police captain just got killed. On camera. And in this city? Now everyone's laughing like the kid who shot her." What a unique plays. "Whole town is more fascinated by chaos than scared of it. They're breaking the rules."

The mob continued losing its grip. He wondered sometimes if Oswald knew. "You staying in the Narrows? Have a look at the graffiti everywhere. 'Haha' is the tagline, I think."

"What're you—"

What's she got to be sorry for? He's genuinely puzzled, because isn't she the one thrashing about like her life depends on it (don't dwell on that; something too close for knowing, there)? Sure, she's woken him up, but that's not worth saying (isn't now, though it would've left him irate before all of this, and maybe it'll be the same sometime in the future).

He wants everything to be all right with her. He wants to feel like things are right between them. Which of course they are. How could they be otherwise, the way she'd come to him, the way they'd drawn together just as soon as found each other? The world feels rightside-up when he's with her, so how could anything be sour?

(Of course he knows the answer, though he does his best to hide it, ignore it, pretend it's all been cured. Because it hadn't happened the way he'd thought, right? Because she's here, here beside him and not... Not in places unthinkable. So it must be all right, though his own dreams tell him it isn't, though even trying to avoid the fact he knows, knows what Nancy's dreaming of. The way she'd recoiled from him; that'd said enough for him to let go of her, lacking words, lacking even complaint.)

"Christ almighty, you got nothing to be sorry for."

If he thought about it, he'd know that wasn't true, exactly. Given what she'd done to him, what she'd said. Right now, that's all far away and immaterial; right now, what matters is the immediate situation and the woman who won't look at him, the woman he can't bring himself to touch just yet.

Hey, this guy's friendly enough to nod! That's got to be a good sign, right? Not everyone around here's like that. Some of them'll put a bullet right through your gut, ha! ...That isn't funny. For his own part, the Photojournalist isn't really armed. That is, he has a gun but he never uses it and he's pretty sure it's out of bullets and rusted, which is for the best really because he'd probably just shoot himself in the foot. He's not made for violence. He survives mostly by telling people he'll take their picture and put it in an upcoming magazine with a killer story, that - who knows? - maybe they'll be on the cover! A lot of people like that shit. And it's not exactly a lie; he could end up getting the photos published. If there are any publishers operating. And assuming he hasn't run out of film which, well, is kind of a big assumption.

He takes another step or two toward the figure, scratching at his ear. "Hey, it's good to see another face out here! Man, I was starting to think it was just me and all these cactuses. Or, uh, cacti? Shit, I never know. That's why I'm a pictures guy! But now we've found each other so it's not just a lonely party anymore.

"Hey, um. Have you seen any water around here? Or anything you can pour in your mouth, I'm not picky! It's just I don't know where anything is."

[ knows what she wants, too. okay, that's cool. and she's just... really getting into that bag. as long as she doesn't run off with his autographed picture of president eden (which he definitely totally has and would definitely totally care about if he had it), it's no problem. ]

Yeah, sure. Agua we can do.

[ there are a couple bottles of purified water next to his rifle; deacon grabs them and holds them out to the kid. ] It'll get you a little ways, anyhow.

[ he cocks his head, watches her for a moment before deciding that if he's going to extend the offer pulling together in his head, he'd better do it now, like right now before she turns tail and dashes off. ] You know, if you need a place to sleep, I'm gonna be here for a while, and I've got this blanket that's just sitting here. I'm not much for sleeping under the open sky - which begs the question, why do I even bring the blanket in the first place? - and I wasn't planning on shutting my eyes tonight, anyway. Been having these terrible nightmares, not that you needed to know that. Heyyy, Deacon, let's try not running your mouth for once.

What I'm saying is you can take a rest here, if you want. The blanket's pretty comfortable.

Edited 2018-03-18 18:34 (UTC)

"I'll take my chances." Daud wasn't worried, not explicitly. In the back of his mind, though, his doubts about this city grew a little stronger. He'd known there was a risk in choosing a place that held so dearly to its crime, but he'd been focused on the benefits of blending in with such a city.

What Zsasz had said about Gotham not staying out of him.... It was troublesome. Daud knew the way a city, the worst parts of a city could creep into a person. Change the rules of necessity and the bounds of what was permissible. Change the ways importance appeared, lives appeared, changed the ways that you could shape yourself. Make yourself out of devastation, and while it wasn't all so dramatic as that - even now he couldn't believe killing was always the wrong route, or that he'd been utterly mistaken in his endeavors - it wasn't as distant or unimpactful as he'd thought. Or maybe it was more apt to say it impacted in ways he hadn't imagined.

So a city could change you, and Daud was beginning to wonder whether he'd really taken a proper measure of Gotham. There hadn't been time or opportunity to be truly thorough in his research, and now that he'd arrived, he could already feel the pull of the city. Then there were Zsasz's words to consider: 'whole town is more fascinated by chaos than scared of it.' Zsasz wasn't one to speak lightly or exaggerate (Daud wasn't sure whether the man just didn't know how, or whether he found embellishment a waste of time; both, maybe, and Daud could appreciate that). If things were so deeply misaligned here, would it be wiser to leave? Now, before the night came on, before the city could catch hold of him, before he could come up with half a hundred reasons to stay.

He'd think about it. Hear Zsasz out and then make a decision after. Another half hour couldn't hurt, right? And it could be he was panicking too quickly; just an overblown sense of suspicion since leaving Dunwall (which wasn't true, which he sincerely doubted, which he didn't want to think about).

What was he doing here, anyway? Rather, what was he going to do? He'd come to disappear, but of course disappearance wasn't as simple as ceasing to move in the world. Disappearing didn't mean you stopped living. What did he want from any place, from himself?

He turned himself back to the conversation. "That's one hell of a city you've got.

"Killing the captain of police on camera... That takes a certain kind of disregard. Or theatricality, I'm not sure which.

"Never really been my interest." Daud had always been more for shadows, never hiding his face but keeping his tracks clear, appearing out of nowhere and ending the target in a moment. Quick and graceful, in and away.

And maybe, maybe that was what would save him from this city. Maybe he was too quiet for a place that flocked to the dramatic. Maybe there was nothing here to tempt him, and no need to move away, after all.

"Hey, uh… Did you ever think about not being a total asshole? Just an honest question, no offense intended."

So maybe there’s some offense intended. Deacon’s heard plenty about the Warden, seen some of the damage for himself, and while the guy’s got the right idea about looking out for his people as a whole, most of his methods are, well, pretty gross. And all right, sure, maybe Deacon shouldn't come into the guy's office and talk to him like this, but sometimes you just have to grab your opportunity when it arrives.

Deacon's supposed to be delivering a message, but he can get to that in a minute. Don't want to lead off with the important stuff, or you might be dismissed before you can say what's really on your mind. What a tragedy that'd be.

Edited 2018-03-18 23:38 (UTC)

Somewhere in the tears, Nancy huffs out a bit of a hysterical laugh. It's one Bill would recognize, surely never a good sign from her. She wraps one arm around herself, then places the other securely on her lower stomach, her auburn curls covering her face, concealing her tears.

She had everything to be sorry for.

"I--" a jagged sob tears through her words "--Tell me- tell me you love me, Bill." She looks up at him with her bright green eyes, ringed red with tears. "Please- I need to hear it-- I need to know--" know what exactly? That he loved her? She knew that. He loved her, he needed her, he didn't need to say it. But lord she had wanted him to. For near ten years now, she supposed, she'd never gotten him to say it. She'd almost gotten the idea out of her head.

But she needed to know right now that he was there, that he loved her. That he wasn't going to do that to her again. That maybe he'd forgiven her.

He almost puts his foot down then and there, almost refuses to say anything at all because nobody, not even Nancy, tells Bill Sikes what to say or do (especially not when it's so... so un-Bill Sikes a thing to say).

But that laugh. But the way she keeps drawing in on herself, away from him. The way he knows somehow he shouldn't touch her, can't go near her, somehow she's far away and he's never known how to bridge this kind of gap. She ain't right, and this is worse than usual, worse than much of what he's known from her and far apart from how she's been since his return. He can't touch what's happening. Can't speak to it, even if he guesses even if he knows at the back of his mind what's the cause.

Maybe, though. Maybe he can give her what she wants. This much (it's the least he can do for her, the least he owes her, and he does owe her, even if he doesn't care to think it, even if she also owes him, he knows it now) he can do. Try.

"Nance. Nancy, come on, now." He starts to move toward her, finds himself unable to cross the distance and instead sits watching, puzzled still. "Who do you think you're talking to? Course I– Of course I do. That is I.

"Nancy. Christ, with everything that– Sure. Sure I love you, Nance. Sure."

I love you, Nance.

All the air is gone from the room, and Nancy's uneven lips part into a smile. It looks so silly, so manic, with the way her eyes are, her hair unbrushed and mussed from a fitful sleep.

It doesn't matter that she had to ask him to say it. What matters is he said it. he loves her, just as she always knew. She had her proof now, concrete, solid proof, that he still loved her after all of this time, after all of... all of everything.

(She tries to see him, still. But never close enough to let him see her. She doesn't want to upset him, to ruin his life. Oliver Twist deserves the best in life, and that means she has to stay far, far away from him.)

Nancy nods, her motions frantic. "...Hold me? Please?" Gently, comfortingly. She needed to be reminded of how soft his hands could touch her, when her body seemed to only remember the violence. "I'm sorry- Christ= I love you, Bill. I love you so so much."

I'm just small, are you going to card me?

[Among other things with the way you are going around me, keep your space, demon..]

Is that standard?

[ He hesitates for a minute. Rummaging around in his coat, he produces a large card sealed in an bright red envelope from his pocket. It's much to large to come out of there, but demons have caused stranger things to happen.

Michael hands the card to the small woman. ]

I went with Happy Birthday. They have a lot more cards of the singing variety.

[ Laura takes the water, continuing to stare down the strange man who rambles to no end. While the idea of rest sounds like a far off dream, she's not desperate enough to accept just any offer cast her way.

She's got some hard-hitting questions. Questions like: ]

Are you crazy?

Again there's the split reaction: partly bristling against being instructed, mostly knowing it it's what he wants to do and what she needs and if he can say he loves her, of course he can hold her. Her questions breaks the distance between them, and he moves toward her, wraps his arms around her own and draws her toward him.

It's amazing how aware he is of her body, of the... Not the ways it's changed (the ways he'd changed it), but of the ways it can be broken, has always been in some way fragile. Bill has long known the ways that bodies can splinter, but he's never closely felt the fact until now. It's unsettling. It's terrifying, and he almost wants to draw away from her before something happens. (Because it could, couldn't it? Something has happened before, and who's to say that.... No. No, he won't think it, and it's not possible. Never again.)

He makes himself stay where he is. Focuses on keeping his grip light. Don't hurt her (too late for that), but don't draw away and leave her, either. Not after she's asked for you. Not when you need to be close to her, too.

"Shh shh, hey, there's nothing you've got to be sorry for. Ain't anything wrong, Nance." He runs his fingers through her hair, lightly, trying not to pull at her. "Look, I'm here. I'm right here. And I love you. You know that, don't you?"

Nancy has changed. Her face is scarred, her lips now crooked and twisted up in one corner. She walks with a slight limp-she was no longer what she would consider pretty. But when Bill looked at her, she felt beautiful again. She felt like she fit between his large hands, next to him in bed. They always seemed like they fit together so perfectly.

She's aware now, more than ever, what his hands are capable of doing to her. She'd nearly been murdered by his hand, so much so that even he believed her dead. Bet had been sure of it, too, until she'd heard Nancy moan through her broken nose.

When Bill touches her, holds her, and this time when he puts his arms around her, she doesn't withdraw from him. She places her head against his chest, letting him cradle her against him. Her arms wrap around him so she can hold herself close. Her breathing was still unsteady as she let herself cry.

Through it all, she just wanted to laugh and smile. She was here with Bill, in his arms, and he fucking loved her. She nods into his chest. "Yes- I know you do. I love you, too. More'n anyone or anything." She squeezes him. "God almighty- I was so scared, Bill. Please stay with me- I can't lose you again."

At least she doesn't cringe away; the thought barely strikes him, but he feels its relief breathes a little easier.

There's silence for a while, and it's... It ain't bad. Somehow makes him feel closer to her, like words aren't needed or words won't suffice (or maybe words are just too dangerous). Silence in other people usually makes Bill wary; there's no telling what they're scheming when they're clammed up like that, not sharing their thoughts with everyone around. This is different, though. Quiet like this, Bill Sikes could get used to.

When she speaks he catches momentarily on a thought, a grimacing feeling. 'I can't lose you again.' It's a prickly idea, and one he can't get too far into. At the surface he feels its warmth, feels how she needs him the way he needs her, but there are also those stranding questions of how and why, why they'd been apart in the first place. Why she was scared (oh don't, don't think on that, don't think on that at all). No good in going down that way.

"You won't. I'm not going anywhere." He realizes he's holding onto her tighter than he'd intended (a rare recognition; if he thought about it, he'd be shocked he noticed), and he loosens his hold again. "And neither are you.

"You're my best girl, Nance. Always have been, and you always will be."

[ ouch, kid. ouch. ]

Oh, you mean because of the asking you to stay thing? Yeah. Look, I know I’m a stranger and you’ve got no reason to trust me, but I also know you look like someone who could use a good night’s sleep.

Would it help if we put a perimeter around the bed? Something noisy, so even if I wanted to - which, again, I don’t, but I get why you don't just take me at my word - I couldn’t sneak up on you? Or we could move a little ways, find a ridge or a ledge to set you up on. Pretty sure there's something like that just north of here.

She doesn't mind the tightness of his embrace. It serves to remind her that he's there, that they're together. That this isn't a dream she'll wake up from, alone and shivering in their bed. She nuzzles against his chest.

Through her tears, Nancy's got to smile. Her smile is lop-sided, but genuine. Looking at him, thinking about him had always made her feel so funny. Her toes curled, her stomach fluttered, and she couldn't help but smile. She'd lost that, for a time. But now- now it was back in full force.

She presses a kiss to his chest.

"You're my first, my last-" She presses her hand to her mouth as another sob wracks through her. She hates it, still crying like this, smiling like a bloody fool. But here she is- unable to tell one emotion from the other as she zips through them. Nancy raises one of her hands to gently stroke his cheek again, making it so he has no choice but to look at her.

He knew what her job was- how she made her living. But that didn't matter- no one else but him mattered, because he was all that there was. She was his, and she had been since she was near twelve. But he was one of two she'd willingly and of her own will taken into her bed. The other... Well, he never needed to know about Jack.

Even so, Nancy takes her other hand and runs her fingers through his graying hair, pushing it back from his face. "My only."

He knows what she means. Knows whatever she's done, he's the only man who's ever meant anything. The rest is business, what a person's got to do to live. Early on, Bill had gotten worked up about it time and again, but eventually he saw how much it didn't matter. How it was just Nancy doing her part. How the way she came back to him was proof she loved him best (didn't love the others at all, he was sure of it). It's all survival.

What they've got goes beyond that. It's always been more than survival. Survival's what he'd done all those years he was away, thinking her dead, thinking himself without place. Survival's rough and it's tenuous, awfully tenuous, and most days all you do is ache.

With Nancy, sure the days can be rough and there's always some damned thing or other to gnaw at him, but there are also times where the atmosphere settles out and things feel... well, right, almost. Like they are where they ought to be. And the world outside doesn't matter so much, sometimes seems like it can't get in at all. So he doesn't have to keep up his defenses anymore. So he can be alone with the one person he truly (don't think about that time, the past, that doesn't matter) trust.

That's what existing with Nancy is. It isn't just survival; it really, actually living. Not that Bill would put it that way; not that he even thinks it precisely that way. He feels the truth, even if he refuses words for it.

He leans forward to kiss her, firm without being insistent. "Ah, Nance. Always knew I could count on you."

Some would say, a hundred years in the future, that Fagin had groomed her for Bill. He'd laid the trap out perfectly, set the scene for Bill and Nancy to find each other. It hadn't helped at all that Nancy had taken quite a fancy to Bill early on, always seeking to impress him, to sit next to him at group gatherings. It was only natural that they find each other. They were meant to be, if you asked her; Bill had saved her. That's what mattered.

What mattered more was that they had conquered death- each one believed the other dead and still they found each other, drawn together stronger than any magnet.

Truthfully, Nancy liked Bill the most when he let down his walls. When he let her hold him, touch him and care for him. And moments like this, when he held her, touched her hair and was soft and warm. This was the Bill she loved more than anything, the Bill that the world never got to see, and so they never understood. But if they could see- well, she was sure they would.

She kisses him back, parting her lips slightly. Her cheeks are wet against his, but now her tears were slowing, and she placed her hands on his cheeks softly stroking. "I'm your girl. Always and forever, Bill." Their foreheads are pressed together now, sharing breath. "No matter what."

What is wrong with this man? Is he high on Joy? Delirious from a lack of water? He keeps talking about 'taking pictures' but he sees no sign of art supplies. He's... strange, but doesn't seem like he's any sort of threat. And he does need some water... so she reaches and inelegantly throws a bottle of beer at the guy.

The Photojournalist snatches the bottle with a grin; success!

"You're a nice guy, you know that? Man, the last guy I ran into... Heh, it's funny, he said he could crush my skull and feed me the fluid from my brain. So that's wasn't... That wasn't very cool." He gets quiet for a moment, eyes distant. Someone else had said the same thing to him once, or close enough that the echo crawls his spine, his guts.

He shakes his head, then opens the bottle and takes a long drink. "That's good shit. I can feel it already. Ummm, beer's a real gift from the gods. And you're a good guy."

This may or may not be a mistake, but in the spirit of the beer, The Photojournalist approaches the unknown dude. "You want a drink?" He's going to sit down next to the generous spirit if he can.

picture prompt meme

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don't mind the sentient nuclear zombie living next door... he don't mean any harm

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dunno what he's doing here but (bwe au? fallout au? superjail verse? HMM)

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the unfuckingthinkable happens

next step: marriage

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this is about the closest to possible it'll ever be

jfc all it takes is death apparently

just the uh little things

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