(Untitled)

[sleuth_tendency]

For Detective Harper Reid, a 'night off' in Gotham didn't exist.   It just didn't. There was always some earth-shattering event taking place that demanded her to be on her hands and knees, crawling through blood and picking in carpets for hair follicles that not even God himself could identify.  She resolved, for once, to enjoy her night; still,

Comments

[paintfromlife]

So, kids. What the fuck does an artist (and odd-jobber) do, a guy who makes most of his living with his hands, when some psycho robot-fucking bitch breaks his nose and sprains his wrist? (Sure, it's not his dominant hand, but he still fucking needs it.)

In Pickman's case, the answer seems to be 'say fuck it, and go out to a bar.' Which is why he's here, resplendent in his new nose cast and wrist brace, perched neatly on a barstool, doodling clumsily on a napkin and sipping at a jack and coke, ready to make animated, profanity-laden conversation with anyone who happens to show the slightest bit of interest. Or even just comes near.

[sleuth_tendency]

Fuck. Fuckity fuck. Harper knew the signs of a mental breakdown when it came; watching his digits leave crude ink-blots on the napkin around the brace. Was she drunk enough to deal with this? It didn't really matter. In a few more shots of tequila, she could deal with a cross-dressing paraplegic spinning on top of the bar with sparklers up his ass.

Downing another stinging mouthful of liquid-courage, the woman leaned back against the bar to study the eccentric, voice gruff:

"So, did you try and make-out with a wall, or was there fisting involved?"

[paintfromlife]

Aww, sweetiehoneybabebabychild, Pickman having a breakdown would require there being something left to break.

He grins, big and broad and yellow (sure, his breath doesn't smell, but mouthwash won't take stains like that out) at the female of the species who has decided to up and talk to him. "Would you believe I was deliverin' a weddin' announcement?"

...Boston Accent ahoy.

[sleuth_tendency]

Well, it was talk to him-- or wait for Mr. Pissteeth to start first. She had taken the initiative, was all. Harper pinned him with a dubious expression, lambent eyes half-lidding, "Well, helps if you weren't tuppin' the bride.. Or.."

The woman seemed to be considering this a moment.

"..The groom. Which was it?"

[hopeyrhappytoo]

Well, well. Alex Drake in a bar drinking? It must be a day of the week. And going over notes, perhaps that means Arkham will pay for her drinks?

Yeah, probably not.

At any rate, the poor doctor is clearly bored of her own notes. You could probably talk to her. Or make fun of the fact that she's at a fairly busy bar and doing work.

[sleuth_tendency]

..And, while flipping through her text messages, stumbled, her leg took a nasty turn and with an unceremonious yelp, the detective took a spectacular fall, attempting to grasp anything to save her on the descent. ..Which happened to be most of the good doctor's paperwork. Ending with Harper half-sprawled across the woman's lap; arms cinched about one thigh.

[hopeyrhappytoo]

Well. Thank God Alex keeps most of her notes in bound books, then. Good show. How will the good doctor respond to this...interesting turn of events. "You know. You could get a ticket for that."

[sleuth_tendency]

The woman stayed clinging for a long moment, trying to remember how to breathe and -not- spray vomit across the floor. Whoa. World is spinny. "I'ma'..Im'a.."

Shit, she was going somewhere with that.

"Y'got nice legs.."