Hey, lady, don't give up on me. Don't burn your heart out, love.
((OOC: I know there have been a lot of new posts but this one was necessary. Too. Sorry. ><))
Elizabeth got her hands wrapped in bandages at a free clinic. They fixed the burns up as well as they could fix them. She was right. There would be scars. No matter what. They gave her medical lotion stuff and fresh bandages to put on twice a day though ( Read more... )
Elizabeth got her hands wrapped in bandages at a free clinic. They fixed the burns up as well as they could fix them. She was right. There would be scars. No matter what. They gave her medical lotion stuff and fresh bandages to put on twice a day though ( Read more... )
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[ooc: Josef would also like me to announce that he doesn't have to tag every post Elizabeth is in or every time she pops up. This is just plot-related and relevant to his/their interests and such. Shut up.]
The narration does not know why Josef finds himself near where Elizabeth is at that exact moment in time she decides to sit on that bench. The narration will assume he had his reasons, of which no one probably wants to know.
Something is different. He hasn't noticed the bandages yet because he's looking at her face. His shoulders tense at the knowledge, at the sight of her. She conceals things now, whereas she didn't before, but Josef likes to think he can still read her like a book sometimes.
"Elizabeth?"
There is so much he doesn't say and it remains her name alone.
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Elizabeth pulls her hands back into the sleeves of her coat so fast at the sound of his voice that the bag drops on to the sidewalk with a heavy thump. She winces, looking down at it and trying to steady her breathing which has fallen into panic again. Elizabeth swallows searching for control, searching for a center. Jesus, loves me this I know. For the-
She forces a smile as she looks up at him. Happy, innocent, fine. Elizabeth. Just like he likes her. Don't look at the hands. Please, don't look at my hands. She pulls them back even further through there's no more room and her hands are already hidden in the sleeves of the big coat.
"Hi, I was trying to uhm buy like a Thanksgiving dinner which who knows if you even celebrate Thanksgiving but I thought you might if I brought food and tried to you know like make something of it? But I didn't think of how much of a pain it'd be shopping on T-day itself. I mean I almost had to give this old dude the beatdown cause he try to steal the last can of green beans from me soHe ( ... )
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Easy, easy.
"Okay." He focuses on picking up the bag that fell to the floor. Quietly. He lets her talk. He always lets her talk, do you notice that, Josef?
He straightens, his piercing gaze falling on her again. "Now how about you tell me what really happened?"
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He is taking it.
The air is cool, and he has a coat wrapped tightly around himself as he walks. His eyes are wandering about, and it is with surprise that they land on a lone figure on the railing. While he cannot see the man's face, he feels a sense of concern. Unable to walk past the man, he steps up to the railing, perhaps ten feet to the side. A quick look to the side gives him the man's identity and his concern only grows.
He looks out over the water and wonders what is seen in the darkness of the waves. "Are you fond of the water, Sir?"
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"Please don't call me sir," he says with a wince that a man such as Alfred could use the term 'sir' with him. I'm fond of how it might feel to jump into them. It's a bitter, not quite true thought so he doesn't say it out loud. "I suppose it's a bit calming to watch it even when the waves are acting more violently. I never thought of myself as being fond of it before.
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"Mr. Rice, then," he says with a nod. The man's statement does little to quell his worry, and he takes a deep breath as he listens to the water and the words.
His voice is very strong, and infused with the kindness he would hope one would bestow upon Master Bruce or Rachel, should they find them here. It is a kindness, also, for a man he is grateful to. Though he was very tired upon his...resurrection, he remembers seeing Rachel and the man who had tried his best to be a support to her. "You have need of something calming." It really is not a question. The fact that it is the violence of the waves that calms him is not something Alfred remarks upon, though it is silently noted. "It seems a rather restless" lonely "place to find such calmness."
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He can hear the kindness in it, and it makes him feel painfully sick because he doesn't deserve it. Robin keeps his gaze steadily ahead into the waves. He doesn't comment about what he needs because he doesn't think it matters and Alfred doesn't seem to question it.
"Compared to the rest of the city... I would hardly call these waves restless. Water is patient, and it's always been around, and it's steady and constant. Throw a rock into it and you create ripples. Every time."
He admires it. If people could be so steady, so strong, and so constant, there would be less issues. If only he could be more like water, he may have never hurt Rachel or Ruvin. He wouldn't have to worry about the possibility of hurting them again and again, of ( ... )
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"So what kind of poison are you mixing there, kiddo?" She asks as she finally strolls into the kitchen.
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Luke looks up when she enters. The last time that she saw her... well. It was a bit awkward because he was absolutely terrified of everything. He's doing better now. Mostly because there's only so long a person can live feeling so much fear.
"Any kind you'd like. Assuming the ingredients are around, yeah?" He smiles. "And I don't think that'll be a problem. You'd think there was a hidden bar in this tower. There's a bit of everything."
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She links her ankles in between the slats in the chair and kicks it forwards, allowing it to tilt back on two legs while she holds it in place with her legs. "So you're... Luke, right? The circumstances weren't exactly ideal when we met the first time."
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And he starts to make the drink with the ease and skill of a bartender. It's something that he's learned that he's never really forgotten. Like riding a bicycle... or sex.
It's nice anyway to have the action to do to distract himself from the potential awkward, especially when she actually brings it up.
"I'm Luke," he says and winces. "They... weren't really." He barely resists the urge to say sorry for that but the apology is probably written on his face. "It's- I'm- The plagues gave me perspective. I guess. It's sort of hard to be afraid of dying when you thought you were dying. Literally. And all you had is a world of regrets in your head for not... living, loving. Letting a certain set of circumstances terrify you for how ever long you've got left. Can't do that anymore."
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She's skipping merrily , she plans to find Peter. He has been helping refugees and shelters and clinics and whatnot.
She stops when she sees the girl with the bandages sitting in a bench nearby. An angel, like her.
"You okay, cutie?"
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"Yeah, I'm okay. I was just... thinking about stuff is all," she says, wrinkling her nose a little as if to say Pfffft, thinking. Who does that?. And then she manages a wider smile. "Hey, you're an angel, too! Hiiii. You really think I'm a cutie?"
She's always happy to meet a fellow angel. She tends to be happy to meet anyone really. In her current state, meeting someone is a nice distraction.
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Phoebe is not that dense.
"Sure am! Guardian angel, in fact. And dude, you are. Look at that hair. Totes jealous."
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"Really? I don't think I've met a gu- No, Big Mac. Duh. I've met one guardian angel. I'm an angel of death. I'm Elizabeth, and I think you're cute, too. So you totally don't have to be jealous or anything. We can just both bask in our own cute."
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There wasn't a whole lot in Rachel's fridge to work with, but omelets are easy. She stirs the eggs in the frying pan, watching the milk-white and yellow sluice together and bubble with the same nervous energy she's trying to keep bottled up. It's almost hard to breathe with this hum climbing up inside her ribcage, trembling against the base of her throat. She swallows around it, glancing at Dawes. It's so strange, being here like this. She imagines this is probably like having an older sister.
She imagines this is probably like having a family.
Ruvin ducks her head to hide the smile that breaks over her face, because she's pretty sure if anyone sees it, she'll cry.
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She is linefacing as she stares at the cookbook she bought, reading the recipe over and over again. It is not like Rachel Dawes to fail so spectacularly at something. And Rachel failed so very spectacularly in her attempts to make Ruvin a Thanksgiving dinner after finding her and bringing her back. She's prosecuted mobsters for a living. She's survived psycopaths and plagues. Cooking should not be difficult. Somewhere inside the Conrad hotel, Alfred Pennyworth's heart is breaking.
Rachel might be as nervous and happy as Ruvin is, albeit more cautiously.
For now she'll keep glowering at the cookbook, trying to figure out where on earth she went wrong.
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He's standing outside of the apartment room with a rolling suitcase and a duffel bag, staring at the door. You've waited long enough. Just do it. It's going to hurt to see them again but after what he put them through, he doesn't have much of a right to complain.
And he's here anyway! All that effort gone to-
It's not good to get this introspective standing in front of the door that will either hold his salvation or damnation. He's starting to think it doesn't really matter which.
He knocks and takes a step back, ducking his head like he did when he was little and he knew he was going to get hurt and that he deserved it.
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She gives Rachel a look that's about two steps shy of petrified. "I can't get--the eggs."
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