Rooms

[Public and Anon]

Who's in charge of this dump? I've been dead for a WEEK and no one's shown up to wheelbarrow me outta here.

[She's been gone since Gwen's death, but since her return, the apartment has filled up with muffins. So many muffins.

The baker of said muffins is no where to be found, however, though Gwen's room shows signs of someone having spent the night in there.]

[Locked to Peter P]
Want to come see a movie with me tonight, tiger?

[Locked to Flash T]
Are you like, friends with Jason?

[Locked to Harry O]
Hey, slugger. How's it going?

[Locked to MK R]
How're you doing?

[Call: Clementine M]
[Ring!]

[Seven]
[During this. She's holed up in the room she's been staying in on the first floor, door closed. She's mostly been sleeping the days away (except for Saturday, when she had Tommy take her to the nearest drug store to get a Father's Day card to give Seven on Sunday - from Bean). Devi is only sometimes allowed in the room, depending on Marta's mood.

Abrupt, and with no lead-in.]

I have a half-sister.


[Hels]
[It comes with no accompanying message: a photo of Seven, hair long and loose around his face, scruffy and in need of a shave, obviously asleep with his mouth open slightly. He's half-reclined into the corner of the couch, one sock-clad foot propped on the coffee table in front of him. He's at just the right angle for him to hold Bean on his chest, the angle of the photo just catching the chub of her cheek below a mess of dark hair. Seven's hand is wide and protective over her back. One of the dogs has climbed onto the couch next to Seven, had also been asleep with its head on his thigh, but the photo catches one sleepy eye cracking open to look at the camera.]

[The night was an inviolable promise at his back, dreams lost to the sugar glaze of rising dawn, chewed up cherry pit red, well on its way to striking gold. His coffee sat black with contrast, landfill dark in a paper cup that made assurances on common man's simplicity, even if it was secretly an import of Indonesian Luwak. Declan enjoyed small pleasures, but sometimes those small pleasures were three hundred dollars a kilogram. Fly fishing, flannel, and inheritance to spare.

It was nearly six when Declan parked his truck aat the firehouse. Alongside the bricks and facing the street, he slumped his seat back to admire a glowing dawn still on the rise. Declan suspected that he would be waiting on Clementine for awhile, and he cut the engine off after letting his driver's side window down. The breeze was subtle without the stickiness that would come closer to noon. He let the weightlessness of it coax between his empty fingers. He drank strong coffee to combat the morning grogginess that came with prescription pills. It helped, he thought, although he couldn't account for the occasional tired strain to his eyes.

As it occurred to him, Declan pulled on the edge of the rearview mirror, assessing his reflection for any signs of weakness. The caffeine helped with his color as well. The Siberian blue of his eyes looked alert rather than drained. He was wearing faded cotton white and dark blue Dickies. Even when he wasn't on rotation at work, most of his clothing seemed to function in a similar spectrum of blues. He hadn't bothered to shave, and he ran some fingers up the underside of his chin with consideration of the prickle before giving a fresh glance out to the street. He'd give Clementine five more minutes before deciding that she'd slept in. He was still trying to decide if that called for dialing her number or just driving off altogether.]

Who: Harry Osborn
Where: Marvel; New York to Paris.
When: Encompassing the last week up to this moment.
Warnings: Mention of drugs, destructive behavior, etc.

( Harry hadn't gone to Gwen's funeral. )

[As promised, the kitty cat was waiting outside Marvel disgustingly early. Track pants and a snug shirt in grey, sensible boots, and a pack on her back, she looked entirely harmless. No suit, her whip an afterthought low on her hips, along with the thigh holster lower against the back-striped black of her pants, and her hair tugged back and away from her face. Coffee in gloveless hands, and she didn't bother lying to herself about this little excursion. Oh, she was trying to help Stephanie, but she was trying to help herself just as badly.

She hadn't felt this adrift since she'd ended up captaining a pirate ship. But she'd changed since then, and going off alone to take on the Seven Seas? It just wasn't going to cut it this time.

Sure, things with Babs had made her relationship with the little bats tense, but Selina was fairly confident that enough sweat and endurance? And she and Stephanie could get back to fine.

So, there she was, sipping her coffee, leaning against the dusty hallway wall, and wondering how irresponsible this was. Oh, she didn't mind that it was irresponsible. She didn't even mind the associated risks. She'd ended up in zombies and walked out, and she'd walk out of wherever she ended up that morning. That was just Gotham confidence, burrowed so far beneath her skin that nothing would ever be able to dig it out. Gotham? Gotham was survival, no matter how badly Bruce Wayne wanted to turn it into some colorless mockery of Metropolis.]