Rooms

Fucking Netflix, man. I need to get up off this couch.

Flaaaaaaaaaaaash.

[Steve R]

Clint isn't around.

[Public]

Had to tell like a dozen kids today that trying to get grumpy Iron Man's autograph is probably a bad idea.

[Private to Jean, Wanda]

Usually it's a bad sign when we have a non-mutie Avenger crashing through our door. Just sayin.

[After talking to Flash, because she knows better. Hastily scribbled.]

Don't let him [...] anyone. Don't come

DO NOT

[Any responses will have to wait.]

[Locked to Bruce W, Dick G, Stephanie B, Jason T, &... Selina K]
[After this. So amused.]

A man named Flash wants me to tell you, Todd, your girlfriend is going to go after your daughter. Or Dick's daughter. Hels. In the Silent Hill door. If no one else does.

Who: Trystan & Liam
What: Roommates
Where: The new place in Gotham
When: Recent!
Warnings/Rating: TBD

[Yeah, the place wasn't much to speak of, but it wasn't a hotel room, and it had that going for it at least. Shabby, one bedroom, stained walls and carpeting, but he wasn't complaining. It was a place to stay, a roof over his head, and he wasn't alone.

Funny how 'not being alone' had come to be one of those things that was important to him. He could remember living on his own, being okay with it, but now the quiet, the solitude, it felt imposing and suffocating, and just knowing that another person was sharing the space with him was enough to put some of the voices in his head at ease.

The corner of the living room (or what constituted a living room in the cramped space) had become his. Notebooks and cheap pens, an ash tray and a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He was slouched against the wall, feet bare and wings concealed beneath a thin t-shirt, a cigarette in hand as he stared down at the notebook balanced on one knee.

Writer's block. A cement wall that he couldn't find a way over.]

The worlds beyond this one are stranger than I ever could have imagined. There is something to be said about the comforts of home and its familiar environment, isn't there?

[Published Monday, in the correspondence section]

Dear Sir, I write to express my regret at the flimsy substance of the particulars at Thursday's entertainment. Is London truly London if the ladies at such dances merely stand at the sides of the walls and lower their eyes in meek appreciation of the music rather than the vehicle of the event itself? We are at the brink of a new century, an enlightenment, one in which a maid is not the parcelled belonging of her father but might express regard for her own interests and her own passage through the world. Dances are but small pleasures but expressions of what has become usual rather than spectacle. We should be taking strides to embrace the novel and the spectacular rather than holding candles in corners and pretending the light reaches to the corners of the room. What man, what woman might celebrate companionship if it comes white-gloved, with eyes cast down, with nary a word on her lips but those echoed belonging to others? Signed, A. I.

[locked to flash t]

So apparently this girl Gwen wants to chase after is Bruce's daughter, and we all forgot about her, and nobody knows why. I love this place. Gwen's not going anywhere, is she out of whatever hole they were hiding her in?

[locked to gwen s]

You're not setting a toe near that door.

[eta:locked to tony s]

You let Gwen out of where you have her, she's going to run after a friend of hers who jumped into a nightmare door because she was having a bad day. Keep her there at least until somebody goes into the other door after this friend of hers.