Repose

Who: Bruce and Whoever is around
What: Batman Returns, lol see what I did there
Where: Wainright Manor
When: The time foretold here.
Warnings/Rating: The god**** batman is pretty pg ok.

He was suitably dramatic after all. A rich man's black town car, a generic airport driver (he had a hat), no bags and only a light sports jacket better suited to a casual business lunch than a confetti-filled return to the living. It was obvious, in the lack of more than a silhouette as he avoided headlights and allowed for the existing security measures to pick him up, that he did not hide, and yet at the same time concealed himself from eyes searching for details.

Separating from the car, he paused for a moment before he moved through the gates, long-adjusted eyes suited to the dark taking in the familiar lines of the mansion and the manicured lawns giving rise to isolated trees. Then he straightened, and it was a slow, deliberate process.

Everything about him, in fact, was slow. He was walking deliberately, placing his feet, shifting his weight with precision, and structuring his silhouette the way he wanted it until he was in the shadow of the front entrance, the pillars offering support as he put out a hand to lean there. The car pulled away, the glowing eyes tracing back toward the Capital in the darkness.

Who: Misha and Janus
What: A demon and an angel walk into a bar... (not)
Where: The Quiet Home
When: Fuzzy recentish
Warnings/Rating: Misha will probably say at least one inappropriate thing

Misha missed his wandering privileges fierce. He missed them like birds missed sky, and he felt like some winged thing in a pretty little cage. Wasn't that things were any worse than usual in the Quiet Home, and it wasn't that he was crazier than usual, but he got real wild locked up too long. And thanks to that damn false angel spilling feathers all over, Misha had been locked up plenty. Worse still, they were watching him careful, so he couldn't cheek his meds like he did normal. Now, it was a real strange thing, but those meds, the ones for crazy folks, they made it so Misha couldn't do a damn thing he could normally do. He'd told the doctors once, informed them that he couldn't will anything into being, and he couldn't will himself anyplace, and they'd told him that was because he never could do those things. The medicines were doing their work, and Misha felt crazier than hatters after a long day of millinery.

He was real damn drugged that night, sitting in his room and on his real narrow cot. The window was bars over wires, and he could hear the other mad folks making noise loud down his hall. The moon was done with being full and fat, and it wasn't near harvest moon yet, and Misha was too drugged to reckon what had them stirring. Mad folks, they could sense things, see. Doctors knew that to be real true, even if they'd never say it loud.

Misha's room, it was like every room on the ward. The doors were padded soft, and they boasted one tiny window. The doors were locked on the outside, and Misha sat on the center of his bed. He was wet still some from water therapy, hair plastered blond onto his forehead, and he wore blue striped pajamas old and soft, the property of some poor damn tubercular soul before Misha was ever dreamed of. Misha was sporting a fresh bruise on his left eye, and his eyes were the brightest damn thing in the room. Like sapphires gone round, and black starved and real fat in the center. He chewed at his chapped lower lip, and he tried unsuccessful to spread wings. The damn things didn't even rustle, and wasn't that frustrating as unironic songs 'bout irony?

But the room flickered some, modern and old, and there were stories to be found on these stained old cots. The mad folks stirred restless, and the whole place was a thing caught between. Misha wasn't doing it intentional. Maybe it wasn't Misha doing it any at all. Beneath, a cart rolled on rails bound for an incinerator, and Misha just tried to rustle.

[Locked to Sasha]

Do you remember that offer to watch my dog?

[Locked to Destiny]

Sorry I left. Not good at these things.