Re: Newspaper office: Cat/Jack
[Oh, yes, she absolutely would do it. She'd do it, and for no other reason than to be annoying. And she would enjoy every little last moment of it, because she could petty and she could be catty. And in the face of recent events? Petty and catty sounded delightful. The old methods of coping were lost to her now, you see. No one was going to chase her on rooftops, and no one was going to lock her up somewhere she could thrill at escaping from. Even sex, old and reliable sex, wasn't adrenaline the way it had been once. Cat, she'd lost all the old things, and new things weren't filling the gap. Oh, there were men, of course there were men. She could collect lovers like diamonds, but even that got old after a while. And too many of her recent acquisitions required saving. And Cat, Cat was tired of saving. Everyone required saving, and all the time they required saving, and Cat was tired of that record repeating. In her mind's eye, she remembered strength and stoic quiet, arms and a man who hated how much he desired her. But even that was gone, wasn't it? Oh, Bruce was back, but Cat hadn't sensed any of the old hunger in his typed words. So, petty and catty made her feel good, and so here she was.]
Do I care if you shut down? [She didn't care, and that was in the lush lines of her smile. Oh, it was candor, and what was it to her if he shut down this dusty, grimy office? He wasn't doing anything useful with it anyway, was he?] Do you think I'll mourn? Do you think this town will mourn? [She scoffed.] Maybe they'd get some actual news for a chance, and wouldn't that be something?
[She wasn't being nice, but she wasn't feeling nice, and it was his own fault for goading her when she was in a mood. Eddie had almost died, and Sasha always needed to be grovel-dragged back, and Bruce was distance. Of course she was in a mood.
And she would've clawed more, drawn more blood, but he made that statement about not sharing a bed with her ghosts, and she laughed. Oh, it was mean laughter, and it was loud, and it called him stupid and ridiculous, and all without need for words.] Oh, aren't you sweet? Darling, some of us don't have lives that involve silver spoons and wives betrayed like some twisted version of Dante's Inferno. Some of us could drown in the amount of blood we've spilled. And we? We don't get to not share beds with our ghosts. We carry them to the grave, and we probably carry them beyond that. So, you? You write your little article, hmmm. And feel sorry for yourself all you like.