Apartment: Sam/Russ/Louis
The lights inside the basement apartment turned on.
Gotham was dark, yeah? And even Sam knew it. She didn't like the fucking shadows, because she'd never been that kind of chick, but she got that it was the way of the world she lived in now. She went to Arkham every day, and she trod down grey halls and into grey cells. The place wasn't sunshine, yeah? She'd heard Metropolis was different, all bright shit and warm colors, but she'd never been. There hadn't been field trips in her five years behind bars, and now she had a fucking invisible leash that tethered her to this bullshit asylum and this bullshit basement apartment.
But the apartment was bright and cheery, and the cat meowed as Sam slipped on a pair of red rain boots and stepped outside. She was overalls that hung way too fucking loose on skin over bones, and a thick cable sweater beneath, because heat was fucking impossible to come by without body fat. The layers made her bulky, and her pale, fine hair whisped against her sharp cheekbones as she walked into the Gotham night.
She recognized Russ' truck straight off, and she moved faster as it parked on the sidewalk in front of the building which housed medical offices above her little studio. "Hey," she called out, tucking a strand of erstwhile hair behind her ear. The truck doors were still closed, so it was just her mouth moving and no sound inside. But whatever, it was still a greeting. She should probably call Neil, but later. Once Lou was inside and warm and she'd managed to figure out whatever the fuck was wrong with him.
She tugged on the passenger's side door with the same kind of unsure non-hesitation that she did everything these days, like she wasn't really sure she wanted to fucking do it, but like not doing it just wasn't an option.