Russ C (greasemonkey) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-05-19 19:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | !dc comics, *log, louis donovan, russ campbell, sam alexander |
log: Gotham - Russ C, Sam A, Louis D
Who: Russ Campbell, Sam Alexander, Louis Donovan
What: A rescue operation
When: Recently
Rating: Russ/Sam-mouth
Gotham didn't sleep. It slowed a little, but the undercurrent ticked over, running deep. There were the drunks, and there were the shops with neon signs and their windows blacked out, and there were the bars, smoky with ill-intention and poor decisions. The roads cleared out, and the truck rattled through the streets with a lot of noise but no interruptions. It had piss-poor suspension and the shocks badly needed replacing; the seats were worn and the fabric had come away from the passenger seat, exposing the foam beneath the thin, red faux-leather. It didn't matter, because Russ had tossed a clean(ish) white towel across the seat, with a thought for blood that had pooled in the butter-soft backseat of a very expensive car once in Vegas. The radio was cranked over the roar of the engine, some tinny little station that liked the same kind of deliberate and obvious classic rock Russ liked as well and the window was wound down because the glass was filmy with dirt.
The truck wasn't Russ's. It belonged to the shop, and it was taken out so often by mechanics with filthy hands and filthy boots that Russ didn't bother to clean it down when he took it out, because it was fucked up by the time he got back to it again. The paint was dull blue, and was painted with some vague design that really just meant it belonged to the Donovans. Most of the businesses that staffed the Donovan payroll had something to them of substance, but it flaked away very quickly if you looked for where it proclaimed itself to be something else.
Russ looked tired, by the time he rattled along to the Dove. He was tired; Victorian London had done nothing for him but reassure him he'd rather smoke his own fucking cigarettes than those clove things and that adult-Sam was at least in as much trouble as young-Sam on her good days. This was, somehow, reassuring. Even if adult-Sam was quiet, and thin and nervy in a way young-Sam had never been; as if she were trying to hide it and had got good at it sometime and somehow. The shadows beneath his eyes were smears, and stubble sprawled up his jaw. The shirt was half done up over the white vest he'd been asleep in, and when the truck stopped, Russ swung down from the cab, onto heavily booted feet and began looking for the phone booth with no attempt to hide what it was he was doing. There had been a number of minor scuffles, before Russ (and the rest of Donovan men) and those from the Falcones and others came to terms with the fact they all liked the same drinking establishments, and he wore the latest purpling on his cheekbone, but not many other signifiers (he had won).
"You here?" The dark flittered over glass, a heavy crunch as Russ stepped on a broken bottle.