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Quicklog, Gotham: Louis D/Shane A
[After closing his journal on Louis, Shane grabbed one of his heavy leather boots and used it as a stop to prop the door he took from the hotel to his place at Blake's. (And he was packing heat if any random fuckers decided to come on through for whatever goddamn reason.) His rooms at the rich kid's fucking mansion weren't big or numerous, but mostly because he didn't do big or numerous. Just a bedroom, a bathroom, and a weird sitting room thing connected. The TV, this huge thing mounted on the wall, played the Spanish channel, the volume set perilously low, with the coffee table on the floor in front of it an impressive collection of glasses and mugs, all turned into temporary ashtrays. The space itself wasn't particularly messy, yeah? It wasn't even fucking cluttered. But it wasn't spit-shined, spotless rich people-style either. Nah, there were oily fingerprints on all of the way-too-many glass surfaces, and those leather boots kicked clumps of Gotham dirt into the thick carpeting.
Shane didn't own much by way of material shit anyway, yeah? So there were some flannel shirts here and there, some jeans, that kind of shit, but that, a laptop, and a shit-ton of books (most of which were stuffed beneath his bedskirts) was all there really was, save for that gigantic TV—and even the laptop looked at least six years old, some black rectangle that had to be a good 20 lbs.
Smoke hung in the air like it had been put there by some idiot interior designer, and Shane himself, half-empty bottle of vodka open on the coffee table, was splayed on the overwrought, black sofa in longjohns and a thrifted Cheap Trick t-shirt, entirely fucking uncaring (or so he looked. His pistol was stuck between cushions). He was sucking on a cigarette, watching the women with long, straight hair on TV cry about something way too fucking convoluted to write here.
He'd meant to spend the evening alone, but where he might have screamed at Louis months ago, now he felt for him, yeah? And that bit about the not sleeping triggered worry. So he invited him over. And he hoped, maybe, he could get the fucker to pass out if he plied him with enough shitty vodka.]
Shane didn't own much by way of material shit anyway, yeah? So there were some flannel shirts here and there, some jeans, that kind of shit, but that, a laptop, and a shit-ton of books (most of which were stuffed beneath his bedskirts) was all there really was, save for that gigantic TV—and even the laptop looked at least six years old, some black rectangle that had to be a good 20 lbs.
Smoke hung in the air like it had been put there by some idiot interior designer, and Shane himself, half-empty bottle of vodka open on the coffee table, was splayed on the overwrought, black sofa in longjohns and a thrifted Cheap Trick t-shirt, entirely fucking uncaring (or so he looked. His pistol was stuck between cushions). He was sucking on a cigarette, watching the women with long, straight hair on TV cry about something way too fucking convoluted to write here.
He'd meant to spend the evening alone, but where he might have screamed at Louis months ago, now he felt for him, yeah? And that bit about the not sleeping triggered worry. So he invited him over. And he hoped, maybe, he could get the fucker to pass out if he plied him with enough shitty vodka.]