Holly Robinson is: (badnews) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-12-02 20:46:00 |
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Entry tags: | !dc comics, *log, holly robinson, selina kyle |
Selina/Holly Gotham quicklog
Who: Holly Robinson & Selina Kyle
What: Bad news spreads fast
When: Day after Damiangate, fuzzy timelines
Where: Selina's apartment
Holly wasn't stupid.
She never had been. Think smart had been the edict in the orphanage: the way to jostle to get the best food at lunch or the know-how to stay out of the way when the woman in charge swept around looking for targets to yell at. She wasn't dumb, she'd learned to hide when she needed to hide and she'd learned how to get food when she needed food and she'd taken care of herself for so many years she'd forgotten when that had begun. She wasn't running streets because she wasn't a kick-ass vigilante in a cloak, and she didn't backflip off buildings. She wasn't home, in the creaky old apartment with rust running down the bathroom walls because it was safer here and there was an offer and a little bit? Was just tired of her own place being unsafe.
She'd ignored the news the first twelve hours. She'd shucked dirty clothes on the bathroom floor and gotten the kind of clean that was more than ten minutes of hot water at a time, and she'd fallen asleep in a tight, uncomfortable ball on the couch and been woken at four by a cat crawling over her knee to settle in. But after sleep, after eating whatever she could find in the fridge, she watched.
Hours and hours, solemn footage and the streets weren't exactly running with blood but they were close. Men died and families out there in the streets beyond the force-field mourned and the cops were mad but still. Damian wasn't just an oblivious, angry message over and over. He was a boy, and he had a father who wanted him and a sister who loved him and more family who loved him even if he was an asshole. News could be wrong, and the TV could make it out to be worse and by the time the key was in the lock, Holly was strung between certainty it was all wrong and certainty that Gotham wasn't right.
She wore a purloined clean tee over borrowed pyjama pants rolled at the band and was bare-legged with a cat in her lap and half-asleep on the couch with the news channel turned down to a nothing-hum and flickering images. It was warm, and there was food but she'd slept too long out on the streets not to wake at the turn of the door-handle. She didn't know Death had paid a visit, when she'd dozed with a lap full of fuzzy cat and she didn't know you couldn't cheat Her all the time, or you lost.