Holly Robinson is: (badnews) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-12-18 06:03:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !dc comics, *log, holly robinson, jim gordon |
Holly/Jim: Gotham
Who: Detective Jim Gordon and a ~thief
What: Gotham streets being Gotham streets.
When: Recently
Warnings: N/A!
The loft apartment was big and it was beautiful and she knew Selina wasn't going to toss her out on her ass. That first, awful night and she'd cried herself dry and Selina had gone, like giving permission to give in to the rest. The loft had the cats and she liked them, circling her ankles and rubbing soft fur against her fingers and there was food and the couch? Was a world of soft and comfortable that her own didn't even come close. But her own was still hers: halfway across town and the landlord knew when no one was home and either he'd turn off the heat and the pipes would crack when she turned it back again or he'd find someone else.
And okay, she really liked the loft? But it wasn't hers. It was Selina, from the floors to the drapes at the windows and Bruce needed Selina more than she did. Damian had died, and it was awful but she was still kicking, wasn't she? And relying on anybody to stick around was just a bad idea and Damian proved it. She remembered the last time: going home after the awful, sweat-sticky and swaying on her feet and okay, that? Put a lump into her throat that the stupid memorial service wouldn't have been able to do. But home was home, and it didn't matter if it was a little faded around the edges.
But if she was making the trip home? She needed shit that wasn't going to magically appear in the fridge like Selina's. She was running a little short on cash: no street-corners in weeks and even if it wasn't early evening and the better johns hung around until later, she didn't feel like waiting around, finding a spot and sticking it out. No, raw: she felt like anything but and the long, long thigh-high socks disappeared under denim and she wore a jacket too big for her that was length over her wrists and knuckles.
So no cash. But no food and that? Didn't resolve easy. She ducked into one of the bodegas, the kind open all hours and with the crappy mirrors that anyone who knew where to look could avoid. It was probably mob and it was cramped aisles and stacked floor to ceiling and some junky music belting out from the TV on the counter that the guy behind it was engrossed in. Quick, and she lurked for someone who looked like they were in a hurry, and who loaded up that paper sack with cans and milk and eggs and fruit. Grocery run. The coat? Said rich, as did the loaded wallet.
She lurked, and when they left, she jostled, small shoulder against theirs: and look, accident, the bag tore and when she bent to pick shit up, and hand it over, her other hand? Was tucking shit into the pockets of that coat, and she helped herself to a couple bills from the wallet before tucking it back where it was supposed to be. Practice. And then off: not running. Just walking, hands in loaded pockets and off toward old Gotham.