Re: gotham russian tea room; loren & jules
Loren's answer was cryptic, and yet it was truth, and Jules felt realization like waves upon pale skin. He looked, no words, and he'd learned silence in sacristies. After Vegas, and after the realization that men killed without guilt, that blood flowed and the world kept turning as if the things hadn't happened, he'd gone and learned quiet, and it had helped. Maybe Loren was built for dead bodies and assaults, fear, but Jules wasn't He'd never been, and even his elbows were soft and unscaled.
He'd believed this was more than something to do with the children they'd had in their hands. For Jules it had been more, even if there hadn't been enough. But feelings came, naked bodies or no, and Jules harbored them and kept them warm during that cold Welsh winter away from the Southern warmth of his da's spilled blood.
Those fingers caught his wrist, and Jules didn't retreat. Fingers still upon the cup that he tugged no closer.
"That was my real question," he said. "You don't like me. Why did you come if you don't like me?" There was realization there, and he pulled his fingers back when the food arrived, distraction in heady scents and Jules dipped his fingers in the solyanka and sucked them clean.