Re: gotham russian tea room; loren & jules
"I'm in Gotham. Is it New York?" He looked beyond the doors of glitter and gold. "It doesn't feel it. The skin is grey, and everything is marble, and gargoyles look down from building tops. A storm always seems ready to brew, and I've a fondness for clouds." Truth in all of it, and it felt like churches, this dark city.
It was a brand of naivete, the fact that Jules didn't see the forest for the trees where the man across from him was concerned. He knew of Hannah. He knew of the dead man in the desert. He knew of three dead boys, and he remembered. But he'd no real understanding that this was part of the fabric of the man he was sharing now-lukewarm tea with. He couldn't a fathom a past made of dark, and it was easy to lie it all heavy upon Tate's shoulders.
But, then, it was rather impossible to ignore the statement that came next, to turn it pretty or make it something that soothed. Jules believe in Heaven, and he believed in Hell, and he believed in that pace between. "You still do what?"