//ext. quiet corner away from festivities - night, fourth of july.
@heyyomarch
what do you mean?
i- i don't understand, why can't we try?
..are you giving up on us?
this. us. we're not working.
He thought he was having a good day with March, he wanted to believe it so badly. Afterall Ash went to Tennessee with him, met his father, his step family, his friends. Afterall Ash did the scariest thing in going public, declaring his love and more for March, for the rest of the world to see. They were good right? They were getting better, getting through this. They were supposed to figure it out together.
He could tell something was off since the start of the day. Since Asher's opening. Since the scandal came out. It was why he put aside all the invites from their friends today, he let March decide on their day, he just wanted March happy. He looked happy at first, and then he didn't. Ashton couldn't really process everything the moment March sat him down to talk that night. Love shouldn't be this hard, so why was it? Ash really thought March would've been his forever, they could've worked through the long distance, the stress, the public eye, the ugly words. He didn't mind the distance, the lack of time together, their two distinct sports worlds determined to pull them apart from each other every chance they had to even say hi, to even say I love you. He didn't mind the absence, ..or maybe he did.
Maybe, buried under so much love for each other, maybe they both did.
He remembered the tears, the confusion, the messy explanation, he remembered asking if he could fix it, asking what he could do. He remembered begging, not to give up on them. He remembered his heart breaking, cracks he thought were healing just made the crush all that much quicker and more painful. He remembered being pathetic, he made it hard for March to stand by his decision. That was wrong of him. He should've heard him out, and let him go. But Ash had done that once before and he wasn't going to not try to hold this relationship together, as futile as the effort was, at least he can't say he didn't try to fix it like with Claude.
However, at some point in their long, long agonizing conversation, Ash saw the hurt and pain in March's eyes. God, he loved him so much he didn't want to let him go, but he also loved him too much to not let him go.
At some point Ashton stopped fighting what March wanted. Too much tears had been shed, voice completely hoarse trying to convince him, maybe convince both of them that this could still work. It couldn't. He remembered them sharing a kiss, one last time (please) to say goodbye, and he let March walk away from him.
He let another best friend walk away from him again, all because he fell in love, and he couldn't make it work.
Love shouldn't be this hard, so why was it?
He should've known better - love wasn't meant for someone like him.
Idea from @redladydeath's compound AU for RAM Proto Vox
Verse: Randomly Accessed memories
Content warnings: Physical abuse
Following people around had become a daily routine for Vox; if Alastor hadn't told him to sit still in a room, he'd follow someone around trying to entertain them and make people pleased with him.
Vox had discovered people felt more at ease with him around if he was entertaining. They seemed less tense, never happy or delighted. He wasn't sure why. Alastor himself was the only one who seemed somewhat mildly happy. Or Irritated.
He couldn't tell.
It also happened to be one of those days couldn't tell what Alastor was feeling; his face was unreadable, despite the smile plastered on it. As he followed the deer overlord around, he tried to keep up with his pace, growing silent as he kept glancing up at Alastor's face. Looking away when Alastor finally seemingly paid heed to his staring. The man's smile quirked up further, inquisitive.
"What's wrong, dear Zenith? Not feeling chatty?" The tone seemed more amused than concerned; he couldn't really tell. He smiled at Alastor and shook his head. Alastor looked away, using the end of his cane to redirect the smaller man in a different direction than they had been going. "I've been in a mood! Follow me." He nodded and let the taller man push him down the hall into a room. He didn't recognize this room. It was decently decorated and looked like it was for parties. Despite how nice it looked, a good number of items were covered in cloth. Alastor removed his cane from pressing into Vox's back and walked away from the man, turning and putting a finger up, telling him to wait.
After a moment of waiting, Alastor walked over to one of the larger covered items, removing the cloth, revealing what was underneath.
A piano.
The overlord pressed a key or two, seemingly pleased with how it sounded. He sat down and started to play something; it was catchy and surprisingly soothing. Vox found himself bobbing his head to the sound coming from Alastor's playing, his antenna bobbing gently as he watched Alastor. When the song ended, Alastor turned to him and patted the bench next to him.
"Come, Zenith, sit down." Vox nodded and scurried over, sat down next to the overlord's left side, and excitedly pressed a key. It was a charming sound. He must have been bouncing in his seat because Alastor pressed a delicate, clawed hand into his shoulder. "Sit still. Let's play something." Vox nodded enthusiastically, his antenna bobbing in equal excitement. He didn't see Alastor roll his eyes.
Red claws touched the keys and started playing something jaunty; it was upbeat and not too difficult to follow along. Vox waited a moment before joining in. He played at Alastor's pace, standing up to be able to keep a better pace with him. It didn't take long for him to take the lead in the melody. Excited, he kept glancing at Alastor with glee and hopeful approval. It wasn't long before he overtook duet, playing for both of them. He had stopped looking at Alastor, who was staring at him.
Deeply displeased.
He said something, but it was drowned out, sounding like background buzz to Vox. Alastor said something after a bit, more irritated, he had less of a time to react. His arm was grabbed, and he was jerked to the side, tumbling a bit as he lost his balance and fell back. Alastor's hold on his arm stops him from completely falling to the ground.
"When I said STOP, I mean STOP." Vox head Alastor, clearly this time. He nodded his head and tried to pull away from the overlord. Alastor didn't loosen his grip at all. "You need to learn how to listen better..." Sharp claws dug into the fabric of his sleeve and into the material of his arm. Alastor pulled him forward, ignoring his shaking and small pleas to be let go. "Shut up." He shut up.
Alastor's grip tightened around Vox's arm, and slight cracking noises could be heard as the other hand came up and touched his head gently.
"You do these small things that irritate me. I tried to alleviate your boredom, and you treat me like this? Something never changes, huh?" Vox couldn't respond. "You know I don't like it when you ignore me." Vox looked down and away from Alastor. "Don't be ashamed now, you had your chance." The overlord lifted Vox by the arm, the smaller man dangling above the seat floor, as Alastor studied him for a moment, thinking of how to discipline him. "Naughty children need to be punished." Without much thought, he dropped Vox onto the floor, standing up himself. "Stand up."
Vox stood up, his head hanging in shame... and possibly fear. He wasn't sure. He couldn't talk yet and couldn't muster an apology or let Alastor know he was sorry for his action.
Unfortunately, his thoughts were cut short. He was suddenly on the floor again, and pain was blossoming through his head and screen. His vision had gone out, and more pain came to his head. This time, he couldn't hear very well. He put his arms up, and something hit his arm, breaking it. He could hear Alastor faintly.
"Well need to replace that... Ah, you're crying, how cute." He felt another gentle hand on his head, "Look at how pitiful you are." His vision came back after a moment, looking around, there was glass on the floor and what looked like splinters. Likely from his head. "Let's go, I think you've learned your lesson. You can talk now." He plucked Vox off the ground as he stood up and set the short man on the ground. Alastor grabbed his cane and pressed it into his back. Vox didn't have anything to say right now other than nod his head with his head down, holding his broken arm. Grateful Alastor seemed to be in a better mood.
Not but a few tendays ago, the sky was alight with red, angry clouds, and fire coming down like rain. The roar of monstrosities borne of the peoples' despair still echoed in the back of his mind, in memory.
Even more so, the memory he couldn't shake, that still iced the very blood in his veins: of his daughter, barely five summers old, being chased by one of those damn things. While word had spread quickly of the Warrior of Light's success at the furthest reaches of literal creation, Ryce couldn't find it in himself to fully relax. Especially considering that the birth of their twins had come to pass hardly a day after miss Melody had prevented the literal end of the world.
He had to make a note to thank her, when he saw her again-
"Keep thinkin' any 'arder an' ye'll start steamin' from the head, babe."
He didn't even need to look right away to know who was approaching him - and already he could feel the tension ease away from his furrowed brows slightly. Ryce turned to the sound of heels clicking against the stone, and met the amused gaze of his wife.
It surprised him, to see her dressed up in her old adventuring gear (and gods she still looked fucking amazing in it). A rarer sight these days, what with their ever-growing family being their priority.
She waltzed up to him, that familiar sway in her hips that had drawn him in since day one, and her hand came up to rest on his lower back. Her eyes softened, as did her smile, as she tilted her head to look upward at him - safe, and unharmed from the chaos their lives had become.
"What's botherin' ya, Ryce..? Ye've been starin' out at th' horizon like it owes ye gil."
For a moment, he was silent. He couldn't deny that he was being hyper-vigilant, but nobody was blaming him. Many of the other guardsmen and women felt the same. Even his team at the Flames Barracks remained tense and ready in case anything else were to happen.
Ryce sighed, and turned his head to look out at the horizon once more - the sea of stars laid before them especially, now that he knew just how endless they were. He felt so small compared to all of it... Finally, he shifted to wrap an arm around Solana's shoulders, drawing her in close to his side.
"Ye shouldn't be movin' about so much yet, aye?"
She laughed, light and clear as a bell.
"I feel jus' fine. Th' kids are bein' watched an' the twins are in good hands." She reassured him, offering a teasing smack to his back. "...So what's really got ya worried, love?"
He hummed, more relaxed in knowing that their children were in good hands. Ryce moved forward a step or two, and sat down at the top of the steps that led up to The Sultana's Gate of Ul'dah. Solana wordlessly sat with him, watched him with a curious stare.
"Ye still tense from... everything?" She asked finally, and Ryce.. nodded, as she rubbed his back.
"Yeah. We came real close to everything just... goin' up in smoke. Hard not t' think about it all. Ask m'self what I could've done better. If I had been faster." He paused, frowning deeply under furrowed brows. "And.. we came so close t' losing Celeste... If I hadn't been there a moment sooner..."
Gently, she shushed him. "Ye made it in time, an' she's still with us, aye? Our brave girl..."
"Hmph. Too young t' be that brave..."
"She gets it from you."
Ryce couldn't help but laugh at that, and shook his head, amused. "And she gets th' recklessness from you."
She grinned up at him, and they shared another soft laugh, before Ryce leaned in to hold Solana close once more. He held her tightly, and leaned in close to bump his horn against hers in a gesture of affection. The chaos was over, he was certain - but he couldn't shake the feeling that the peace they had now was temporary.
This new dawn felt more like a calm before the storm to him, and he couldn't exactly pinpoint why...
The last day or so has been nothing but insufferable. Intense throbbing in the back of his skull. His eyes felt as if they were going to explode at any minute. How insufferable. No wonder goldbloods hated themselves; everything from top to bottom was unbearable. The skin, the mind, the eyes. It all sucked. He wasn't exactly sure how they dealt with it. Aside from negging each other in public and degrading others of the same color.
He started to understand why Mituna hated being touched; his shit must have sucked with how broken his mind had been after their session. He was lucky that Mituna was willing enough to help him. Even if he gave him what was their version of wriggler training wheels.
And the copper rod was helping, but only marginally. He turned it around in his hand for a minute before setting it down on the floor, staring at the inky darkness that illuminated his shared bedroom. Currently, only hosting him. Kurloz couldn't share a bed with him yet, not until he could calm down the psionics so that it didn't fry him while they slept. Or, in the very least, until he could stop hearing his thoughts when he tried to sleep. He had to get over it; it wasn't helping anyone, not even himself. All he could do was just bitch on his stupid blog and be miserable.
He just had to get over it and cope.
==> Cope.
It was rather rude of you to complain, bitch, and bemoan your situation. You had nothing special about you as a seadweller. Well... aside from the few physical mutations.
Otherwise, nothing special.
So how did you end up with the worst set of psionics and a fucked up mutation on top of that? You couldn't help but take what Data said personally. You liked Data a lot, and even if he was joking about killing you. You took it personally.
Maybe he was probably serious. He hates goldbloods so much. You hate yourself right now. You've always hated yourself, but right now, it was strong. Painfully so, you could feel it in your skin. It stung.
So.
Fucking.
Bad.
Which was fine. It was only for two weeks. You could do this; you've gone through worse. You can do this. You can. Nothing bothered you, you took the loss of your eye in stride, and you were hot while doing it.
You could do this.
You can do this.
You can...
Taste copper...
So much copper. You look down at your arm, and there is yellow blood everywhere. Oozing out of a bitemark.
You lick your lips. Gross. This was one way to deal with it. You stop yourself and lower your arm from your face. Your limbs unfurling from the position they found themself in. A disgusted sigh escaped your lips as you pressed a palm into one of your eyes. Turning your arm around as you stared at the bitemark. It wasn't bad. There was another on your hand. It wasn't bad either.
You pick up the copper rod again and squeeze it, yellow and blue electricity going through the rod. The blood on your hand fizzled from the energy coming out of it, the room smelling now of burnt blood and static. Lowering your hand to the electrical socket nearby, you press the rod to it and pass the electricity through. The lights in the room flicker for a moment before coming back on, the TV nearby thrumming back to life, noise filling the room again.
"Wow, this fucking sucks." Yeah, it did, and you were a pussy for not being able to deal with it.
send TRICKED for a scene from my muse's past in which they misled, tricked, or lied to someone
GLIMPSES OF THE PAST
//int. roses apartment #301 - day. november 2022
“Yeah, I know, I know,” Ash sunk into the couch at the Roses apartment, hand over half his face as the other held the phone up while his mother continued to nag before they ended their weekly face time calls. By now they all know the drill where she'd often ask him to pop by to say hi to the friends she knew - Ruth, Mal, Beau, Ria, always lastly ending up at the Roses for her to greet the siblings before they ended their calls.
He glanced over to Charlie chosen amongst her, Jeremiah and JP as if pleading her for help release him from the nagging reminders before thanksgiving. His mother was driving down this time for a week for Dawn to swing by without problems. Just that lovely time of the year again that he genuinely looked over to having family reunited again, but sometimes, his mom does go overboard with the celebrations, her and Charlie a pair in feeding into each other's enthusiasm. He was still trying to have a silent conversation with Charlie through their looks, half listening to his mother's questions, "yes." Not even sure what he said yes to until his attention was pulled back by a panic, "--yes, I'm.. seeing.. someone.." He didn't even comprehend the lie he just said that everyone in the room knew was a lie. He simply continued to placate her excitement and request to invite this "someone" for thanksgiving.
It was maybe another five more minutes before she said her final goodbyes to everyone and Ashton sighed, plopping his phone down on the couch he sat on. Grumbling over the brothers' amusement, "hey don't laugh." He was caught too off guard and by the time he realized it was too late the back track it right now without prolonging the call for twice the length. ..Whatever, he'll tell her the truth sooner or later, later being when she arrives next week. "I'll figure it out, and no, I'm not bringing a fake date," Ashton said pointedly towards Charlie, before her and JP took the opportunity to joke about him and Jeremiah again.
When was the last time Swain has cried? Like, a genuine cry.
THE ROOM WAS FILLED with a heavy smell of wax. The arrangement of tall candles on the bureau resembled a crumbling castle, with drips staining a pathway to the room's entrance. Soot had seeped into the fabrics, staining scattered papers & hanged coats alike. There was stuff on the floor. A helping of medication upon a silver serving tray, cleaning supplies and a half empty glass of water; fresh bandages in the case of emergency leaking and a few scraps of stained ones from his nightly change. Folded neatly on a nearby stool; a change of clean clothes, iron-pressed yet soiled with the stench.
Everything was painted with warm candlelight; down to every nook & cranny of his bookshelves, where novels and maps alike collected dust. The window towering over his bed, his only passageway into the outside world ever since his return from the First Lands, confessed that it was a dreary night outside. But even Prime's stench felt liberating from the dread that had settled in his bedroom.
Thick lashes fluttered between each languid blink. His chest heaved slowly under the bandages. A dent in the mattress would confess his rigidity; his perpetual struggle to avoid the faintest motion lest the bandages moisten with discomforting pus. Through heavy lids, cerulean eyes fixed on the ceiling, murky with exhaustion. Disheveled hair framed a pallid mien; the light did him no favors, illuminating the darkness that pooled in his eye sockets and the smears of blushed skin that marked his pale skin. Still & silent; it was a wonder the dieners had not come to collect him yet.
Alas, he was fading into sleep. Succumbing to the fatigue, overtaken by a pleasant numbness that had his limbs feel like lead, sinking deeper into the sweat stains on his mattress. But then, a crackling sound summoned his attention to the ceiling. Trepidation forced his eyes a little wider. Pupils slipped to the corner of his vision, neck unmoving from his self-imposed prison. Through flared nostrils he rasped a strained hum when some shredded tendon complained. He stared longingly at the candle flame shooting straight from its wick. It trembled as if swayed by an unfelt breeze. Instantaneously his vision snapped to his left side; to the window.
It was shut.
Even through thick locks, the hair on his nape stood on edge. In spite of his own volition, he shivered. And so pain toiled a path up his left side, where the severed limb was still quivering with grief and infestation. He breathed through his bottom teeth, cracked lips parting. For as parched as he was, in that moment all was forgotten.
Naught remained by the blazing embers of a three eyed glare, observing his struggle quietly from the windowsill.
The candlelight's reflection was wasted on its glossy plummage. It seemed to blend perfectly into the dim moonlight outside, instead. Its head tilted abruptly, like an erratic puppet in the hands of a clumsy pupeteer. They locked eyes for a good minute, in a pregnant pause. Jericho's jaw clenched. In a desperate attempt to escape the inevitable, he shut his eyes tightly. But the all encompassing darkness was twice as unnerving. A final, desperate glance at the candles, and he turned towards it once more.
Still there, oogling him from the windowsill. But this time he decided to stare back. And the longer he examined its peculiar features, the more curiosity eased him into the tension. Through the wood, he could hear the scratch of its talons. It had burrowed in the walls. Suddenly, he identified the sound that kept him awake at nights; a sudden pitter-patter, like rats crawled under the boards and were scratching their way out. A steadying breath was drawn, then.
What is it that you want? His eyes confessed the thought a dry mouth daren't vocalize. He had almost found solace in the stillness of the scene, despite the company. Maybe he could even attempt to fall asleep, to ignore its scalding glare...
Tap! Tap!
His chest jumped; a cuss slipped through clenched teeth. The bird's beak was now mere inches away from his face, separated only by glass. And suddenly, that felt like a weak boundary. Whilst looking at its innate weapon, the sharpness of its tip, the thought was planted into his head that it could, at any given moment, break through to finish what they had started back when he was lying in soil, immobilized much like he was now.
To steal his eyes.
It just kept tapping! The boards roared as if the estate itself gasped in its presence. He could feel his heart in his mouth, a sudden wave of heat washing over him much as waters would once lick his toes, burrowed in pearly Ionian beach sand. What solace could he seek in memories now? Desperately, he sought to inch away from the window. Each beat gained was a pang to his nerves. And yet, he could not pull his gaze away from that thing; mocking him with its unyielding glare, demanding to invade him incessantly!
"...Stop." Lips parted to rasp drowsily. He begun to quiver amidst efforts to roll on his right side in anguish. To escape its glare. What was it looking for? What did it know? The ghost of his insolence advised him to try and banish it, but his legs, albeit their atrophied state, were begging for a chance to relieve him of his fate. And he bit down on his own terror to roll over to his side; with a finalizing groan.
His vision blurred with the pain. He sought comfort in the light, protection. There were no more choices, and nowhere to go. He was to be lying flat for the rest of his eternity, idly staring at the ceiling in defeat all whilst the despicable entity haunted him & wore him down gradually, stealing a peck of flesh every night until he was reduced to a rotting shell of his former self. It was over. This was death.
His palm clutched the sheets bundled up at the edge of the bed as he wept. Folded over, a desolate cry was released from burning lungs, crumbling under the weight of this realization. Utterly helpless before his own mortality. This was his punishment, for daring to dream. For daring to put his mundane ideals on a pedestal. The Gods would be laughing at him now, as they watched that wretched creature they had sent to scorn him tear him apart night by night. The physical pain urged his body to convulse; but it was incomparable to that of his realization.
"Stop, please..." He mewled, weakly. "Please, just take me, please..." Words buried into the mattress. He pressed his face into it hoping to drown the incessant sobs, barely hanging onto the furniture as it were. A leg slipped from the bed's edge and his toes barely brushed over the carpet beneath. He could feel the cracking of his own bones grinding together at their joint, albeit the brace's efforts to keep his knee in place. No, he had to get up. He had to get away from that thing. The sheets were now soaked.
"Jericho?"
Through blurred vision he spotted a splash of red at the doorway. Adorning the badge of a recent promotion & lowering his cowl; a familiar face. A lifeline. Marcus.
"What in the Wolf's name are you doing?" The approach left him with little reaction time. He barely managed to contain a wave of snivelling. It still poured from the corners of his mouth like the cries of a motherless cub. Only after he had felt a warm grip on his ravaged shoulder did it register that the thuds he had heard were his old friend's footfalls. Hurriedly, an arm was looped under his injury and another came to support his back. Hair strands fell on his own wet cheek and curtained his expression away from the other's sight. Which Jericho further sought to ensure by inching closer to the best of his ability. The tears only kept coming, however.
"Come. Come here." He clutched onto the comforting warmth, nose pressed into the beating of Marcus' pulse. A rattling breath signaled his melting into the embrace until his weight would fall idly, cumbersome in the General's arms. Every inch of tortured flesh revolted against the act, yet Marcus continued to settle his body back in the bed, undeterred by the wailing cries so close to his ear. "There we go." Jericho felt him kneel by his bedside, easing him under the covers. He chased after the embrace a moment longer, before releasing him in favor of covering his eyes. Instinctively, his left arm moved to follow and a dozen pinheads fired up the severed nerves. Jericho grunted, lying flat on his back.
"Are you running a fever again? I will call Claude." He felt Marcus' palm press to his own forehead, albeit incapable of deciphering whether it felt cold or not, in that moment. It was almost as if the mention of his housekeeper brought his consciousness back to the room. He did his best to sober up.
"No. It is alright." Jericho muttered back weakly, his eyes worriedly darting to the window. Nothing other than the glimmer of dying firepits in the sleeping capital awaited beyond the glass. "Don't call him." He sniffled. Witholding the unease in his own expression, General Du Couteau pulled a nearby stool closer, disregarding the clutter raked between its wooden legs. His spirits seemed to rekindle with practiced ease; it would not be their first time in this predicament, as the dark circles mirrored under Marcus' own eyes would confess. His frequent visits to the shattered veteran were starting to take an apparent toll on him as well.
"Well, in that case, I have some news that might cheer you up." He smiled a coy smile. "You would never guess what trouble Granth landed himself in. I will only tell you this; Boram even stood from his chair to scold him."
The assassin chuckled, yet Jericho only nodded through fading sobs. His palm was quick to wipe the remnants of his grief from his cheeks. Some quiet appreciation was instilled in his attempt at a smirk. Marcus knew him too well to focus on the incident longer than need be. Instead, he continued undisturbed in narrating stories of a bygone life and Jericho watched him through wet eyes, tracking his hand gestures.
Tear stains illuminated under candle light, he could feel that faintest breeze as a caress upon his cheek. His gaze lost focus & sunk somewhere in the distance. Marcus' words blended into a seamless blur; and Jericho's thoughts wandered to the things he could not speak. Albeit their many talks of ravens, he had seen the shift in Marcus' look when he started to ramble a bit too long about it. His old friend would never admit it to Jericho's face. But that taste of disappointment, of worry, it could not be disguised. Not between the two of them. Albeit his good faith in the man, Marcus thought him as demented as the others.
It would have to remain a secret. Jericho's deepest secret yet.
"I am feeling rather tired." He cleared his sore throat.
"Oh." The curt statement earned a ginger brow's twitch. Momentarily, bewilderment crossed Marcus' features. He leaned back in his seat, seeming unsure. Reluctantly, Jericho's tired gaze would withdraw to his left, traversing over the bandages to inspect for leaks. This scenery had become such a habit that he could almost predict Marcus' offer to help him switch them out. Only this time, Jericho cut in first.
"Thank you for your visit." He said, solemnly, concealing the moist feel that had begun to creep down his sides — at least, the parts of them that could still sense it, at the time. His palm rested flat on top of the covers, awaiting the expected response. And it was delayed; processed, yet respected.
"I could stay, if you would like. I have nowhere to be before sunrise."
"No, that is alright. Thank you."
"As you wish." After some reluctance, and ensuring the duvet was properly in place, Marcus made to leave. "He reached on the table to retrieve the small bell used to summon the housekeeping staff and placed it by Jericho's bedside instead with a disapproving head shake. Gently, he would push some wet, dark strands away from Jericho's face, albeit the latter not sparing him another look. Instead, he was pensively gazing out the window, even as Marcus made to leave.
OOPS! ALL ANGST! PROMPTS
//I'm bad at sad so have happy.//
Two-Face had invited himself over to Jason's apartment and had been sitting quietly with the teenager, an unlit cigarette in his mouth as they both sat in somewhat comfortable silence on the apartment's balcony.
"I'm done with this place."
Two-Face looked up at the teen. The cigarette sticking up in his mouth as he raised his eyebrow. "Yeah?" His voice slightly hoarse, he cleared his throat and took a sip of the water he had with him. No beer, Jason was too young for him to drink around him. "Penny for your thoughts?" He held up his coin and flipped it watching Jason catch it and snort.
"...I think you know why." Jason was now fiddling with the coin in his hand looking at the scrapped side of it, not looking at Two-Face. He could feel Two-face's steady stare. Opting not to say anything else.
"Hm...I'm not good with words you know." He heard a snort from the teen. "You don't believe?" He got elbowed in his side lightly and he chuckled.
"Yeah, you're friends with me. That takes some good words and charisma." There was a brief smirk before it returned to a frown, deeper than before.
"I think that was less good words and charisma and seeing someone done wrong like I was." He cleared his throat again and drank more water before taking his lighter and lighting his cigarette. "Also you're the son of Bruce Wayne... There's some appeal." Jason said nothing. There was a lot left unsaid. He grunted as he felt the now warm coin press against the unscarred half of his face before taking it back. "Rude."
"Forget what I said." Jason sighed loudly and leaned back his eyes closed. Two-Face lifted a hand and stopped a moment before reaching over and pulling the teen into a lopsided and surprisingly not awkward hug. When not met with resistance, he patted his head and started ruffling it and got an annoyed grunt.
"You'd be missed. A lot." Jason ignored him. "You should bleach the rest of this side white."
"What? No, that's stupid." He elbowed Twoie in the side and moved away sitting back up.
"Sure, sure. I look good enough." He leaned back and closed his eyes. Jason glanced over at him and relaxed again and the silence returned.
