Handgun trained on Gavin, the shorter man offers a threatening growl. "...You know detective Reed, I had a doorbell installed so my guests don't have to barge into my property and risk being shot at. I suggest using it the next time you feel lonely enough to come by."
𝘞𝘖𝘙𝘋𝘓𝘌𝘚𝘚 𝘏𝘌 𝘚𝘛𝘈𝘙𝘌𝘚, his pride all but fleeting. Stepping into the manor with care for his aching body and wounds that wept crimson gore unto carefully cleaned and maintained floors. Staining evermore the carpet beneath him, and he wonders, for a fraction of a second, how many times Oswald’s attempted to have the carpets cleaned. How many times did he simply give way and purchase another to lay in its place, a perfect copy but never quite the original. -------------- 𝘌𝘠𝘌𝘚 𝘍𝘖𝘙𝘞𝘈𝘙𝘋, 𝘚𝘖𝘓𝘋𝘐𝘌𝘙. Pale green orbs behold him with ain incredulous expression, exhausted, worn and almost irritated. However, it’s the matter of who he’s irritated with more that has yet to be answered. Silently skulking about whilst covered in blood and bruises was as common as Detective Reed made it seem, and despite his own discomfort he pulls loose a cigarette pack and from back pocket and with shaking hands, struggles to light it. For a moment, while it hangs from his lips, and he flicks and flicks, he wishes for the other’s kindness in sating his need. -------- 𝘠𝘌𝘛 𝘉𝘌𝘍𝘖𝘙𝘌 𝘏𝘌 𝘊𝘈𝘕 𝘈𝘚𝘒, lighter sparks to life, as if stopping him from falling any harder than he already has. Muscles are worn, body begs for rest, warmth, all that he could seek and hope to want remained here. In this perfectly kempt facade, but Oswald wasn’t the only one who could fake it. Focus remains evident in his eyes and reflect the intensity of the fire that roars on before him. A swivel of his jaw while lips pressed thin relinquish a light smack upon parting. Yet no words could shake loose from the grizzled man’s thoughts as he flicks the now half spent cigarette towards the fire. Lumbering forth with that same focus in his eyes he disregards the gun aimed in his direction with a light push, no vigor or venom there as he cups the kingpins face and drags him in. The breath of a last cigarette on his lips lingers, along with the metallic brush of blood, and the bite of hard liquor. Confirming, if the blood hadn’t already, that Detective Reed had indeed had a very, very long night. After lips part with familiar smack an expected crooked grin remains etched on grizzled features, voice is low and comes in a tender whisper.
