@quietgrxce
Of all the places her life might've taken her, Broadmoor was the very last place she'd expected. For as long as she could remember, the lines in the sand had been clearly drawn - he had his life inside and she, Max and her mother had their life on the outside and never the twain shall meet. The revelations about Pat and the persistent Hessian puppy had altered things of course and thus she found herself there. Drawing herself to her full diminutive height of 5ft even Olivia took in a breath, tipped her chin proudly and entered the visitors room. There was no escaping her likeness to her mother but she'd do her utmost not to set him off in anyway which included dressing differently - in this case deviating from their shared impeccable dressy style with a casual summer dress and flats and messy bun which left raven coloured tendrils to frame her face at the front. She took her designated seat, crossed her legs and let out that very breath she'd drawn in. "No going back now." She muttered to herself and waited.
Three weeks it’d been since she’d told him.
Three weeks since a Monday visit from Monica had brought news he’d not expected; that the daughter he’d only just processed having wanted to come and see him in this, his high walled prison. Where the monsters lived. He’d argued her on it at first, not wanting to have her exposed to it on his account, but Monica had been adamant just like Olivia was.
Olivia.
That was the name of his daughter.
The one who’d come from Kent to see him.
Had it not been for the chemicals they gave him nightly, Ron wouldn’t have slept a wink as the final week ticked away. He had almost nothing to go on in terms of what the young woman was like bar what Moni had told him, and those things, he knew, those likes, dislikes, preoccupations, achievements, weren’t a person really. Those were things about a person. What she who liked and disliked them, who was engaged by them and had accomplished them was like at her core, Ron didn’t know. So it was that, along with what he might say to her, how their interaction might play out, that had been on repeat between the once-gangster’s ears for the time ensuing; that which would’ve kept him up beyond insomnia were it not for the pills and the needles.
And now, three weeks on, time was up.
Dressed to the nines as best he could be given the hospital’s facilities for pressing suits and shirts, his hair neatly combed and slicked back to his liking, Ron gathered his nerve, marshalled his thoughts as best he could given the speed they’d taken to whirling at, and strode straight-backed towards the visitor’s room.
He’d not have missed her where she sat - not even if he’d lost his specs. The particular depth of black in her hair, the shape of her shoulders, how she sat -- she was the double of her mother and held him whole with a look before he’d made it a step into the room proper. Stunned still, he lingered where he stood; only shifting when the nurse at his back snapped his surname in place of touching his arm or back to move him on. It was a wise move on the staffer’s part; one that spared Olivia the potential for a glimpse at quite how touch averse her father could be in the right - or wrong - circumstances.
Blinking himself from what’d become a fine stupor, Ron drew himself up to his full height, tipped his chin back a wisp in memory of pride and managed what he hoped was a welcoming - if little - smile as he neared his visitor.
‘--’Livia’ he mustered, losing the O to what remained of the cosh’s slur. ‘G’mornin’...Fank you f’comin’...’ A glance indicated the seat across from her. ‘--Keep y’comp’ny?’