damion killgrave

“that church’ll be off limits.” and she means it, crosses her heart and hopes to die with a little sleeping face to prove it. she only has her word to live by around here, so she does her best to be honest. unless a police officer was asking questions, but damion was not the police. he was for all intents and purposes a long running accomplice, and his reaction to the flashing lights prove it. “it’s not for hanging, unless you mean hanging out!” she punched his shoulder at the joke, letting herself laugh for the both of them because he was starting to get a little nervous. she took his hand anyways, letting him pull her out of the apartment. she turned around for a second, taking in her scene for a glace longer before relinquishing it to the narrative of the responding officers. sending it out in to the world all grown up. she shut the window, sealed the crime scene.

“fine. i’ll come up with something. else” she followed him down the fire escape, now that he knew the way back down. she landed on the ground without a sound, years of practice turned some things perfect. “what do people do for minor sins? i want to sound authentic.” the sound of approaching sirens no longer had her on edge, she knew that the calmer they appeared, the easier it would be to walk right past any discerning officer. that’s what had let the zodiac escape all those years ago and it still held true. “and do you want to discuss over tacos. there’s a place right by here, super good. the owner knows me!” a side effect of needing somewhere to scope out possible victims and empty apartments. she needed a place with a good vantage of the street, and the small restaurant had been perfect. she couldn’t give it up now- that fell under suspicious behavior. “free guac, i swear.”

"Yeah, okay, Shirley Temple." The childlike theatrics were suspended in the eyes. It would have even bordered on being cute if they weren't tracked in blue and red flashing lights from the front entrance and the only thing of suspension that Damion was still digesting were the bodies behind her. "And don't think I didn't catch that church. Let's aim for all churches. For the lolz, and, you know, maybe not so much the eternal damnation? How's that sound?" He didn't have the same amount of patient nostalgia, pulling her forward under the arms like a wild toddler while she inspected her playhouse. "That's a real laugh riot. Not to rush you," he went on, rubbing at his shoulder the moment she was set down, "but being caught by the constabulary is not the move."

He led the way, step after step, look thrown back every fifth one to make sure she was right behind. Why he bothered was a thought that crossed his mind on every one of those glances. Not a worry in the world. Seemingly, he had taken it all on for her. "Hey, kid, is it too late to get you a Barbie dreamhouse? Think that might help maybe?" Barbie dolls strung up with fishing lines, ketchup pools for blood stains. Still weird, but not criminally weird. "Don't sound authentic! Lord!" Another few steps, another round of second thoughts that demanded correction. "Don't tell the full truth either, but didn't you have a Tamagotchi you let die? Unpaid parking ticket? Faking your death to see who'd come to your funeral? Anything normal?"

The final rung, stopping abruptly at it as the shot of adrenaline could not push him forward into jumping down. Not high enough to think he could hope to die from it, just perfect amount for a twisted ankle: the worst outcome. "How are you hungry? After all this?!" He stretched out his leg, trying to reach an adequate amount of distance between the ground and himself before he was able to slip down. "That's about three dollars worth?" he eventually asked, free food dragging him back in, arms building routine in being held out for her. "Fresh or packaged?"

“And red. Oh, and delicious.” Probably the strangest thing Tammy had been compared to – but then again, Damion was a strange man, and he could make it work. There was still some way to spin it in his favour; with anyone else, he probably would’ve pouted at the comparison, but coming from Damion it was somehow acceptable. Still, the talk of death left a sour taste in his mouth, wondering whether five centuries from now, he’d be eager to shuffle off this mortal coil. “Have you considered assisted suicide, then? It’s legal in Switzerland, I think, and all it is is a painless solution.” Ironic that he only knew that from one of his older clients, one who chose that solution over a slow death of Alzheimer’s. Damion’s reaction to his scar came as a punch to the gut; Ash had always been matter-of-fact about it, but Tammy quickly dropped his shirt, regretting even showing it in the first place. “I got hit by a car,” he said, suddenly defensive. He had been able to live with it, see it as a mark of him being chosen – now he could see it for what it was. Ugly. “Like I said, what the fuck is it to you?” There was a crack in his voice, no matter how hard he tried to keep it steady.

“Oh, I know, we’ve already established that you aren’t interested. It’s about getting my brand out there.” Not that he had a brand that went beyond glitzy, glamorous and completely willing; Tammy swapped his empty champagne glass for a full one, listening to Damion ramble. Death seemed to be the preoccupying subject when talking to muses, something so far out of their reach – out of his reach, he realised – it had become like the object of a slavish, distant crush. He supposed some people considered that romantic, but to him it just seemed a little sad. Damion had lived such a long life that a bullet behind a Denny’s at 3am sounded more than a little incongruous. “Surely there’s a better way to go? Wouldn’t it be easier to just – let it run out, or something?” From what little Ash had told him about muses, if they didn’t bond they slowly faded away. That felt a lot more dignified than getting shot in a back alley, surrounded by rats and filth. Tammy offered Damion another smooth, socialite smile, one that said I will without truly promising a thing – but it faltered, watching the gears turn in Damion’s head. Pulling aside his jacket, he lifted the shirt beneath just enough to show the ugly impalement scar, smile twisting into something wry and sharp. “As of six months ago, yes. What is it to you?”

she thought for a moment, returning his look with a blank stare. “i’m being honest.” not encouraging, there was a difference.  she didn’t particularly care how he felt about the situation—they were all going to die one way or another, no amount of complaining would change that. the best she could do was give it some style, or follow wishes were they provided. not everyone wanted to be art, though she couldn’t fathom why. the angels in the room with them would live on in infamy, longer than they would have had they stayed alive.

“i guess i could make some time to read.” he had a point with inspiration, it could be drawn from anywhere. she had to think that the old school stories were hiding some violence. behind every moral message there was a punishment to find, and people were total suckers for religious theming. they went nuts for it when they thought there was a killer repenting or spreading some holy message. she didn’t get the appeal personally, but it was there nonetheless. it was there in damion too, how everyone seemed to know more once probed. “you promise you’ll take me? best behavior i swear.” it was a lot easier to follow when he gave her clear rules: don’t say this, don’t do that. don’t ask the pastor how he’d like to die. easy! there were plenty of other questions. “i’ll wear a sundress and everything like it’s easter.”

There was a nagging feeling in the pit of Damion's stomach that he couldn't pinpoint the root cause. It was either the wretched stench of decay or it was Wynn saying she would be on her best behavior. Both seemed horrific in their own way. His silent expression back drew on for longer than necessary, as if trying to communicate with her telepathically, a warning system not to fuck this up, but he finally sighed, relenting. "Yeah, yeah, I promise, I guess. But another thing, I'm not bringing you to church so you have a new place to hang people in, okay? I feel like that should go without saying, by the way. Might want to think on why I chose to anyways."

Another look before his face squinted up before seeing the blue and red color scheme flashing across the walls. The tell tale sign of the police riddling over two dead bodies. Not an ideal position. "Mother fucker! We're out. I'm out!" he went on as he climbed out through the window, taking the first shot at it before turning around to hold out his hands for Wynn to grab onto. "We are not sharing this at church, and you’re picking up the tab at the collection plate."

Tammy could see the concern on Damion’s face, brushing it away with another dazzlingly plastic smile. His mother had taught him how to do it, smile even if you’re shaking hands with the worst scum of the world, but leave just a hint of your true feelings in there, enough to put them on edge. “Oh? I thought sex sells.” There was another thing he’d been taught – never laugh at your own jokes, though a faint grin was still there if you looked. It softened into quiet confusion as Damion started going on about last years, as if he was going to die soon; did immortality have an expiration date? Or was it simply that the years weighed on you, the losses, the watching everyone you love grow old and die while being helpless to stop it? Tammy didn’t want to think about that, not when he had an entire future stretching out before him. “You don’t mean that, do you? Dying? You’ve still got so much more time–” but that sigh said otherwise, said that ship had already sailed. Perhaps that had something to do with the loss of Damion’s spouses, if that look said anything; Tammy felt like he’d overstepped a boundary, quickly nodding. “It’s okay, I was just curious. I didn’t expect to know them, I just wondered – what they were like.” He sighed, still awkwardly holding onto his empty champagne glass. “I’ll keep that in mind when Elliot and I turn 30,” there was a soft smile there, if only to lighten the mood. “Who knows, perhaps he’ll want some eternally-young arm candy.”

“I’m joking.” Tammy enjoyed the expression on Damion’s face, the inevitable discomfort people felt when confronted with the ‘unsavoury’ nature of his job. People still paid for it, though. “Perhaps I should. Perhaps I should get a website –” He was glad Damion didn’t push it any further, not willing to crack his shell and delve into the depths of his soul, dredge up the question of whether or not he was okay with what he did. It was easier to just laugh at Damion’s advice – only a hint of his unstable laugh, mostly just the bright, sparkling kind that came naturally, reinforced by his mother trying to shape him into the perfect socialite. A beautiful exhibit, a piece of eye candy; bitterly, he wondered whether he’d made his mother proud, always ending up the centre of attention. “You’re a stranger, aren’t you?” He gave Damion his flattering, smooth smile, a Vanderbilt manufactured grin. But it was quickly dropped, watching melancholy spread over the other’s face. “If you say so.” Still teasing, but more gentle; Tammy tilted his head, stepping a touch closer. Perhaps marriage wasn’t what he wanted, if it always ended sadly for muses. “You don’t have to tell me, but – who were they?”

“i mean—there might be one.” multiple universes, splitting reality. something about a butterfly in there. “i dunno, i don’t really read that stuff.” she had her own universe to contend with, and most days into was interesting enough. she could make it so, dazzling displays for the short attention span. oh the angel maker, would they ever strike again? she wasn’t sure at the moment, but she liked the grimace on his face. the suggestion that there was room for improvement. “besides, i’d stop! i promised! you’ve got my word. it’s very important.” she couldn’t leave paperwork or trails of any kind, what she had left to give were her unfiltered words. “i don’t really want to work on you alive anyways. that’s not the point.”

“do they make a sparknotes? it’s kind of long.” he was right, probably, that there was more inspiration to be gleaned than just assuming wings made people angels. there might be a quote to add, were she in the mood to paint the walls with a particular shade of crimson. “i don’t really want to sit through church for it.” she was generally too busy on saturdays and sundays anyways, there was plenty of cleaning to be done. “i hear they make you confess things.”

"It's called Hell," he told her, voice short from the limited breath he had sucked in. He could see it. One of the circles from Dante's Inferno could have a Baskin Robbin's, where all it did was sell rotting flesh as a flavor. It seemed like it could go in a revised copy if someone was bold enough to do it. It was better to look at her than the rest of the room, gaining his attention easily as she went on, only for him to present her with a suspicious look. "I'm going to let you know that that somehow doesn't sound as encouraging as you might think it does."

"There isn't a greatest hits list with the bible, kid. If you want real inspiration, you have to go to the source." Maybe it would do her some good, anyways. Make her sort through all... /this./ Of all reasons to not want to go to church, though, he eyed her at hers before deciding that he didn't want to know what kind of thing she wasn't eager to confess to. "At this point, I'm thinking confession might not be the worst thing here.--I'll take you, but if you ask the pastor how he'd like to die, I don't know you."

“Oh, perhaps I should get a new business card.” Tammy grinned, a brief flash of amusement. Again, the snapshot into a dizzyingly long life was almost overwhelming, the feeling of insignificance fading with a gentle sigh. “Doing okay with what?” Perhaps there was an edge to his words, a little too sharp and defensive to be casual. “Of course I’m okay with it. It’s my job.” The only thing I’ve ever been good for. He had to be okay with it, he wouldn’t be doing anything else. “Mmm, I guess. Elliot’s potential partners had better start watching out, then.” Of all the people he could marry, Elliot would be Tammy’s top choice; the affection was already there, a warmth in his chest just thinking of his friend, thinking of how many times Elliot had been there for him. It was a warmth that went beyond friendship, but – it didn’t matter. A man in the public eye like Elliot couldn’t have a whore on his arm at galas, no matter how beautiful he was. “Oh..” Had he hit a nerve? Caring about someone that much, Tammy was sure alright didn’t cover it. He’d loved deeply before, and it ached. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Oh, come on, I’m 24, not 16. How old are you?” Again, that dizzying feeling, that muses could live far beyond a normal human lifespan. That he’d live far beyond a normal human lifespan, he’d live to see the world change beyond imagining. All that was quickly replaced, though, with quiet amusement as Tammy watched Damion fumble with his words, eventually turning into a brief, sparkling laugh. “Yes, but when you put it like that it sounds like I’m lurking in the doorway of a Venetian brothel.” He raised an eyebrow, shrugging off Damion’s concern; he had something to market, might as well sell it. There wasn’t much else to it, other than what Ash had introduced him to – information. “You bet 30 dollars on a marriage that might not happen?” he sighed, soft, almost inaudible. “I know I don’t have to, but Elliot’s my best friend, so it wouldn’t be so bad.” Then an idea popped into his head – “Have you ever been married?”

“you’re being dramatic. it doesn’t taste that bad.” there was of course, the age old adage that she’d gotten used to it. she’d set up the entire scene how could she not know the details. but she liked to think the answer was really just that he was looking for something to complain about. it was a sign, that there was nothing else wrong with the scene. it was good to go.

“it’s not the worst—” she started to contribute before he cut off the line of inquiry. it was too bad, she didn’t mind talking about flaying—really, she was curious to know why he immediately thought of chicken. but she knew the gesture, the figures pressed to his mouth, it meant to not continue on with the topic anymore. at least for a few more hours, maybe once the sandwich had settled. ever never really meant as much as he wanted it to. “a viking burial! finally!” she turned away from her work, and back to him, the idea catching in her imagination. “something i can work with.” they had elaborate set ups and left little evidence, a compromise that she could absolutely work with. she could make the boat herself even, with this much of a heads up. “i would know if you were still alive.” maybe not everyone, but she spent enough time with damion. she could tell the difference between him awake and asleep, certainly she could figure out dead or alive. “come on—you would totally remind me, right?”

"Kid, there is not a twisted enough universe out there where this makes the Baskin Robbins flavor of the month. Let's just get that straight right now." It took a whole breath for the statement to make its mark before he had to turn his head, refilling the lungs from the open window. The back of his hand pressed to his nose, an attempt to filter out the rest while he watched her eyes light up like a child on Christmas. Whatever she got a kick out of, so be it if it revolved around a viking burial. The only hitch was that he didn't completely believe her assurance, looked her without hiding the skepticism.

"I'd remind you, but would you stop? That's the $64,000 question," he went on before pulling his hand away, hating that he was slowly getting used to the ambience, just not enough to take in long intakes, still at short, barely-there breaths. Nose scrunched up, eyes squinting back at the makeshift angels with a small grimace that twisted into a reluctant appraisal. He glances away, then back, holding back his tongue. No. No, he wasn't going to encourage this. On the other hand... "This is not me endorsing what you're doing here, okay? Letting that be on the record for the big guy upstairs. You're getting marked for blasphemy. But..." his head tilted, face wrinkling up in how he gave a final debate until giving in, "you could make them more angelic. Skim over the bible maybe. Get a goodreads on that. Just... don't become one of those born again... You know the type. I'm not going with you to any church that deals with Christian rock and doles out Welch’s grape juice. I draw the line there."

“father mike?” she had to pause for a second, trying to think of an actual answer to his question. church on sundays wasn’t exactly a staple of her childhood, she didn’t think it came from that. but she wasn’t sure. explore all options. “he was fine. died of cancer a while back.” his expressions were still going, giving her plenty of work with. the unhappiness that lingered, gave her a little swell of satisfaction. not all art had to make people happy, sometimes it could do awful things. she liked that about her work.

“of course i did. who else was going to do it? you had your sandwich.”  it was always good to challenge one’s self anyways. the fishing line, so thin it could have caused nasty bruising on the bodies, but she’d been patient, she’d bided her time and got the results she’d hoped for. “i was thinking about the skin, displaying it.” and she’d gotten to this, the most skin was on the back, it all made sense. “so no party set up, it’s noted!” at this rate he really was going to get a coffin in the ground. how sadly unmemorable. “what about an angel isn’t nice. come on! do you want to be crucified?”

"Count me out for finding out why you kept tabs on him," Damion stated, already in too deep, stepping too close to her mind, under the belief that a priest would be a crown jewel in a piece made up of hanging angels. "Uhg.. how can I taste it? It's like I'm licking a slaughterhouse..." His eyes closed, mouth opened a little wider, tongue outstretched before his lips twisted up. The mention of the sandwich did him no favors.

"Yeah, that was a fond memory while it lasted," he mumbled before moving back to the window, hand gripping the frame just to deeply breathe in the cool air. In the background, he heard her and had to throw her a look over his shoulder of pure comical concern. "Don't display the skin..." he sighed with disappointed, the kind that comes to a parent when their child tells them they want a tattoo of the lamest member of KISS. "They're not fried chicken thighs where the skin is the best part, kid... Don't you know how hard it'd be to cut all of that off--" he stopped, held up a finger with tight lips before editing himself. "Nope! No. We are not talking about flaying. Not tonight. Not ever." His head swiveled back to the night, noticeably showing how he looked up, as if in need of desperate help while she gave her own kind of help. "No! I want a pine box! Lord, stop being extra! No suspension. No crucifixion. Nothing that belongs on a Dateline special.” He gave a moment of a pause before throwing her one crumb. “I’d entertain a Viking burial but only if you were sure I was dead. Don’t do any early cremation on me."

Tammy wondered where Damion’s mind had gone, which paths it had wandered down – he wasn’t old enough to have worn in paths of his own, not even enough memories to fill a lifetime, but he couldn’t help thinking that might be him in a few centuries. “Oh.” He could fill the gap between words with his own, things he guessed and things he’d surmised from talking to Elliot: transcendent, soul-cleansing, soul-making. A world of commitment he wasn’t ready for yet, making him feel like he was teetering on the edge of a precipice. “No, I don’t need or want a muse. I’m just curious. And if you want me, you’ll have to pay like everybody else.” His little secret gave Tammy a tiny rush of exhilaration, the feeling of scar tissue edging against his shirt lingering at the forefront of his awareness. There was an irony in the conversation that only added to whatever it was that drew out that laugh, eventually petering off into a sigh, and a raised eyebrow at Damion’s expression. “I guess it must’ve – oh! Elliot – not yet. I think we made a bet that if we’re still single by 30, we’ll consider it, but I’m only 24, so my hand in marriage is still up for grabs, I suppose.”

“And I swear by my family that you are not Damion. I haven’t talked to my cousin in a few years but I know he wouldn’t have taken inspiration from someone so hurtful. And no, I’m not stalking you, and I’m not stalking Damion Kilgrave, which isn’t you. Damion Kilgrave is my family’s muse and the entire reason I had the courage to become an artist. You cannot tell me that it was all for nothing and that we’ve been taking our inspiration from someone like you.” Rob had let this get personal, too personal maybe. He was known as a kind person, as a good man, but this man opposite had put him in a really negative space. “You give off the worst vibes.”

she waited quietly, sitting at the edge of the window sill. silence became her, as she dissolved into the edges of the scene. it wasn’t about her, it was about her work. his scream pulls a perfect smile from her, and she finally slips in, shutting the window behind them. her own footsteps are silent despite the still drying carpet, an unavoidable fact of the scene. she’d wish she could have kept everything immaculate, but it was trial and error. she’d had to scrub the carpet with bleach. maybe he was on to something, but maybe she was just used to the smell of decomposition. mothballs mostly.

“kind of like a church, right?” perfectly white walls and carpet, she’d had the idea for a while but no where to stage it. it was always a waiting game, the right apartment the right people, so many little things had to be right for the scene to come together. if she had to rank his reactions, she would have given this one a solid seven. the gagging sold it. she took another look at her vision realized before turning back to the more pressing matter. “do you mean that? about the sketching? i’ll make it nice.”

"Sure! A church for the fucking Zodiac Killer! Jesus H. Christ!" Another gag made him stop, the odor breathing down his throat and stirring up his stomach. "Oh, God, not the Monte Cristo..." His nose went back to being plugged his fingers, cutting it off at the source as he breathed in through the mouth. "Kid, what church did you go to? You want me to rough up your pastor or something? Was it the Catholics? The crucifix really get to you?"

His face scrunched up, releasing a long breath before glancing back at the figures dangling, going back and forth between flickering away and to, morbid curiosity getting the best of him. "...You climbed all the way up there?" he went on after a moment with a vague gesture to the wires that hung them up from the ceiling. His vision was thankful for taking her back in, words not entered in with the same spirit. "Nice is not nice to you. You're going to have my entrails spread out and I'm not vibing with that." He paused, face still sour, but the effect getting a little better. "Put me in something tasteful and maybe."

“How–” Tammy paused, trying to think of how best to phrase the question, so as not to give anything away. “How does it feel? A good bond?” Perhaps that was a sensitive topic, judging by the shift in Damion’s voice, something that could’ve been nostalgia, or maybe grief. He only noticed it for a flicker of a moment, though, before – god, the hair. If only. Wouldn’t it have been easier to sit tight until his parents kicked the bucket? To carry on being their golden child, their only child, the possibility of it all made him dizzy. “No, not the hair. Two guesses left.” Watching Damion, Tammy could spot the exact moment when it clicked, that one glance, the I don’t want to make this weird but i have to look glance. He gave Damion another wink when he glanced up, almost enjoying the other man’s palpable discomfort. There was nothing funnier than watching him tie himself in knots trying to think of a way to put it politely; there was that laugh again, uncontrolled, raw and coming apart at the edges. “Ding ding! We have a winner.” Breath released, back to normal. “What gave it away?”

“Stop pretending to be him. You. Are. Not. Him. Damion Killgrave isn’t a grump with depression, hes an inspiring muse who helped my family over the centuries and inspired them to create such great art. While I haven’t met him personally, I know enough to know that hes a kind and nurturing man who wouldn’t put such bad thoughts and vibes out in the world, okay? And yeah, he is my hero. I just know that one day he’s going to show up and help me take my art to the next level. I’ve worked my whole life to be an artist that is worthy of my family’s muse.”  Rob paused. “Its a cruel thing that you’ve done, trying everything you can to hurt someone’s dreams.”