She studies him after that, really looks, like she’s recalibrating the shape of the man standing in front of her. " I’ll be honest," Rhea admits, voice low, "I didn’t expect you to say it so easy." A corner of her mouth quirks despite herself. "Guess that’s what threw me." Then, softer, almost amused at her own surprise, "…but I don’t hate it."

love has always been a complicated thing. a stipulation tacked on to every relationship he's ever been part to. for an abundance of it.. or a lack thereof. family is no different and the twitch before he sucks his teeth will confess long before he ever does that the truth ? it was too complicated for words.

" i only ever do.. " but he tries. frisks the bottom of a very, very deep barrel and comes up with a levelled expression and steady gaze, " —what needs to be done. "

a sick animal is dangerous to the pack. the weak link in a body's length of chainmail that can't afford to give an inch. roman's felt the rapidness of jimmy's pulse go idle in the bend of his arm.. once shoved his heel so far into jey's windpipe it was a wonder his cousin could still talk. solo.. that wound is still too fresh to stare at the meat of, but despite his own discomfort, he'd argue without taking breath, that his family was better off for his temper. an old analogy about pressure making diamonds. no fog, just ice.

in the face of his consideration, he'd almost missed how she'd crept nearer. sidled closer with a cat's gleam in her eyes and clinical intent curving up a dark and crooked grin. every bit the question mark his wise man once warned him she'd be. once a wrench in the very real cogs of his bloody machine, roman catches his reflection, capsized and stiff, while staring down at her.

Hadn't she also been the same at one point?

Then again, said greenhorn would never get behind closed personal doors with Roman like she was.

When hands so used to violence touch at hair, brushed it away from her face and his eyes met hers, she waited, knowing the response to come. I been busy, as if that would explain it all away, but they could pretend it did for now. They could pretend and live in this quiet bubble they were sequestered in for the night, in the lies-by-omission and the gentleness they rarely afforded for their own selves to enjoy. A nod was given, eyes slipping shut as his thumbs traced over her cheekbones and his gaze burned into her.

When the question about returning was asked again, Karen met Roman's gaze, fingers coming up to delicately brush through his hair before she pulled him closer even as she scooted her own self to the edge of the counter. There was a simple kiss pressed to his lips, placating, and then her forehead rested against his, wanting to lessen the tension coiling up within her. "It's going to be Steven or someone else."

greenhorns, clumsy hands and stiff shots, roman's entertained them for decades. the implication he'd give time to one more ? karen ought've seen the snort before it came. caught eyes in the process of rolling. a veto without words, his time better spent accommodating that tug closer. slotted between long legs, it's an comfortable place to linger. stand at attention for affection that's brief, but warm. fleeting if he looked at it the wrong way, so he doesn't. leans forward.. she'll see his pulse when it emerges, there, at his temple. frustrated past a point of contention.

" so you still playin' this game, " it's a predator's growl, tucked behind his tonsils, crept upward to hit the backs of teeth that don't part. roman doesn't bare them either, though there's a lapse where he considers it. let her see how much the news needled. nagged at old, ugly arguments with raised voices and threats to end her career. under the weight of gold, he'd said it all so easily. barked with bass. here ? all he sits beneath is her blue, blue eyes and the gentle graze of deceptively delicate fingers.

and he could be delicate too if he tried. forget the reason his hands gripped the edge of the counter in the first place and started wringing. an outlet that didn't leave marks save what were haphazardly accepted by himself.

" it sure as shit is not gonna be steven, " after a few calls, that was long-determined. " and you're here tellin' me i gotta pretend like i don't wanna loose some fool's teeth cause they think they can roll up and fill your shoes.. " observed, he's rambling. speaks beneath his breath, towards some imaginary foe over his shoulder. because looking at her, now ? in the dim light of the kitchen, he knew she'd look as disappointed as those flowers, wilted and slumped out of their vase beside them. roman's last apology, preceding him by two weeks.

She shifts her weight, arms folding as she studies him the way she studies opponents, looking past the surface. "I didn’t come here to play therapist or ask who you’re gonna steamroll first," Rhea continues. "I’m not that stupid. The Rumble’s never just a step with you. It’s a statement." Her jaw tightens. "And you don’t come back just to remind people you exist. You come back to take."

alike.. he doesn't laugh, but roman thinks about it. can feel the sound as it wobbles on his tongue. lets it play somewhere behind his molars once well-trimmed nails commit to their course through his beard. smoothing out strays and greys. agitating the chin up under them, out of its clench and nearer to something more.. cordial. the balancing act between aggression a'rumble in his belly and a budding curiosity that'll only live so long as she feeds it.

" why it got you worried ? " her title wasn't in the picture and her assortment of friends ( so few, these days ) broach a subject she'd not likely want him to tamper with. something else they have in common ; burnt bridges and smoke in the air.

in truth, his fire doesn't have a target. no one place worth scorching any more than the next. enough time spent watching the same people fumble the same balls and he'd argue they all deserved to burn. see who came out of the ashes better off and who warranted a sweep under the rug. " best believe i start strikin' that match, ain't no one gonna make it out unscathed. " not if they were in his way and.. if they weren't ? the ones like rhea, idled by the sideline, waiting to see the outcome of another march ? where in the shuffle did she belong ?

" ain't no more family shit, " if her concern sat beside jey, she'd be glad to hear it. take solace in the reassurance that his aim still had enough steadiness not to wander towards old wounds. " as for the rest of 'em ? "

why do you care ?

‘ don’t be a stranger. ’

‘ i don’t think i can. ’ 

‘ don’t say that. ’

‘ you don’t have to go. ’

‘ don’t be what they made you. ’

‘ you don’t have to be anyone’s hero. ’

‘ why don’t you stay right here? ’ 

‘ don’t you trust me? ’

‘ you don’t have to be on your own. ’

‘ i don’t like to think about it. ’

‘ you don’t get to make that call. ’

‘ don’t act like you care. ’

‘ we don’t think alike. ’

‘ you don’t need to worry about that. ’

‘ i don’t know why. ’ 

‘ you don’t mean that. ’

‘ you don’t have to tell me. ’

‘ i don’t trust many people. ’

‘ i don’t have a family anymore. ’

‘ you don’t care what they think. ’

She rolls her shoulders, forcing the snark back into place like armor. “Morality police?” A short, humorless huff leaves her. “Nah.” Her gaze flicks to him, assessing, measuring; the tan, the quiet menace, the way he’s half in the room and half somewhere darker. “I’m just tryin’ to figure out why you bothered showing your face again if all you’re gonna do is sit in the shadows and b r o o d like you own them.”

" why i get the feelin' you say everyone but you're talkin' about yourself. " asking without asking. checking in on a man with vague motives and his jaw in an ever grinding clench. rhea's standing in the light of her own motivations and roman hasn't shifted enough in his seat to expose a swelling wonder just why that is. what's made the route to his locker room look like the right one. what's made her tongue unwind and those words.. he doesn't owe her an explanation.

but she's the only one whose come looking for one.

" it is a promise, " bellows up from the small of his belly. fixes itself across the dip of his shoulders and sinks into an expression he scrubs at with long fingers and waning patience. ease the fine lines away. push back against eyes turning darker.

his skin isn't clammy, but palms are smoothing out over his knees as if they were. just another show once they turn heavy and his slouch, there in that quiet, empty room she'd accused him of brooding ( tribal chief doesn't brood, baby ) in, he's standing tall, impossibly so without anyone left to stop him, " you didn't roll up in here t' see how bad the roster finna get it. " chin up, she's smaller from this angle, " cause i know you care about them about as much as i do. "

a few, here and there. his by blood, hers by affiliation.. there'd always be that handful, but outside of it ? she can't hold sand any better than him.

Bitter chill, fog-plume for breath, beanie down over his ears...he's built for this, but that doesn't change the fact one particular elbow has started to protest more when the weather decides it's time for a dip into fuck no territory.

Twenty-two odd years and that's his biggest ailment? He's doing just fine.

"So." He cracks another disposable hand warmer packet. Slots it into the back of his left glove. "This is the part where I pretend I meant to text you again this year, right?" There's a burn of shame in him, truth be told, that the best he could manage was a happy birthday text. Also confusion that, standing here, it's like no time has passed at all. How does he reckon with that? How does he swallow it back, make any of it stay down? He can't blame everything on being useless with a phone, as much as he tries to.

"This is the part where we hug it out." He's more confident about that. "This is the part where I blame life and my head and whatever the hell else." Here he is, taking on all of the blame, like always. Good dog.

But here he is, all the same- hopeful, trying to reconnect, eyes bright despite the sun against snow in this goddamn airport parking lot.

he hates the cold. hates how it bites at the rare bits of exposed skin. blots out the sun with an overcast. roman hates the wind and the promise of incoming snow. and on a normal day, with the normal company ( or lack thereof ) that'd be the only reason for his frown. a sour disposition over something he couldn't control.

roman isn't mad, not really. disappointment, where jon was concerned, had a foreign nature to it. sat off-balance because it didn't belong there. without a name, without incentive, having expectations was a flaw of his own. put a decade under his belt, he knew not to wait for that phone call. nothing personal, those texts left on read or responded to by the occasional thumbs up. so why does his stomach clench like it does at the sound of his voice ? he'll look that in the eye later.

" yeah, sounds like a good call, " blame yourself, jon. blame yourself until roman stops sucking his teeth and closes that already short distance with open arms that want to object but won't. big dog talkin' big shit and here he was, taking scraps for the rumble in his stomach. embracing like there's more behind broad hands clapping over a back that, these days, may as well be stretched across the squared shoulders of a stranger.

The city that never sleeps: a home that ground its residences to the bone, willing or not.

She felt him shift back, felt his gaze fall upon her and finally her own eyes lifted to meet his. As much as she offered him clinical inspection, he gave it in return, his words a pat assessment of looks that Karen was far too familiar with because the tube of concealer in her makeup bag was scraping the bottom each time the applicator was pulled out (and an order needed to be made for another to make her look as if she belonged among the living). Instead of arguing she lodged a question in return: “Are you?”

A caged animal rarely rested, after all. The ease with which he lifted her made her sigh, arms wrapping around his neck now, slipping back into easy physical intimacy with him. “Steven’s not that bad,” came her amused response, her replacement still unsteady on his own feet and more than afraid of the man whose arms she was now wrapped in. She wouldn’t mention the remarks he had made to their other colleagues—off-handed snipes about how he was sure he’d need to engage in certain activities just to get Roman to talk, heavy implications that Karen had done so to get where she was—but she knew the man’s ability to survive lay in whether he could handle Roman or not.

" yeah, no shit he's new to this type of interviewing.. " the drama of his rolled eyes is amplified by want for her to witness them, " the guy doesn't know what a damn lock up is. " and the stuttering wasn't cute out of his mouth. not that she'd ever done it more than once. caught off-guard and flustered, it's a memory roman's held on to. locked it away for the lonelier nights when she didn't answer her phone and he'd flown too far to drop in unannounced. like he had this evening. let himself in when a tested door proved to be unlocked. she'd hear about that later.

" he tries talkin' to me again and i'mma slap the taste up out his mouth. " further mumbling — something about his beady little eyes and that ugly lip-fuzz — carries while he's hauled her to the kitchen. finds a place to perch her, there, at the edge of a counter that allows for eye contact and impatient hands to smooth back all that blonde stuck to her face and neck. wet hair, catching in his fingers, isn't tugged on purpose, though there were plenty of nights when he couldn't have boasted the same.

" i been busy, " he answers her question, vague but earnest. he'd been busy. life doesn't care about the bags under his eyes or the hours he'd lost out on. it didn't care that he'd not been to his own home in over a month and this trip, postponed time and time again, made guilt an unsightly knot in his stomach. karen had every reason to doubt him. second guess his motives. point a slender, pale finger in his face and call him a liar. manipulator. user. whole forums were devoted to it, she'd not need dig far to find the offended masses for comiserating.

but she hadn't.

let his thumbs speak for him. drawing circles over the slopes of cheekbones.. the delicate swell of pinkened cheeks. angular jaw and a bottom lip he'd swiped with particular interest. what was he if not covetous ?