hollowpillow

@hollowpillow

John always had six or seven ulterior motives, at least four of them self-serving, so it wasn't pure altruism that had him sliding into the seat across from the dark-haired woman with an approximation of a little apologetic smile, or as close as he ever got to such a harmless expression.

She was beautiful (one), and he'd always been a sucker for a beautiful face (two), often to his detriment. She was sitting alone, looking annoyed, and checking her watch, and she'd also over-dressed for the pub, so he was guessing she'd been stood up (three). Mostly, though, it was something about her, a little tug at his awareness that he'd learned not to ignore (four). If she'd never dabbled in magic, he'd eat his trench coat. The rest of his motives were best not examined at the moment.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, luv. London traffic's murder…" He stretched a hand across the table, not volunteering a name. Unless it was a blind date, he'd only get himself in trouble.

He was more than half an hour late, and Zee was ten minutes past the grace period she had giving him, staying another five minutes besides her better knowledge, when he slid into the seat opposite of her. She looked up, a long fingernail tapping her glass of wine as she looked over the man in front of her, and the hand she offered. Pursing her lips, she considered for a moment before letting go of her glass and extending her hand, slender fingers curling firmly around his hand.

"You're late," she said curtly, holding onto his hand for a moment longer than socially acceptable. "And you don't look anything like the picture provided, Simon."

"No one ever looks like their profile picture. It's some obscure law of the universe." Her handshake was firm, but that wasn't what kept him gripping her hand a moment too long. It wasn't as obvious as a warmth or a tingle. He couldn't have sworn it was anything physical at all. It was just a feeling. Magic might not advertise, but it always left a trace.

He leaned back in the chair when they parted, looking relaxed in spite of what he imagined was a rather accusatory expression on her face, but John wasn't going down so easily. When it came to a con, it was in for a penny, in for a pound. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to offend you again. I've forgotten your name. Should've written it down with the time." He signaled a passing waiter for a whiskey neat, his gaze flicking to her glass. "Can I make it up to you with a drink?"

@hollowpillow

It was safe to say that Hannibal didn't eat in any substandard restaurants, many of them with a dress code, and he was an expert in picking out at a glance who didn't belong there. Contrary to popular myth, there was no way to dress like you had money if you didn't. The signs were always there. It was hardly his business if people wanted to pretend to be what they weren't--far be it from him to judge while wearing what Bedelia called his well-crafted human suit--but he enjoyed picking out the flaws in the facade and guessing at what was underneath.

He was barely in the door before he spotted the man sitting alone. He may as well have been painted in neon for all he didn't belong there, less for the way he was dressed than for how glaringly uncomfortable he looked. It was a split second's decision, one he wouldn't have been able to pinpoint the reasoning for if asked--not that Hannibal often dove deep into his reasoning for doing things, beyond the fact that it interested or amused him--to cross to the table and sit in the chair opposite him. There were half a dozen subtle signals, but it was still a guess that he'd been jilted by a date. If he was wrong, well, that would be interesting too.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting. The traffic is merciless."

He wasn't sure of what the social conventions said, when he was supposed to leave after being, obviously, stood up. Half an hour? Ten minutes? This was not his place, nor his expertice, which lead to Will sitting by, awkwardly glancing out the window, letting his thoughts drift.

The voice startled him, at first. He looked up, head tilting away from the masses and the rain, looking at the person sliding into the chair in front of him with a quizzical look. His name was not Laurelie, and he was most certainly not his date, but there was something about the man that sat down that had Will's undisputed attention.

@hollowpillow

John always had six or seven ulterior motives, at least four of them self-serving, so it wasn't pure altruism that had him sliding into the seat across from the dark-haired woman with an approximation of a little apologetic smile, or as close as he ever got to such a harmless expression.

She was beautiful (one), and he'd always been a sucker for a beautiful face (two), often to his detriment. She was sitting alone, looking annoyed, and checking her watch, and she'd also over-dressed for the pub, so he was guessing she'd been stood up (three). Mostly, though, it was something about her, a little tug at his awareness that he'd learned not to ignore (four). If she'd never dabbled in magic, he'd eat his trench coat. The rest of his motives were best not examined at the moment.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, luv. London traffic's murder…" He stretched a hand across the table, not volunteering a name. Unless it was a blind date, he'd only get himself in trouble.

He was more than half an hour late, and Zee was ten minutes past the grace period she had giving him, staying another five minutes besides her better knowledge, when he slid into the seat opposite of her. She looked up, a long fingernail tapping her glass of wine as she looked over the man in front of her, and the hand she offered. Pursing her lips, she considered for a moment before letting go of her glass and extending her hand, slender fingers curling firmly around his hand.

"You're late," she said curtly, holding onto his hand for a moment longer than socially acceptable. "And you don't look anything like the picture provided, Simon."

The docs were crowded this time of day. It was a perfect setting, people pressing against each other, brushing through, pushing past, trying to get from A to B while the shipworkers did their thing, unloading and loading shipments and supplies. Victoria preferred the docks, and she especially preferred them right now.

What was an innocent touch or a brush of her hand here and there, when there were so many other hands, elbows and knees (people do weird shit, yknow) everywhere else? Nobody would notice if their pockets got a little lighter, at least not until the redhead was well blended into the crowd.

She walked on, music in her ears, arms along her sides, taking in the crowd carefully. Slim pickings today, but Victoria didn't let that discourage her as she set her eyes on a new victim, takin in his figure, and deciding. All it took, really, was to casually brush up against him, bump into him a little as they passed each other, nimble and clever fingers working their way into his pocket and away again. Quick, smooth. "Oof, sorry," she muttered, glancing at him as if she was genuinely apologetic, before she kept moving, walking just a touch faster than she had moments before, sticking both hands into her pockets to protect her loot.

--

Repairing boat engines quieted his mind and kept his hands busy, but it was his least favorite time of day, when it was swarming with people like this. She was hardly the first person to get that idea. It had occurred to Will the first time he set foot on the docks that this was the perfect hunting ground for thieves, and it certainly had its fair share of crime. While he wasn't hypcrite enough to oppose stealing on the face of it, and even liked to keep his hand in from time to time, he never contributed here. For as much as he resented his half-brother, he'd taken at least one thing from him deeply to heart. He only stole from people who could afford to lose it.

He'd had more than a decade to let that resentment settle in him though, and it barely twinged these days, eclipsed by much more recent losses. Everland was a fresh start for Will. He'd been on the straight and narrow for over a decade in the military, that last tour costing him his arm, some dear friends, and a good chunk of his peace of mind. Fransokyo Robotics was the main reason he'd chosen this place, the metal clockwork arm still an unfamiliar weight at his side.

It was the flesh hand that reached out to snag her elbow and drag her to a halt, however. He'd be a terrible thief if he didn't know when he was being pickpocketed. She was good, he'd give her that. Robin Hood himself would have been proud. He was half-tempted to let her get away with it, but replacing his IDs was a hassle he didn't want. "You can keep the cash, kid. I won't even ask why ya need it. Just give me back the rest."

Which is why she didn't consider herself unlucky when a firm grip caught onto her elbow, stopping her in her track. No, it was lack of skill. Some sort of slip, or nudge, or something that wasn't supposed to have happened. Maybe she'd been distracted.

Victoria kept both hands in her pockets, eyes forward for just a brief moment while she considered her options. She could cause a scene. She was young, if she yelled that someone grabbed her? It would most likely be enough to make him let go, and leave her with enough crowd-sympathy to get away. She'd done it before.

However, she didn't get that far. Before she could make up her mind, he was closer, his voice right by her. She turned around, her face twisted into a grimace. "Kid? Who the hell are you calling kid?"

The fridge was out of step with how he remembered Bruce, a tangle of odd, disorganized menus and touristy magnets, like he'd been trying desperately to make this place feel more lived in, more like home. Thor could relate. For as much love as he had for Midgard, he'd never wanted to be trapped here. He used to have an entire universe to explore. His eyes lingered a moment too long on the unlabeled phone number, and he tried to tell himself it was none of his business if Bruce was seeing someone.

He opened the beer and took a drink, letting the familiar flavor ground him. He set the bottle on the counter, unease filtering through him as he watched him fumble around the kitchen. Bruce looked like a stranger in his own home. He was tempted to ask if he'd lived here long, but he was afraid to know the answer. That same frustration crept over him but stronger this time, hands clenching into fists at his sides. Why wasn't his team here, looking after him? Why was it Steve and Thor who'd pulled him out of the water, and not Tony's side? Was that how quickly their loyalty burned out? It wasn't the first time he'd wanted to punch Iron Man in his stupid metal helmet.

He unclenched his fists, bending slowly to get the tomatoes from the fridge. He'd seen smaller kitchens, but Thor wasn't a small man, and he worried at any moment he'd turn too fast and break something. At the moment, it felt emblematic for being trapped in this city, the walls of their cage growing ever smaller. "I have met humans who collect spoons," he offered nonsensically, carefully arranging ingredients on the counter.

It in no way addressed what they were actually talking about, and he took a moment to sort through his thoughts. It explained his unfamiliarity with his own kitchen, the way he could look right through Thor as though he were a stranger the one time he'd tried to make contact, why he'd never tried to get in touch after that. Beneath the worry and the hurt, there was shame for not trying harder. Thor was just as guilty as Tony of leaving him alone in this.

"That must be frightening. I am sorry for not reaching out to you sooner," he said finally, raising his gaze to his. He wouldn't do him the discourtesy of trying to justify it. There were no excuses good enough. He peered through a few of the cupboards, locating the pasta and a couple pans so he could get the spaghetti started. If there was an uncomfortable conversation to be had, Thor was better off keeping busy through it than getting too deep into his own head. Cooking was a simple way he could take care of him, the very least he could do by way of apology.

Bruce could feel a headache coming on, heavy eyelids closing in a temporary quest for relief, his hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose, pushing worn glasses up over his eyes for a brief moment. It did nothing to soothe the ache, just like rubbing his hands together did nothing to alleviate his anxieties. Funny, he thought, the strange and human habits people had, an attempt for self-soothing, unconscious traces from a forgotten childhood. 

Spoons. Back to reality, a flashing image of Thor standing in a room of spoon-covered walls. It was just as ridiculous as the attempt of comfort, and yet Bruce felt oddly comforted by it. A familiar sense of warmth and recognition spread through him, because this was so painfully like Thor. Heartache mingled with fond memories for the man in front of him, and Bruce allowed traces of a smile to brighten his expression. “I’m sure those are very interesting spoons,” he offered in return. 

A heaved sigh allowed him to once again close his eyes. Everything felt unfamiliar, his own thoughts in disarray. It was hard, determining what was true and what was false, and if any of it was hidden behind rose-coloured glasses. It felt a lot like a constant low hum of a tune he knew that he knew, but failed to recognize. 

“No, no,” he shook his head, eyes opening to linger onto blonde hair and toned arms. For the briefest of moments, Bruce could remember the smell of his shampoo, the warmth of his skin, and then it was gone again over the sound of dry pasta poured into a pan of water. “I’m not sure it would have made a difference if you did,” he said truthfully. “I wouldn’t have known who you were.”

"I came to see you, at your workplace. I thought… you simply didn't wish to speak with me." It was easier to get the explanation out once he'd committed to it, and then he was glad he did, like the relief that came in removing a particularly stubborn thorn. In hindsight, Thor felt very stupid about that encounter. He'd been so fixated on Bruce's blank expression, on the way those familiar eyes seemed to stare right through him. He was too focused on his own resulting hurt to dig deep into why that might be. If anyone should have known that Bruce wasn't that cold, it was Thor.

"I should have known you weren't that unkind, even after… everything. I hope you'll forgive me, in time." It was clear Thor hadn't forgiven himself just yet, nor did he expect Bruce to. He'd been so blinded by his own feelings that he'd left him to struggle alone all this time. In his culture, an apology was only an acknowledgment of the wrong done. It needed to be reinforced by making amends and, in truth, that was part of the reason he was here now. He owed it to Bruce to help him through this. The other part, the fact that his feelings for him had never really faded, wasn't something he was willing to look at too closely at the moment. One life-shattering revelation in a day was plenty.

Familiarity had that effect, he supposed, and the sight of Thor like this felt as familiar as his own fingerprint. Bruce felt useless, restless, hands rubbing against each other in an attempt to keep himself busy while he stood in place, out of the way from Thor's cooking, but not out of the kitchen. Not out of his presence.

Gwen had seen a lot of strange things in various universes, but she'd never seen a ghost. She was pretty sure they existed--or else Lucy's weird uncle Constantine person was just a rilly good conman (it was possible both were true simultaneously)--but she'd never seen one. Fortunately, New York state was home to a number of supposedly haunted places, including Letchworth Village, a sprawling collection of buildings that used to be an old psychiatric facility. It had closed in the 90s and was whatever level of dangerous went a few steps above condemned and a few steps below nuclear waste dump. Also fortunately, she had superpowers that could get them easily past the fences.

She'd skipped the damning entrance portion of their live stream and was now yammering into her phone about the history of the place. "Look, I'm just saying, the kind of shit they called "treatment" at this place… I'd come back as a vengeful ghost too." Her Debbie Harry costume was only one tick off from her usual look: a yellow Vultures t-shirt under a black leather vest, black hot pants and a metal studded belt with thigh high black boots, sunglasses pushed back into her shaggy blonde hair.

Her speech paused when her symbiote gave a little pulse, and she aimed the flashlight on her phone into the shadowy corners of the room, trying to decide if it was reacting to her excitement or to something in the place. "Did you hear something?"

Add the bonus of a really hot blonde who was maybe a little too interested about the history of this place? Well, Lucy didn't need to be asked twice to slap on a headband with cat-ears and draw whiskers on her face, making her otherwise perfectly normal get-up into a makeshit halloween-costume.

"Babe, this is New York, if you think that kinda treatment is crazy, you should just see what the journals over at Arkham Asylum says, that's some class A-"

She cut herself off, her head whipping in the direction where Gwen was looking, narrowing her eyes a little towards the darkness. Had she heard something? Nope. Was she gonna pretend like she had, to mess with Gwen a little?

Fuck yeah.

"Yeah, what was that?"

The fridge was out of step with how he remembered Bruce, a tangle of odd, disorganized menus and touristy magnets, like he'd been trying desperately to make this place feel more lived in, more like home. Thor could relate. For as much love as he had for Midgard, he'd never wanted to be trapped here. He used to have an entire universe to explore. His eyes lingered a moment too long on the unlabeled phone number, and he tried to tell himself it was none of his business if Bruce was seeing someone.

He opened the beer and took a drink, letting the familiar flavor ground him. He set the bottle on the counter, unease filtering through him as he watched him fumble around the kitchen. Bruce looked like a stranger in his own home. He was tempted to ask if he'd lived here long, but he was afraid to know the answer. That same frustration crept over him but stronger this time, hands clenching into fists at his sides. Why wasn't his team here, looking after him? Why was it Steve and Thor who'd pulled him out of the water, and not Tony's side? Was that how quickly their loyalty burned out? It wasn't the first time he'd wanted to punch Iron Man in his stupid metal helmet.

He unclenched his fists, bending slowly to get the tomatoes from the fridge. He'd seen smaller kitchens, but Thor wasn't a small man, and he worried at any moment he'd turn too fast and break something. At the moment, it felt emblematic for being trapped in this city, the walls of their cage growing ever smaller. "I have met humans who collect spoons," he offered nonsensically, carefully arranging ingredients on the counter.

It in no way addressed what they were actually talking about, and he took a moment to sort through his thoughts. It explained his unfamiliarity with his own kitchen, the way he could look right through Thor as though he were a stranger the one time he'd tried to make contact, why he'd never tried to get in touch after that. Beneath the worry and the hurt, there was shame for not trying harder. Thor was just as guilty as Tony of leaving him alone in this.

"That must be frightening. I am sorry for not reaching out to you sooner," he said finally, raising his gaze to his. He wouldn't do him the discourtesy of trying to justify it. There were no excuses good enough. He peered through a few of the cupboards, locating the pasta and a couple pans so he could get the spaghetti started. If there was an uncomfortable conversation to be had, Thor was better off keeping busy through it than getting too deep into his own head. Cooking was a simple way he could take care of him, the very least he could do by way of apology.

Bruce could feel a headache coming on, heavy eyelids closing in a temporary quest for relief, his hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose, pushing worn glasses up over his eyes for a brief moment. It did nothing to soothe the ache, just like rubbing his hands together did nothing to alleviate his anxieties. Funny, he thought, the strange and human habits people had, an attempt for self-soothing, unconscious traces from a forgotten childhood. 

Spoons. Back to reality, a flashing image of Thor standing in a room of spoon-covered walls. It was just as ridiculous as the attempt of comfort, and yet Bruce felt oddly comforted by it. A familiar sense of warmth and recognition spread through him, because this was so painfully like Thor. Heartache mingled with fond memories for the man in front of him, and Bruce allowed traces of a smile to brighten his expression. “I’m sure those are very interesting spoons,” he offered in return. 

A heaved sigh allowed him to once again close his eyes. Everything felt unfamiliar, his own thoughts in disarray. It was hard, determining what was true and what was false, and if any of it was hidden behind rose-coloured glasses. It felt a lot like a constant low hum of a tune he knew that he knew, but failed to recognize. 

“No, no,” he shook his head, eyes opening to linger onto blonde hair and toned arms. For the briefest of moments, Bruce could remember the smell of his shampoo, the warmth of his skin, and then it was gone again over the sound of dry pasta poured into a pan of water. “I’m not sure it would have made a difference if you did,” he said truthfully. “I wouldn’t have known who you were.”

I'm pathologically fearful of sharing art I do for work online anymore but this just simply means to much for me not to commemorate it so I'm taking advantage of my surge of courage this morning.

The first time she heard it it’d been in a nightmare of a world that had ended, causing her to wake up in a panic. The second time she heard it was the morning after while making breakfast, and Ellie swore she’d been making it up. The third time she just figured it was one of JJ’s toys. But when it kept happening over and over again, Ellie began to worry.

She’s no stranger to anxiety and paranoia, and she knows that sometimes she’ll hear and see shit that isn’t there because of them. And she knows that this clicking came from her nightmare and it’s nothing more than that, but Ellie humors herself and starts looking into it anyway. 

Because every time she hears it, her body freezes as dread takes over. It’s like a memory, only it’s of a feeling rather than anything physical. And it was making her question just how safe this place was.

She’d been given the whole spiel about the outskirts when she’d first decided to move here. She’d been warned against spending too much time here, especially at night, and it’s not that Ellie ignored their warnings at all. She listened and still chose to build a home for herself and JJ on the outskirts of town. 

Ellie Williams is more than capable of protecting them both from whatever tends to lurk in the shadows. And setting up booby traps is a skill she excels at. Ellie had been at it for hours now, checking the perimeter around her home for anything that seemed out of the ordinary. She’d prepped herself with her bow and arrow, archery and close combat always being her strong suits, along with some punji sticks she’d hidden underneath some leaves. 

There’s a crunch of leaves and Ellie is quick to stop them in their path, because whether they were friendly or not they were definitely just a person and not whatever else is stalking these woods.

The forest is a place of safety. The dangers that lure here are nothing compared to the ones in the human world. As much as Ingfrid adores the human and their lives, she often finds herself concerned with their way of life. With the hatred and violence, and the cars and dangers lurking around the corners. It seems that humans find new ways of harming each other every day.

In the forest, although not her forest, Ingfrid tends to find a moment of peace. She needs the forest to survive, and she has yet to figure out if this one has become her lifeline, or if she is still connected to the old, Norwegian trees that she used to call home.

It's not often she finds someone out here, and when she does, it brings forth both caution and joy. She walks towards them without hesitation, her tail swaing curiously. The stranger is new to her, Ingfrid hasn't seen then before but she is also aware that it does not mean they weren't there. Like lions. She has never seen a lion, but she knows they are real.

"Oh!" Her exclaim is short and surprised, large eyes taking in the girl who stopped her. She looks to the ground, then up, then to the ground again.

If it's a trap, it's not the first Ingfrid has seen. It sends chills down her spine, a warning ringing in her head - but no hunter has ever saved her from their own trap before, and Ingfrid considers this to be a promising sign of safety.

"Thank you!" Her words are sweet like honey as she tips her head to the side and smiles. "What is there?" She ads, becsuse although she thinks she knows, she doesn't know for sure. It's better to ask.