e s t a b l i s h e d ;

he’s accumulated one too many bad habits over the year, soren knows. calls it an outlet, calls it an escape; lines and liquids and smoke of all kinds and bruises on inner thighs and he tells himself it’s because he needs to forget, tells himself he’s looking for something that feels worse than waking up with this dirty, dirty skin -

(he quit every bad habit he had the moment he picked up the camera again, told himself fable city was going to be a clean slate for him but god, it’s been a long night and the itching of escape is crawling under his skin)

“i am not drunk.” he huffs at the older man, lips creased in an almost comical pout. “and even if i was - “ head cocked to the side, grinning, “ - i’m okay all the time anyways, right?”

the question isn’t as rhetorical as it is leading, though the drinks on his tongue makes his voice sound a touch too uncertain for his taste. 

“oh, hush. you aren’t gonna die, not if i can help it.’ soren proclaims, loose arm swung around the man, probably overstepping it but he’s about two shots too far from caring anymore. “‘sides, eric deserved it. you - “ head on his shoulder, eyes crinkled in a smile as he looks up at roland, “ - you’re good. promise. pinky promise.” 

soren almost flings himself back to the counter at the sight of the next drink presented in front of him, clapping excitedly. “hm? my car? it’s okay ro, you can tell me it was metallic crap on wheels.” soren finishes the drink in memoriam of it, finds it easier to swallow than the consequences of what a message like that means to them. 

“but betty - “ he frowns, remembers how the car shined, remembers how the name comes from someplace simple and how that small innocence was robbed, burnt to ashes. “ - she was beautiful. really, i’m sorry - i… she meant something to you and it shouldn’t have been taken away from you like that.” 

he calls out to the bartender, hoping he understands the slur of his words before turning back to roland. “we should do another round. for betty.” 

“And I’m sure you only smell like vodka because you’re definitely not drunk,” Ro teases, lips tugging in the corners despite himself. Soren is a petulant drunk, he realizes, but it doesn’t annoy him - it’s never annoyed him, not with Soren. The smile goes away just as quickly at the words that follow.

I’m okay all the time anyway, right?

Usually, he would have done the polite thing and nodded and smiled, but it’s too late and he’s already a drink in. So instead, he quirks an eyebrow like he doesn’t believe Soren - and he doesn’t - because if he was really okay, he wouldn’t be sitting in front of him here, like this, mourning the loss of his already broken-down car. It’s still not enough time to linger on that until the next bomb hits him, with the late realization that Soren’s arm is wrapped around him. 

Eric deserved it.

It almost makes him look away and want to pull back, how easily that slips out of Soren’s mouth. I know. He thinks to himself, and it pricks at his skin. I know, I know, I know. Soren smiles up at him, and Roland wonders if he really knows about the terrible things Eric’s done - the stealing, the lying, hurting people without remorse, hurting everyone around him. It’s bitter, thinking about how they’d say the exact same thing about if he dies. When he dies, despite what Soren says.

“Your car was...something,” he nods, slowly reaching out for his own glass and trying to hide his surprise at how quickly Soren takes his own. “For Betty,” and at least now he’s a little less sad - Betty’s memory will live on, between the two of them. So he drinks and clears his throat at the taste, opening his eyes and looking over at Soren carefully. He only speaks after a few moments of organizing his thoughts in his head, though it doesn’t help much. 

“You...what about you? Your car, I mean. I thought you’d be driving something…” better - “...bigger. Your apartment, too, it’s just, um, a little unexpected. I guess I haven’t exactly worked with your dad in years, now, but I always figured you were off in Europe, studying, or something.” It comes out, in moments like this. On a normal day, Roland Park is the poster child for restrained composure, never speaking more than necessary, and only on topics he know he’ll have the upper hand in. But around Soren, he finds himself rambling, beating around the bush when all he really wants to ask is --

“ -- what happened, Soren?”

It had been a long night, one that Adriana had hoped would end soon so that she could prepare for the long day that was going to start in a few short hours. Of course, Roland Park was there to make everything ten times more difficult than it needed to be. Perhaps if it was just another day, she would have let it go. Arguing with Roland over something this petty wasbeneath her. But after butting heads with distressed constituents and losing her car, Adriana was not in the mood. And judging by Roland’s expression, he wasn’t either.

As far as she was concerned, she signaled the cab first, and she had reached for the door handle before he got his greasy little hand on it. And Roland didn’t own the cab company, as far as she knew. He wasn’t entitled to everything in Fable City. “You’re not the only person here who’s had a rough night,” she said to Roland, her voice leveled but her eyes shot daggers. If only looks could kill. “Now if you don’t mind, please step aside from my cab so that I can finally head home.” Roland was going to lost a lot more than his sanity if Adriana didn’t get inside that cab within the next fifteen seconds.

In another world, in another dimension, it was more than likely that the two of them could have been friends. Both ambitious and - as much as he didn’t want to admit it - smart, and he liked to think they were both just trying to do what was best for their city. But somewhere along the line, she’d just become another pest in his life, someone who was constantly getting in the way of him doing anything around here. The laugh that left him at her words was harsh and uninviting, waving a hand as though he was shooing away a fly.

“Oh, please, that piece of shit car you drive around? It’s about time you got a new one, anyway. If you need a loan, I’ve got a friend down at the bank who could probably help you out. Now, please,” he sighed, taking another step towards the cab and taking out his wallet to flash at the driver. “Plus, don’t you have…friends around here or something, what with all the great things you think you’re doing for the city?”

send “⁇” for a DRUNK text. 

[1:22am] I jusot had a brillitan idea[1:23am] Are ylou csleeping?[1:30am] soooooren[1:55am] my idea is hwat if we BUlLD yuo a new car[1:56am] bceause…I promised ij’m woudnlt let anything bad happpen to you[1:56am] and im prettttttttty sure you wnt let me buy yuo a new car

send “✉” for a text that WASN’T SENT.

[12:01am] I don’t know if you can tell, but you terrify me. Sometimes it feels like you know everything about me and what I’m thinking about and I don’t know a single thing about you.[12:01am] I wonder if you’re okay, a lot of times.[12:03am] I wonder if I’m important enough to you that you might want to tell me someday.[12:11am] I’m not a very good person. And I’m not even brave enough to tell you that.

Send “♀” for a HEARTBREAKING text. 

Send “$” for an ACCIDENTAL text.

[10:14am] And if I’m being completely honest, none of this would be happening if the cops got off their lazy asses and did their jobs. [10:15am] What do we even pay them for? [10:22am] That...was supposed to go to someone else. [10:24am] My apologies.

[Send “✉” for a text that WASN’T SENT.

In the dark, Ilia-that-was glows. The girl who burned until they doused her in ice, turning her flame blue and silent. In this black, quiet and almost-solitude, with only a single man to hear her, all that frost turns hot, and the fire inside her roars into existence once more – a girl-creature of mischief and wonder. If she could have been anyone else, this is who she might have been. A woman putting out the lights just so she can put her hands on a man and not have him guess where she might touch him next. Despite herself, Ilia still loves this game. 

His hand disappears from beneath hers only to play a magician’s trick and reappear on her hip, and at the impact of his palm on her body there’s a slight sound that juts from her lips, an exhale of registered surprise and amusement.

“Is that so?” She returns, stretching her voice out like milk spilled across the table, red yarn playing cat’s cradle in her fingers. “Because, see –” Her body shifts imperceptibly closer with each syllable, until their hips knock. She takes the time to wonder if he’s frightened of her hands or her body, and both make her smile. “I don’t think I do.”

Her hand slides upwards and wraps itself into his tie, taking an aching slow-silent pace as she bends herself over Roland’s shoulder, holding the place with her lips brushing against the conch of his ear until it’s the right time to fire:

“Boo.”

Her weight against him is a silent threat, too close that it makes him want to run. He keeps his breaths shallow, quiet, unwilling to give anything away as he just barely manages to process her words. It hits him that he wants to see her, though still unsure why that is. She’s close, then she’s closer - there are too many things he needs to think about, like where her other hand is, what she’s trying to do, if this is just an act of a beast claiming her prey -

Boo.

He flinches, taking a sharp breath in and angry at himself for reacting but he’s just a man who happens to care about his life. “Ilia…” He warns. It’d be a mistake to assume he’s helpless - he’s a young man who holds a multi-billion dollar empire in his own two hands. He can’t play this game as well as she can, but he won’t, if he doesn’t want to - he knows how to bare his teeth when he needs to, too.

With just enough force to create some space, he pushes her away from him, though he keeps his grip on her hip and turns her around, pushing her back against the wall. His other hand reaches out for her wrist in the dark, and when he finds it, he pins it underneath his hand, keeping still.

“I don’t like playing games.” He hisses, leaning closer, “if you want something from me, I suggest you use your words.”

The cigarette felt almost foreign between his fingers, a vice he’d long since abandoned and only recently began to divulge in once again. And lately, he needed the nicotine; he craved it—that relief. When his hands began to shake, the only way to sate his uneasiness was the inhale of a menthol, the draw of a breath coated in poison. 

Bad for one’s health? Certainly. Good for the soul? Abso-fuckin-lutely. And after a day like today, a night like tonight, he needed a reprieve, a small reward for even showing up in the first place. 

“Didn’t ask for your help,” he shook his head with a smirk, flicking the lighter’s flame to life with his thumb and igniting the end of his newport. “Just came out for a breath of fresh air,” he waved the smoke between his fingers in the air dramatically as his lungs filled, walking a few steps further so as to not disturb him, but really, it was for his own comfort. 

Roland closed the tab on his phone - some terribly written article about the mayor’s passing - and looked up at the voice, giving Rashid a tight-lipped smile. “My apologies. I thought you were…someone else.” Not exactly true, but at least it wasn’t a Stray trying to start another fight.

“You know that makes very little sense, right?” Roland challenged, pointing a finger at the cigarette smoke. “Fresh air.” Often, he thought it didn’t make sense that he was so repulsed by smoking, especially when he was constantly surrounded by people who indulged - but he didn’t like to waste time thinking about himself and his own motives.

Normally, he would have enjoyed the silence, but it felt odd - rude, even, to be standing in the same space and not say anything. Plus, he was honest-to-god interested to know what the good professor had to say about the whole matter. He was a professor, after all, there had to be some logic to his words, whatever it was he had to say. “So tell me, Professor Zaidi; who do you think did it?” Roland asked, smile still playing on his lips as if he was just joking around, “my guess is it was Miss Scarlet, with a knife, in the dining room.”

Had this happened on a different night with a different person, he might have considered it fate. Meet-cute, was what people liked to call it these days. But this was definitely not one of those, as he found himself having to fight over the cab (probably one of the last ones of the night, too, as it was already late). His already sour mood, only worsened by the drinks he’d chugged at the bar, hit its very lowest as he slowly realized who was standing beside him.

There really was no point in trying to be nice or professional anymore - what was the point, when it was more than likely that he was the next person on the Augury’s hit list? There was little doubt in his mind that Eric’s murder was their doing. And if he was going to go soon, he was determined not to waste his energy on playing nice with Adriana Weiss.

“Please let me keep my sanity, just this once, and go find another cab.”

time: 2:00 am location: triton’s  status: closed for @ofchvrming

Perhaps Carter was wrong about Roland all along. He noticed how, like him, he remained after hours with a hazy gaze akin to his. Plus the CEO didn’t seem the type to volunteer his car’s death just so he no longer looked suspicious, did he? Only now did he feel that bitter after-taste in the back of his throat; a nagging semblance of guilt.

With a hint of hesitation, he slid into the booth opposite Roland. Albeit his gaze trained on the last car being towed away, before directing his attention towards the other. “I’m not here to interrogate you again, though it’d be way easier if that was the case.” Although it wasn’t a direct apology, a tight half-smile stood in place of one. 

Idly, Carter slid a salt shaker off to the side of the table – anything to avert his gaze elsewhere. He was never the best at acknowledging other’s pain, especially when it was somebody he once distrusted. But he was here, trying at least. “I’m guessing that must’ve been one hell of a car, huh? I swear it’s always like that: all the good people go first.” ( Well, cars, in this case ). Indignation laced around every word, making it clear as day that, no, Carter didn’t just lose a car either. It meant much more than that, though he wished that wasn’t the case.

There were already four empty glasses in front of him (he didn’t have to go into work anyway, not when his car was burnt to crisps and he didn’t know if he’d be alive long enough to see tomorrow) though he was sure he’d had more than that tonight and the waitress had just taken away some of the glasses. He was so focused on how pale and sad his own fingers looked that he barely noticed Carter sitting across from him, blinking in slow realization that he had company.

“Yes, well, being interrogated would be far better than whatever...this is.” Roland muttered, gesturing vaguely between them, finally lifting his head to take a better look at the sheriff. Shit. He couldn’t even find the energy to tell the other man to go away, not when he looked like that. Because as heartless as people believed him to be, he knew what distress looked like in a person.

He flagged down the waitress again and ordered them a couple drinks before deciding to respond. “I bought her right after I made my first ever deal, after my dad died and I took over. My car, I mean.” It was probably childish to be so sentimental towards an object, a car that he could replace easily, but it’d meant a lot to him back then. Something that let him be a little giddy for once. Betty, a reminder of a childhood he didn’t quite get to revel in. “Guess the universe is trying to tell me that it’s time to get a new car. I have been eyeing that new Jag.”

time ;; 12:40 a.m. location ;; triton’s  carpark status ;; open

She’d only gone to the party to make a deal. One of her favorite customers ( and by favorite, she meant one who always paid up front & in cash and never tried to fuck her ), had insisted on it. She’d only stayed because she liked watching people make drunken fools of themselves at karaoke and the drinks were damn good. And perhaps because she liked to show off, and it’d been a while since she’d had a reason to. And of course it was all ruined rather quickly when the smoke had cleared and the panic had given way to confusion followed by more panic.

 “Jesus,” Letty breathed, almost not believing her eyes. “This is some fucked up shit.” She had wanted to disappear into the night, but she knew that was probably not the best idea, especially considering she hadn’t yet been cleared like so many others there that night. No, leaving would make her look guilty of something. Of what, she wasn’t entirely sure, but she wasn’t going to risk it. She was just thankful all she had on her that was slightly incriminating was a handful of twenties in her bag, but that could be passed off as stupidity rather than something illegal. 

Maybe she should have felt spikes of terror at arson and the warning. Maybe she should have tried to mimic more what others were doing, found a group to worm her way into as an attempt to make herself just another pretty girl in a crowd, but she couldn’t bring herself to. All she could be was thankful  that she wasn’t being dragged into the mess once more.  “Guess it’s a good thing I took a cab.”

It was no longer possible for one Roland Park to stay calm, because he couldn’t find it in himself to be calm about anything that happened on this dreadful night, in this fucked up city they had to call home. Blue and red lights flashed behind him as he stood near the carpark, the site of the fire now starting to be closed off by the fire department and the police - none of which Roland could even trust anymore, given they were already supposed to be protecting them and making sure this didn’t happen in advance, not doing damage control. 

His head snapped to his right when he heard someone speak, unsure if he was supposed to agree with her or run away from her. Who could he trust anymore? Especially when it came to the strays - wasn’t it much more likely that it was one of them, trying to scare the Woodlanders now with Eric out of their way and the city beginning to crumble under the pressure? 

Shoving his shaking hands into his pocket to hide them away, he let out a shuddering breath before managing a laugh, though it was far from amusement. He didn’t care if it was his paranoia speaking, that he barely had any reason to suspect the young woman, but right now, it was more important for him to find out who was behind this than worrying about a stray’s feelings. “ - A good thing,” he managed, “or a rather suspicious decision, depending on how you want to look at it.” 

Carter fell silent at, what appeared to be, an authentic answer of Roland’s. See, this is what perplexed him about Neverland’s CEO: he was a little too good to be true, always articulating the right things at the right time. But for now, he accepted his reply, albeit with narrowed eyes. “I mean, I can’t argue against that; your rivalry’s so publicized that it may as well be gossip feed for the city.” 

He scoffed what was close to a laugh, a shrug following after. “Alright, you have a point.” He pursed his lips as Roland admitted that the meeting wasn’t a good idea, though. As much as he didn’t want to reassure the smarmy (well, he thought so, anyway) man, Carter mused: “Nah, you’ve had worse ideas than this.” Lovely, how comforting. “It was useful for sussing everyone out at least. Otherwise everyone would just be a name without a face attached.” 

In a matter of seconds, his features soured, contorted in distaste, as Roland dismissed The Strays. “Honestly, some of us Woodlanders misbehaved too. Including myself,” he countered hotly. 

The corner of his mouth quirked upwards slightly as he shrugged a shoulder. “Ha, no. As you’d imagine, I rarely stay out of anything. But it’ll be undoubtedly harder if things are locked away from Logan and I, as they are.” His head cocked slightly as he inquired, “How about you? I suppose you’ll be keeping your head down about all this?”

He almost missed waking up in the morning and hearing about another ridiculous decision Eric had made, or another nonsense gossip about their public feud - not that any of those reporters ever got close to the truth, and he supposed that was because as much as he and Eric chose to hate each other, they had an understanding that two of them would go down together if people ever found out about the real men behind the masks. “It was just business. I never held a personal grudge against the mayor.” Roland emphasized, deciding to leave it there in fear of seeing a little too defensive. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, though the pleasantry expectedly didn’t last long as the strays were brought up. Oh, how noble the Sheriff was, he wanted to scoff. He was young, he was foolish, if he thought that protecting the strays would somehow help him. They were still strays, and they would take them all down if they had the chance - but that wasn’t something Roland needed to tell Carter now. He’d find out for himself soon enough. “…you certainly didn’t help, no. But then again, I wouldn’t have expected anything else from you, Sheriff, what with your….reputation.” 

How he loved toeing his line with Carter. He wasn’t happy with how tonight turned out - couldn’t hurt to push Wolff a little bit. 

“I’m sure Logan can’t be too happy about that. But don’t worry - I’ll keep my lips sealed tight.” Empty promises. “And naturally, I don’t have the resources you do. Think it might be best to leave it to the police, who are…supposed to be investigating the case.” As if he wasn’t already prepared to hire someone to trail people he suspected - “But I do hope they’ll leave me out of this mess. I’ve got no reason to want to harm the mayor. As do you, I’m sure.” 

          “Speak for yourself,” Lara smirked, placing hand candidly on his sleeve. Waiting for the tide to come in had never been her forte, she swam out to meet the cataclysmic waves head on, never settling for still waters. Boredom was useless, for boring people, she could never be accused of such a bland thing, a canvas of beige splashed with her own shade of scarlet. “If you would be sitting around doing nothing, then you need better friends.”

Roland was not foolish man, she knew that. Maybe even respected it. But all men had a role to play in her elaborate game, be them pawns or obstacles. She imagines pristine marble checks, moulded glass pieces, each one as elegant and refined as her own immaculate appearance. Lifting her glass of wine, Lara examined the contents with scrutiny, “Is this one of your choices? There are nicer reds.”

Roland laughed, eyes sparkling in interest as she spoke. “No, trust me. I’d be doing something else even if I hadn’t called this meeting. Don’t think I can get a good night’s sleep until we figure out what really happened to Eric.” Which was, much to his own surprise, actually true - Eric’s lifeless face was still very much ingrained into his mind, and what with the so-called Augury apparently, potentially, being involved…

He adjusted his glasses and crossed his arms in front of his chest, raising a questioning eyebrow at Lara. “It is,” he said, another am used laugh escaping him, “but I didn’t want to waste my money on people who probably can’t tell the difference between Merlot and Zinfandel.” 

Stepping closer, Roland glanced around quickly, once, twice, before lowering his voice and continuing. “Lara, what have you heard about these….anarchists? You must’ve heard something.” After all, she did have her ears to the ground - at least more than he did. 

In truth, when she steps out onto the back exit of town hall, she’s not sure what’s she’s doing here — not sure if she should leave yet, stay more to speak to the others that still remain, to gauge at least something from this beyond what it was. Maybe a part of her doesn’t want to go home yet, her insides moving too much to simply sit down in her apartment. Leading her here due some wandering nature. 

What she doesn’t expect is Roland, known only in name, as the man who called them all here, as a name learned through what’s printed on ink only. Seeing in here brings pause, as does his words, her eyebrows knitting together with someone she’d likely have never be in the same vicinity of if it weren’t for this place.

“I’m sorry — you can’t try to do something like this without wanting the best at first,” her voice is quiet at first before she begins to sound more like herself, when there’s life in her voice, even if muted here due to the circumstances, due to a feeling of unbelonging and nonbeing that lingers in the air around her, not wanting to belong. There’s still meaning in her words, however, because she can’t help a nature of feeling too much, wanting to most times, but here it just leaves her with heavy shoulders even while watching the man that intentionally or not a chain reaction leading to a mob mentality. No one left here without feeling at least some pressing guilt. “Roland Park?” A question of confirmation, mostly to be polite, she couldn’t not know him by now.

There’s something about Emme’s words that leaves him feeling even more defeated than he already does, but he understands she means no harm. There’s always been a gentleness to her that he inexplicably can’t seem to ignore, and if he’s being completely honest, he welcomes it on a night like this, almost feeling guilty that he’d so nonchalantly referred to her to his secretary without thinking.  

“No need to apologize, Miss. Leung.” He says, greeting her with ease and addressing her name without missing a beat. It’s a part of his job - keeping up pretenses,  He offers her a smile and forces himself to be a little more polite. A semblance of empathy. “...Roland Park. That would be me.”

Tilting his head, he takes in her form, what she’s wearing, the way she’s standing - and no matter how many times he looks at her, he finds that he can’t label as her a potential suspect, nevermind a murderer. Maybe that’s why he feels just a little more relaxed around her, hoping that she’s not out here to hurt him.

“It’s getting late. The meeting took a little bit longer than I’d anticipated but...I’m sure you understand why. If there’s anything else you need to say…” Roland breathes in, feeling the cold air traveling down his throat, “...you should probably tell me now, before I go.”

The last Virginia Slim dangled between Adriana’s lips as she struggled to find her lighter in the midst of all the clutter in her bag. The hallway leading towards the back entrance was, thankfully, vacant. The very last thing she needed was someone witnessing her in this haggard state after such a catastrophic meeting. Fortunately, she managed to uncover the lighter right as she reached the door, pushing it open with the tip of her heel. Her first gulp of nighttime air was quickly followed by a steady inhale of smoke, and upon hearing Roland’s voice she immediately knew this one cigarette was not going to get her through the rest of the night.

Normally, she would have been embarrassed to be caught indulging in her vice, but Adriana was far too exhausted to care about Roland’s opinion of her at the moment. “I don’t recall ever asking for your help,” she responded, her voice leveled, masking any annoyance she felt at that moment. Adriana refused to even glance in his direction, thus unaware that he was doing the same. There was no reason to give him any satisfaction in knowing that he’d managed to push her buttons during the meeting. “But why would I bother your secretary when I know you’d just ignore any valid complaints made?”

The sharp scent of cigarettes hit him, and Roland scrunched up his nose in irritation. Despite both his father and mother being serial smokers, he’d never quite gotten used to the smell. The words that follows arguably were even more unpleasant than the smoke, and a part of him wondered if he should just ignore her and let her be for once. He quickly decided that wasn’t an option.

“You wound me, Adriana. I try my best not to ignore valid complaints - just yours.” His words held some truth to them despite his tone. It was probably petty, this grudge he held against the ( late ) mayor’s advisor, but it was her face he always remembered turning him away, refusing to even listen to his proposals before they could even get to Eric. It was infuriating, sure, but behind that he saw someone who still didn’t quite understand how things worked around here in Fable City. Pity. 

“...It must seem easy to you, sitting behind those desks, doing Eric’s busy work for him. I don’t know how you managed to stick around for this long,” he scoffed, lips tugging into a slow smile, “you might not need my help now, but you will. These...strays; the more you give, the more they’ll want. And when they finally figure out that you’re not the person who can solve their problems, they’ll eat you alive. But I guess that’s for you to find out.” 

the silence is comfortable, nothing but the soft purr of the car’s engine between them. soren knows that roland’s biting down on his tongue - that he’s been biting down on his tongue ever since they first ran into each other in that bar. 

he thinks he sees it sometimes - a flash in the eyes, the slight turn of the lips - roland’s thinking it, he’s wondering what happened - what happened to you, you once-bright boy, so full of potential and other words that men in suits used to toss around when they saw him, just shy of thirteen - what heppened to you for you to become this - this disgrace? 

the better question, he thinks, is where do i begin but he doesn’t particularly want to and roland doesn’t give him an invitation to that he has to find a polite way to decline. 

(he’s curious though, undoubtedly, and soren commends the other man’s ability to keep the questions at bay, at least for now)

the other man’s voice breaks the silence, and soren’s lips break into a wide smile at them, something so simple and so human about it, about him; the picture of roland as a regular boy squabbling over comics still sheathed and trading for a dream collection comforts soren. 

“really? huh - well then, betty is beautiful.” he can’t keep the smile out of his voice, fingers lightly tapping the window ledge in appreciation, a light beat that echoes in the enclosed car. “do you still collect them? the comics?” 

roland’s laugh takes soren by surpirse, the sound pleasant and unexpected - though his following words are quick to turn soren’s smile into a stubborn pout, having to stop himself from crossing his arms too. 

“no - i just - i was just wondering. you know. the strays - we know what some woodlanders think of us, and i - i just… wanted to check.” his words come out heavier than intended, but he can’t take them back now, biting his lower lip instead. stupid soren, stupid - you already know what he thinks of you - 

“the cornerstore ice cream shop?” a slow smile, eyes starting to crinkle up at the corners. “you mean the reason for my undoing?” soren lets out a laugh, the busy city beginning to fade behind them as they entered the outskirts. “i actually live just across the street from it - i’m surprised i didn’t see you there then.” 

It’s not that wants Soren’s approval or that he’s been searching for it, but Roland feels his cheeks turning a little hot at his words, anyway. The car is beautiful - that’s why he bought it, after all, but it’s nice to have someone else actually say it without wanting something back from him. This kind of warmth is rare, in his world, and he’s almost close to getting too used to it ever since he met Soren (again) at that bar. 

“...No, my dad found them after I left for college and threw them all out. Didn’t think I’d want them anymore or something. Two whole boxes.” The corner of his lips quirks as he speaks, but he remembers being glad that he wasn’t there when it happened, not because he’s upset about losing the comic books, but because he wouldn’t have wanted to see the disappointment on his father’s face. Still strange - the words are unspoken but he thinks Soren would understand if he did say them out loud. 

The younger man vaguely reminds him of his childhood, when things were simpler and happier and easier. (It could be why he feels so overprotective of the younger man - because he knows what’s out there in the world and he doesn’t want Soren to see it, not if he can help it). He reminds him of the days he spent with Eric, leaning against each other as they talk about last night’s episode of The X-Files. The Eric in his memories is warm and full of life -- it makes his throat dry just thinking about it, so he focuses on the conversation at hand.

“I - no, I suppose you’re right. Things have been a bit tense between the Woodlanders and the...Strays. And I know that I’m not exactly popular with the locals, but I like to think that people are still all civilized enough not to do anything irrational. I’d hope, anyway.” It’s not exactly true, how he’s choosing to describe the strays - if he could have it his way, he’d want to spend the rest of his life not having to deal with their constant complaints and dirty streets and the fact that they’re all in the way of him being able to expand Neverland.

But he doesn’t want to ruin the mood, so he smiles back at the mention of ice cream.

Chuckling, Femi turned back to look at the street. He brought the cigarette up to his lips as he watched a car rush by, Femi willing to bet they were speeding through. That always seemed to be Fable City, everyone running around nonstop without a care in the world to stop and take a breath. No wonder things began to slip through the cracks.

Flicking ash off the end of his cigarette, he blew out the smoke opposite of Roland. The other had a point, what happened with Mr. Rousseau would be talk for awhile, but that’s not what Femi wanted to focus on. His interests were more aligned with what unraveled because of the murder. “And something new, I shall have. If there’s one thing you can count on, it’s me having the biggest scoop before everyone else. You’d be surprised what you can find when you poke around and dig in the right places. Everyone’s got skeletons.” Cue Femi’s flash of his brilliant charming smile, the one that always felt sweet yet hide something dangerous as well. A smile to match Roland’s.

The offer suddenly put on the table caught Femi’s attention, cigarette put out with a quick dab against the concrete step. Sure, Femi was a reporter. He did his own investigation for his articles, spent hours researching because even if sometimes he typed up gossip news, most of his front page articles were nothing but cold hard scary truths hidden by the people of Fable City. But it wasn’t the best kept secret that Femi did business under the table. Pay him enough money or make a great offer–Femi will get down to the bottom of someone.

“Valerie Drake. Miss deputy mayor. Saw her around a bit when I used to work at Town Hall. I most likely have a few things tucked away but haven’t really had the need to look into her. She doesn’t seem suspicious of anything really but if she’s the one you want me to take a look into, I can do that no problem. Just one small thing, darling.”

Femi tilted his head to the side, smiling at Roland once again. “Usually, it’s a cash offer and I take one little secret. Nothing major, just something that acts as….collateral, you know? Protects me,” Femi’s voice is soft, charming. An alluring purr almost as he rests an elbow on his knee, chin in his hand and a cheshire grin in place. “I’m willing to bet, sweetheart, that you wouldn’t be quite a fan of that, hm?”

Everyone’s got skeletons.

He almost wanted to laugh at that, at how ridiculously true it was, how he was sure everyone around him thought the same way about him. But this, right now, only tells him that Femi was the right person to come to - he was smart, he knew exactly what Roland is trying to say and Roland appreciated the fact he didn’t have to waste his time to explain every little detail. 

“I want to clarify that I’m not accusing her of anything -- yet. But she did seem awfully defensive at the meeting and I want to find out why.” He paused. “For everyone’s sake.”  

Femi’s offer wasn’t unexpected, of course - this was Fable City after all, and nothing was free here. What he hadn’t anticipated was for Femi to be so forward with his demand. But the ball was in Femi’s hands this time - Roland kept his head down in contemplation. In his mind, he was a man without many secrets - at least none that would ruin him completely. And the secrets that truly were dangerous were kept stuffed and hidden where no one could find them unless he allowed them to. The problem was finding the right answer to Femi’s question without completely compromising himself - a questioning that was slowly beginning to translate into a headache.  

It took him another few long moments to come to the right decision, and once he did, he took out his small planner, jotted down a long line of numbers and letters, signed the bottom of it, and tore it out of the book to hand the piece of paper to Femi. Charming bastard - Roland knew what he was doing with the pet names and adorations, but he was happy to play along for now.

“When I was younger, I used to wonder about how it was my father came here with nothing, and ended up with a golden palace. That’s what he used to call Neverland, you know. Right up until he died.”

( He rarely smoked, but he was starting to crave one now. )