just go home.

maybe others would find the sight of dismembered limbs and carved bodies off-putting to their appetite, but roman drake had long ago become immune to such things. shoving another pork dumpling into his mouth, he narrowed his eyes at the photos from the latest crime scene. there was a serial killer in new york city--and roman was certain that he or she ( or maybe even they ) were targeting artists. he had fallen onto the trail while looking into delilah’s death but now seemed unable to pull himself away from the growing body count. glancing up, roman caught sight of the blonde a few tables away looking again in his direction. enough was enough.

he smirked into his mug. “so ya gonna come over here and ask what you want to ask, or are you just gonna keep stealing glances when you think i’m not looking?”

It was as if the rest of the crowd had faded, sounds muted as Elliot focused on this man and his clear, raw grief. From an outsider’s point of view, they must have looked odd, Roman’s face drawn, his lips pressed tight and Elliot finding himself at a loss for words, silent in front of him. He felt woefully inadequate to deal with such a situation, for he did not know what it was like to lose someone to death. His parents were healthy, his brothers at the peak of their lives. He attended the funeral of one elderly aunt or uncle, but it was never someone he was incredibly close to. He refused to think of Rafe - though the chances he had passed were incredibly slim being a muse, he was lost to Elliot either way. 

“People, even after years of knowing them, can still take you by surprise.” His experiences - a one year, one and a half if they were being generous, on-and-off relationship juxtaposed to a real, devoted, honest-to-gods marriage - it couldn’t possibly compare. But Elliot had nothing else to offer. “I’ve met her, in passing. I sponsored a few of her shows in fact, she was such a great talent. Also incredible to work with.” These were shallow comforts, Elliot couldn’t help but feel, but he continued on anyway. “I recall the time when she dropped off the face of the art scene for a few months - everyone truly wondered where she’d gone. But her first show upon coming back, it was utterly amazing. I have one of those paintings till this day.” Elliot trails of uncertainly. 

roman digested the other man’s words--small, tidy well-meaning bits of insight from someone who apparently had nothing concrete to offer on the matter. the quickness of the sentiments felt wrong; a generic response, too well prepared. he knew it was likely just the detective in him reading between the lines, seeing enemies where none existed. roman allowed for a heavy silence to fill the air, the thump in his chest the only indication that time was continuing to pass. eventually he nodded, a slight huff escaping through his nose. “yeah, that’s about the answer i’ve been getting.” 

while he was willing to believe that those he’d talked to tonight may not have known his wife personally ( what was a single painter, in the scheme of things ), roman knew that there were people in this room who knew about the strange world she belonged to. the world of high-stakes art, of passion and betrayal. roman crossed his arms. “if you were to look through a list of all the artists who’s work hangs in your home or that you’ve sponsored, would you be surprised to know how many of them are dead or missing?” because roman was willing to bet the number was pretty damn high. it’s what had brought him to new york, out of every of city where this was happening. 

there was something about roman drake’s company that she found herself returning to. unintrusive, always dancing around the surface of more serious topics of conversation. for a little while she was just talking about art, a topic that she was fairly certain he had a better grasp on than she. but she couldn’t simply say that and risk him suddenly deciding there was something more pressing. she didn’t have the answer to every question he asked, but she tried her best to remember who she’d seen over the years.

“jackson, yes.” how else would all those splatters become beautiful? she only saw inspiration in the stories that were drawn from her past, the music just shy of her home. she remembered looking at his work hung in the gallery, the confusion furrowing in her brow as others fawned. he had a muse, but it wasn’t her. “frieda, i—” her mouth hung open, watching as he tapped the dash. the rhythm filling the silence in her head where an answer should have been supplied. “i don’t know. i could find out.” because for every person she didn’t know, someone in new york was old enough to remember. it was all about finding the courage to ask. she could work on that for the sake of trivia. that was growth. “andy warhol was a yes.” she took a sip of her shake if only to fill the silence. “i was wrong about him, sorry.”

he nodded thoughtfully, quietly digesting the information. roman liked to think he was getting better at identifying some trademark characteristics that noted an artist was bonded--but in reality, he was just throwing darts at a board. roman didn’t get art, he’d never gotten it. maybe it had been stupid of him then, to marry a painter. “a mystery for another day.” roman offered softly, letting her off whatever hook she was about to put herself on. the streetlights outside flooded the car with enough light that he could read ophelia’s lips, which was great, ‘cause there was no way in hell he’d ever be able to make out her whisper of a voice. 

so he was right about warhol? he felt better about that. that one, he’d been so sure of. roman shifted slightly in his seat, pausing, obviously wanting to say something--or rather, ask. he tried not to pry too much into her life, he knew there was bound to be stuff she didn’t want to share and stuff he wouldn’t understand even if she did. still. it was eating at him. “i have--,” he paused, grunted, “can i ask a question?” roman found himself leaning forward, inadvertently, not wanting to miss her answer; if she choose to give him one. “do you think it’s like a drug? to be bonded?” there he was again. looking for excuses. ways to forgive delilah for cheating on him, on bringing death to their door.

for a text my muse would send about yours to a third party.

👊 for what my muse would say upon hearing yours has been arrested.

    he had to check twice, certain that it was a mistake–even from the short interaction they’d had, roman didn’t peg eli as a troublemaker. when he was certain that it was in fact the same rothschild he’d met earlier, his first thought was to go to the station and see what he could do; as stupid as that was. eli was rich, he’d post bail and be out in a few hours. there wasn’t anything roman could, or should, do. 

      eventually he realized he was chewing his nails again, an exasperated sigh leaving his lips as he threw down some change and got up to leave. if eli was in jail, it had to be a good reason–and roman wanted to know what that was.❝ fucking rich people.❞  he murmured, preparing to get himself tangled in whatever web eli had fallen into. 

he fiddled with the dials on the radio, finding the usual station that they allowed to fill the space between them. the windows were down and cool air found its way into the car as they sat in the near-empty parking lot, their usual order of fries and shakes in their laps. as he got more and more involved in the art scene, there were certain faces roman found himself repeatedly running into. ophelia james was one of them--probably the only one who’d been kind enough to put up with his questions, his probing, his confusion. she’d helped him put together a few of the pieces he’d been struggling with, though roman liked to think he’d figured out most of it on his own. muses. immortality? it was still a hard pill to swallow, and in the spaces of silence that stretched out between the two of them, this was usually what he thought of. 

all she could do was hold his gaze as she chewed and swallowed, drawing the action out before ending in a cheshire-cat grin. z didn’t often show teeth, not that her’s weren’t perfect, but roman just brought it out of her every time they met. 

she leaned in, catching his cologne as she did so(probably body wash, cologne seemed like a lot of effort for him). “oh my, roman. i should remind you, i demand a fancy dinner before you whip out anything in my presence. what kind of girl do you think i am?” her tone was sickly sweet, and it was like a private little joke between them. he had a good idea of what kind of girl she was. “but don’t worry, i’m not working tonight. though, with this display, you should still probably be concerned.”

watching her lean into his space, roman felt the distinct thrum of a headache coming on. he let out a breath of air, unamused at the comment though not really expecting anything different from her. eventually he dropped his shoulders, releasing some of the budding tension and reaching into his pocket for the bottle of aspirin. “not here tonight for the art anyway,” he explained, giving nothing more than that.

roman really didn’t give a shit about the art--but a paycheck was a paycheck, and some days he couldn’t afford to pick and choose his work. besides, as much as it felt like a waste of time, roman was beginning to understand just how connected these things were: forgery and thievery were just the lower rungs on the ladder that lead to the real prize, kidnapping, torture, murder. he’d have to go as far as the rabbit hole would take him if he ever wanted to know what had really happened to delilah. popping a handful of asprin into his mouth and closing the bottle, roman waved at a painting on the wall. “why? doesn’t seem like anything special to me.” not that he would really know.

Elliot tried to place the man’s face, wondering if he truly knew him or he saw echoes of people he knew in his tired eyes. He did not look like he belonged here, not because of anything superficial, like his dress or his manner - but rather, he struck Elliot as the type of person who did not put on airs, who did not cater to the wealthy train of thought, which is more, more now, no questions asked. “I’m not averse to the night getting cut short, if that’s what you mean.” His smile was slightly strained, a rare show of his true feelings, before his mask slipped back on. 

“Delilah Drake, is that right?” His eyes flared to life briefly, taking another look at the man. “Yes, I do love her work. I have a few displayed in my own home, in fact.” He turned fully towards him, tilting his head, his gaze thoughtful. “She was quite a talent, a rare gift. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Elliot said softly, knowing the inadequacy of his words. 

roman kept his eyes on elliot’s face, reading the other man’s lips in determination not to miss a word of the conversation. it might’ve been off-putting, but if it was, elliot didn’t show it. he nodded awkwardly at the offered condolences. “she left a lot of people behind.” roman was all too aware of the bitter taste the words left in his mouth, silently berating himself for having said such a thing--for trying to distance her, even in death. roman had been learning a lot about his wife in the years since her passing; more and more he found himself wondering if he’d even known her at all. he turned away from elliot for a brief moment, shoving his hands in his pockets to hide the fact that they’d begun to shake. roman licked his lips, turning back to the other man. “see, more and more as the years pass, i realize i didn’t really know my wife. and i’ve been trying to.. put her together. by talking to people who did know her.”