Rosalie Elizabeth Marx

“No, I don’t guess it is.” He saw no reason to beat around the bush, pretend to be something he wasn’t. A stupid decision, maybe, but he was too damn tired to put up pretenses. At least she didn’t seem to know how his situation had changed with the Diamonds. “Things have been awfully quiet from your neck of the woods. I’d have expected a little more murder and mischief. Seems like Christmas is the perfect time for some crazy asshole dressed in all red to be breaking into people’s houses.” He glanced at her sideways, brow arched. Of course he suspected that tradition was long gone, but he didn’t press the point for now. “I can’t decide if this or drinking alone at home is a worse way to spend Christmas.”

@thequeenxfhearts

Christmas this year and Christmas last year felt like they were worlds apart from each other. Last year, he’d been in a good place, all things considered. Things with Tessa had been good. He’d been happy - working the odd hit for Wren and keeping that secret had been stressful, but beyond that, it had been a good time. But that was before - before breakups and babies and bullets, among other disasters the past year had handed him.

So was it really any wonder that Alex Cole, the king of terrible coping skills, had dropped off presents outside of his ex-girlfriend’s apartment and immediately gone searching for solace in the bottom of a bottle? Merry Christmas, shithead.

None of it was doing his mood any particular favors, so the appearance of Rosalie Marx (he still called her Hartwell in his head) was just the icing on the proverbial cake. He glanced at her as she - of course - approached him and sat down nearby, arching a brow at her, holding his beer bottle up in a mock toast. “I see you’re enjoying the holiday just as much as I am.”

Bars. Places where one came to drown their sorrows. Or maybe that was just her. Whenever she was at her lowest, she ended up in a dive bar where the floor was stickier than anything a toddler could ever come up with. But as she stepped inside this particular bar, she spotted a familiar face drinking at the bar. She sat, automatically ordering a whiskey as her gaze turned to Alexander Cole. “And here I thought I was the only Grinch this year.” She tipped her glass in his direction, draining the contents before motioning for another. “Let me guess, murder and mayhem isn’t all its cracked up to be when everyone is dressed like Santa?”

Rosalie had been holding it together. There hadn’t been tears. There hadn’t been any ugliness that tainted the morning as Shilo ripped into brightly coloured presents. But when she had Shilo bundled up in her new coat, her hand in her own as they headed over to Matt’s parents for Christmas dinner her gaze fell to the present at the doorstep. Shilo had tugged on her hand, unsure why Rosalie had stopped as she bent to touch the card reverently. It was only then that the tears came. The knowledge that this had been something Matt had done before his death slamming into her. Picking up the present, she couldn’t tear her gaze from the brightly coloured ribbon as Shilo babbled beside her. 

Amy had always been able to get along with Rosalie. She wasn’t just her brother’s wife to her but she had always been someone that Amy could turn too for advice, especially if it was something she didn’t want to discuss with her brother. 

She had no idea how her sister was feeling and she never would. The pain they where feeling right now was the same but different at the same time. She liked Rosalie, she never pushed Amy to talk about the things she didn’t want to even when her previous drug habit came to light. 

“Sorry. Everyone has been wanting to talk,”

“Believe me, I know.” Between random check ins and conversations with people who barely knew Matt, Rosalie felt like she had sat through unnecessary conversation she could endure. Pouring another glass, Rosalie rubbed her forehead where her headache had bloomed once more. “The one thing you don’t have to worry about? Me wanting to talk about it.”

Carl was perhaps one of the very few members of the Hearts that barely blinked at the news of Matthew’s death. It wasn’t that he was a cruel and heartless man, but the two had never been on the same page, and what had started as minor conflicts had long since simmered into bitterness distaste on the Texan’s end, and when he’d heard that the man was no longer with them? Well he wasn’t surprised - at least by that fact. The innocent way in which he’d went,…now that had been slightly odd, but the general end in which he faced? Not at all. He’d expected it sooner honestly. 

However the Texan couldn’t pretend he didn’t feel empathy for those who were heavily affected by the man’s death; one person standing out more than the rest on that front. Rosie had never had it easy. When she finally found happiness it seemed like it was stripped away from her relatively quickly, and the man knew she’d be hurting right now, and he had an idea of where to go to look for her. Gently pressing the door to Matt’s old office open, blue eyes quickly landing on the tear stained expression Rosalie held, as his lips were quick to press into a tight frown. Studying the photo the woman referenced, Carl felt his shoulders go up in an uncertain shrug as he offered half a smile. “It’s a photo of you…. ‘course he kept it.” Even if the pairs relationship was rocky at best… it didn’t mean that Carl didn’t think that Matt loved Rosie in the best way that he could. “…It’s that mug we made for him with those terrible pictures that he probably didn’t keep, y’know…” 

It felt like coming full circle. Carl standing in his own silent vigil while her world fell apart. The last time they had been here, Carl had helped her work through her anger but somehow she didn’t think he could help her figure out the cacophony of emotions that she was currently working through. There was grief, of course. Tinged with so much anger that she couldn’t figure out how she had ended up here. 

“It’s from before.” Rosalie answered Carl as she glanced back down at it once more. Stacking the photo away in the box to stop herself from trying to overthink it. She’d been in here when he was married to Nora. She’d seen how the photos of the two of them had vanished suddenly, replaced by memories of their life together. It had stung. Much like everything Matt had done back then, but this stupid photo had been tucked away at the back of his desk. Untouched by Nora’s obliteration of Rosalie from her new husband’s life. At the mention of the mug, Rosalie snatched it up from the box and set it on the desk for Carl to see. “You underestimate just how much of a hoarder Matt was.”

Hallie felt a little bit like she had no right to be here. It was a foreign place to her. She’d known the way things were meant to work, how the Hearts were so separate from Matt’s work. But these days, lines seemed to be blurring all over the place. Very little even seemed real anymore. The Kings knew she worked for a gang, Matt was dead, Wren Diamond in jail.

What did seem certain was that Rosalie needed her right now, as her text had suggested - a request for help from a woman who normally never asked for anything, someone to help her sort through Matt’s things. So she went, pausing in the doorway with a box in hand to help her pack, chest tight when she noticed Rosalie’s tear-stained cheeks. 

Setting the empty box aside, she came around the desk, a hand light on Rosie’s shoulder. “It’s a nice picture,” she offered. It was a lot to reconcile. Some part of her had never really forgiven Matt for the mistakes he’d made, how he’d hurt Rosalie - but he had made her friend happy too. She paused a moment, just stroking back a few loose strands of hair, taking a deep breath. “Where do you want me to start?”

Scrubbing a hand across her cheeks, Rosalie tried to compose herself to face Hallie. The last thing she needed was to be a blubbering mess right now. Shoving the photo back in the open box in front of her, Rosalie stood glancing around the office to try and figure out where Hallie could start. Motioning towards his bookshelf, she cleared her throat. 

“Most of that can just go into storage. I think Matt’s mum wants to go through some of it, see what she can salvage and what she can donate.”

She was seated behind Matt’s desk in Hartwell Industries, sifting through the knick knacks and horde of paper clips in his desk when she came upon a photo she had forgot even existed. It was this goofy photo of the two of them, baseball caps on and a beer in each hand. They looked happy. Happier than she ever remembered being. A fresh wave of tears sprung to her eyes even as the door swung open, signalling another helper for this deluge of never ending tasks. “I didn’t even realise he had kept this.”

Amy sat alone at the bar, a bottle of opened vodka sat in front of her. She had barely slept since the news of her brother’s death had broken. She felt sick, her heart broken. “If you’re here to talk then please move along, I have nothing to say. ”

Maybe it was just that misery loved company. Or maybe it was Rosalie’s way of checking in with the girl she had always considered her sister. Nodding at the bartender, she motioned for him to bring her another glass. “Never said I wanted to talk, Ames. I came here to drink and if that just so happens to be next to you... then so be it.” As the glass was shoved in front of her, she snagged up the bottle, tipping a generous amount into the glass before she raised it to her lips. “Here’s to drowning whatever feeling I have left.”

Rosalie had thought she had reached her lowest point when she buried Shaun. She was just a dumb kid. Naive and full of the dream of a future. She had stood at a door and had her best friend deliver the fatal blow. She had crumbled. She wasn't the strong woman she had thought she was. She was just fragile. Incapable of moving on. Matt was the only thing that had kept her going. He had been there, mourning their best friend and holding her hand when things got tough.