vertigo before slaughter

     such a stupid, boring thing to say, but he’s so confident in the way he’s talking, chest puffed and cocky fucking smile: he can’t find another topic for a decent conversation, and the lingering obsession of making people like him ( or hate him, in some situations ) make him not being able to just stay quiet.

      ❝ — i mean -- i think one guy in my house is half-vampire. he’s always pale and moody. but no one wants to start up that conversation. ❞

     BUT, some people did take her seriously: some of her old guards, for example, remember her as the fragile girl she was, and are proud to see her blossoming into someone much more confident, sure of herself, even if it was through something someone.  but something that never changed was her smarts: her ability to make deals, to scheme plans, maybe it ran in the family, but it did give her the advantage of getting what she wanted, when she wanted.

     and right now, she wanted someone something that rested inside of arkham’s walls. 

      ❝ — it’s quite simple, edward. ❞  she’s alone - besides from the two guards behind her, she sits quietly at the table, but even without the doll, she makes herself be heard.   ❝ it’s not exactly rocket science: i mean, i’m not asking you to rescue a whole group of maniacs - just scarface. ❞

     no, jervis is nothing without a hat nowadays: truth be told, he’s not much of anything with it either.  but the constant battle between the imaginary and reality brings the poor man to a constant state of confusion, of shame and pride, of empowerment and embarrassment.   the glimpse of his old self is out of reach, no matter how hard he tries to grab it, still, it never leaves his mind.

     ❝ — i do. a lot. i just -- sometimes i wish i woke up in the past. woke up in my bed, brushed my teeth and went to work as normal. ❞

     however this is not the case: maybe, maybe he let himself go for a bit, relax and have a few more drinks than he should.  he slurs his words a bit, not seeing any of his guard or minions as he addresses his words to them, but looking at the woman before him.

    ❝ — call me my driver, will you ?? shit -- i can’t work like this. ❞

    a nice glass of whiskey is resting in his desk: his coat is off, his mask is off, feet on his desk, music playing, curtains opened wide so he has a view of the big city.   his shift in the crime community is over by now, he’s not black mask right now but he is roman, his plan was to relax in his office for a bit more before heading home to his bed and get some beauty sleep.

      plans that are now being delayed.

     ❝ — if this is a joke, let me tell ya, it’s not a very good one. ❞

     he sees the gold stars in his lap, all the stickers, cute and pretty, most of them from noodle and he calculates it as a peace offering -- right, he was being a bitch this morning, a mix of a hangover, not knowing where his pills are and losing his cigarettes.

     he almost loses his balance - even when sitting - when she opens the door. he quickly and clumsily gets up, cleans his throat and in a quite brave act, raises his head to look at her.

      ❝ — i’m sorry i lashed out on you, love. ❞   he knows when he’s wrong: even in the middle of his ego, he’s more down to earth than people think.

     ❝ — get out. this is my spot. ❞  he doesn’t look at the man, he looks at the shoes: this isn’t someone who’s supposed to be in that part of gotham.  in any other day, he would offer help, in his shy and charming way, but that night was not a good night, he’s a bit delusional and he had a lunatic feeling anything could happen.  ❝ get out. come on, move along. ❞

     was he hurt badly ?? no - yes, the speed the bludger hit him was alarming, and that sure was a straight blow to the gut, but it’s not as bad as he’s trying to make it be.

     ❝ — i don’t think i’m gonna make it. ❞   he mumbles in a fake soft voice, stretching his hand to find Tate, even though he was clearly next to him.   ❝ i got to be brave: i can do this. ❞