Nebraska - 'Til the World Ends

[lucien]

“FUCK YOU, MAN.”

Just the three little words that every guy wanted to hear on his night off, right? And, coming from a junked out kid in pants that were just about to fall down to his ankles, everything was ten times worse.

Ah, he sure did love helping out a neighbor- a Mrs. Deborah McLin, whose son he was currently frog marching away from a particularly graffitied alleyway- in need. All he had to frikken say was that he’d better get a week’s worth of thank-you muffins out of this one.

Little Bobby McLin, one of Faraway, Nebraska’s many cokeheads, was the spitting image of an everyday drug abuser. He had the red rimmed eyes, the beaded pupils, heavy breathing and stale smelling body. And if that stain on the back of his shorts was anything but dirt, he was gonna get a size 7 and a half shoe up his craggy ass.

“Just shut the hell up and keep walking, Bobby,” Came a very irritated growl. It took all of his self control, but he managed not to beat the shit out of the scarecrow of a kid. “Your mother is very upset that you haven’t gone to rehab like you promised, Bobby. And when Mama McLin is upset, she likes to blast Barry Manilow. Did you know that, Bobby? And since I live right below her, all I can hear is fucking. Barry. Manilow. So just shut the hell up before I take you into that building there and shove your head into the john ‘til you work out that damn crank.”

And the Lieutenant thought that he needed to go to those ‘empathy seminars.’ Ha. He knew exactly how to deal with an unruly kid; no problem. Call him unsurprised when little Bobby suddenly went limp against him and walked quite calmly toward the squad car waiting at the end of the street.

Oh, thank you Jesus. Deposit one McLin, save himself from listening to ‘Bandstand Boogie’ one more freaking time, and maybe have a semi-relaxing night without some kind of earth shattering crisis. Giving the kid a shove toward the uniform glaring at him from the curb- that’ll teach Nick from thinking he could beat him at Hold ‘Em when a favor’s at stake- he smiled wolfishly and waved as the car sped off.

So…great. Now the hell what? He was in boozer/hooker/drug dealer central, thanks to the young addict, and his car was parked five blocks over. Patting the side pocket of his jeans, he was slightly reassured by the familiar weight of his off duty piece, hidden by a worn black tshirt and a leather jacket.

Sliding a hand through his shaggy hair, he turned around to stroll calmly down the sidewalk. Night off or no, when a guy gets to stare at dead people for a living, there just wasn’t any such thing as a ‘vacation.’ So, when he chanced to pass the familiar walls of the Poison Apple- definitely not doing anything for his ever present headache- and locked eyes on a very pretty derriere dressed in next to nothing, it was just so natural for him to change course and head on inside.

It wasn’t like Griffin Paoletti ever really let his mind stop whirling. He was too damn scared that if it did that, it’d never start up again.

Plopping down onto the nearest booth facing the door, the detective glared at the bartender until the man snapped to and gave him his usual bottle. His mouth practically watered for a taste of the strong liquor, and it was a sigh of ecstasy that escaped his lips when he took a chug. Ah, there it was; that beautiful buzz that he'd been missing all night. Finally feeling himself relax, he glanced around the room and let the soft lull of the voices around him soothe the aches and pains currently attacking his brain.

Maybe the night wouldn’t be too bad, after all. Ah, the loving embrace of booze.

TAG - OPEN
WORDS - enough
NOTES – Join. Joooooin…>D
TUNES - devil in a midnight mass , billy talent.
CREDIT - template by MUNZTAR * of caution 2.0

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[holliday]

Snapping her cell shut, Rory practically spewed a paragraph long string of expletives in one breath with the ease of a woman who would probably never be accused of being a lady. She slapped her palm down hard against the steering wheel of her mustard yellow AMC Gremlin and had to admit that she took a little bit of solace in hastening the efforts of the man whose parking spot she was waiting not-so-patiently for. "It's about damn time", she murmured with unreasonably hostile eyes directed at what she assumed was the misshapen back of the driver's head, "Was beginning to think I'd die here."

That could very well be the case, given the fact that her client had just phoned to tell her that their meeting would have to be pushed back a day. So now she was stuck in Nebraska, in some ugly part of a town she'd already forgotten the name of, for far longer than she wanted to be. But the sizable chunk of change being offered to her was about the only thing that kept her from saying 'Screw it!' and driving off in pursuit of more favorable temperatures. Having just come off a few weeks back from a stint in California and not really having brought any suitable clothes for the trip with her, she felt herself at least entitled to have a few drinks and fool herself into believing she was warm.

After parking her car, she slipped out and wasted no time in locking it after catching better sight of her surroundings. A concerned frown tugged incessantly at the corners of her mouth but she took heart in the pepper spray she had tucked away in her pocket, as well as the small knife she always kept concealed and strapped to her upper thigh in case of an emergency. Hey, a woman in her line of work always had to have safety on her mind. Her GPS wasn't equipped to tell her what places she would most likely need to pull out a rape horn or need not bother with one because no one would come to help out anyway.

Making sure to pull the hem of her dress back down to a modest enough position, she moved quickly and without looking anyone in the eye toward what she assumed was a bar. Seconds away from reaching the door, a pasty looking young woman bolted out and forced Rory to step hurriedly from her intended path toward the gutter. The disgusting and all too familiar sound of puke meeting pavement made her stomach turn a few acrobatic moves. Yep, she told herself, Someone in here will give me something that I can get smashed with. Mood turning up, the ends of her mouth conservatively followed suit. It wasn't quite a smile but it was at least a start.

Rory let herself into the Poison Apple and lifted off the sunglasses that had been pinning back her hair so that she could slip them safely into her jacket pocket. Once she got started, it would be impossible for her to guarantee their safety. They were her favorite pair, so she'd mourn the loss of them if for some reason she or some other drunken idiot ended up smashing them. Moving along, she glanced left and right in a quick scan of her surroundings. Her mouth formed a dissatisfied line, the most socially acceptable substitute for her initial instinct to seize the nearest passerby by the back of the head and slam their face into a wall with no explanation offered. What she liked to call 'inside manners' were key to not being hoisted out and thrown on her ass before she had so much as experienced the delightful euphoria of the buzzed expression 'Oh, look how shiny the room is now!'.

Apparently someone had moved beyond that point though and was now in the 'I have no sense of balance' phase. Another lady who couldn't handle the juice unexpectedly lurched forward from her protective group and sent the considerably smaller Rory stumbling sideways into the confines of an occupied booth. She was quite used to being flung around and recovered with little trouble at all. Sadly, the same could not be said for her right shoe. Now in a seated position, she lifted her foot to examine it and discovered with a justified "Fuck..." that it had been bent. Her head tilted up in search of the woman who had run into her but was at a loss for remembering what she looked like exactly. Maybe it just wasn't her night.

Casting a glance back at whoever she'd disturbed, she felt it only right to say something. "Sorry" she apologized sincerely and rose shakily from his seat in as dignified a manner as a woman with one impaired heel can manage.



taggage: joined!
word count: i'm too lazy to open word.
wardrobe notes: proof that she's not an emperor.

[lucien]

Ah, yeah, this was what he was talking about. Making himself comfortable in the secluded booth, Griffin waited patiently for the single tired looking waitress to catch sight of him and ordered a bottle of whiskey. He practically started drooling as he envisioned the hard burn of the cheap booze and sighed in contentment when it seared his chest, just as he’d thought it would. Leaning forward with his elbows on the table, he let his mind wander, eyes unfocusing as scenes and memories flickered in and out.

It had been almost a year since he’d been blacklisted from the precincts in the North East and had come out to Podunk Nebraska. At first, he’d just planned to visit, thinking that the wide open spaces that his ex-girlfriend had glorified once upon a time would be…therapeutic, or something. He’d never been out of Boston before and from what movies depicted, the mid-west was the perfect place to get away from the news reporters camped out on his apartment stoop.

Out here in the boonies, nobody would know that he’d been a suspect in a serial killing. Nobody would know that he’d been so blind to the evidence, the obvious, that fourteen women had gotten raped and murdered. Out there, with only the flipping cows and wide open, yee-haw spaces, nobody would know that his fuck up had cost so many innocents their lives.

He’d never intended on staying; no fuckin’ way. But with one bank robbery and a domestic call, he was a Deputy with the Grange’s Falls Sherriff’s Department.

Ah, fate. What a cold hearted bitch.

Almost punishingly, the former detective took a long gulp of the whiskey and growled at the burn that coursed through his chest. And there he’d thought that sitting pretty in the local hole-in-the-wall would actually let him relax. He was now wound tighter than a freaking string; oh, happy day! He tensed even more, as a familiar beat started playing behind his eyes, and his hands tightened on the bottle between them. Fuck, not another migraine…he couldn’t afford another fuckin’ black out—

Before he could get into that little line of fuck-tastic, his train of thought was instantly derailed, as a body proceeded to careen into his. With a grunt, he jerked sideways, his head hitting the wall beside him with a dull thud. A string of curses erupted from his lips, and his hand flew up to massage the now increased ache in his head. Dammit, now the damn migraine was worse! GAH!

Turning slightly, he narrowed his eyes at the woman/missile from hell and resisted the urge to shove her out of his booth. Oh, yeah, a little ‘sorry’ was going to make him forget the pain in his head and feel sympathetic to her obviously broken shoe. Who the hell wore heels in a grunge bar, anyway?

A leggy blonde strutted past the table in her six inch heels, and Griffin sighed. Okay, scratch that…

”Fuck, couldn’t you have picked an empty booth to fall into?” He couldn’t help but growl in reply. ”DAMN. Lady, either buy some normal shoes or stay out of the rowdy bars, for Chrissakes.”

TAG - RORY!
WORDS - enough
NOTES – I <3 youuuu. ;3
TUNES - devil in a midnight mass , billy talent.
CREDIT - template by MUNZTAR * of caution 2.0

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[holliday]

Oblivious to the head injury Griffin had sustained as a result of her most ungraceful collision with him, Rory was satisfied with her short but sweet admission of fault and eager to move on with her life. Lesson learned. Never wear good heels when attempting to navigate a backwater bar where manners were apparently severely lacking and at any moment one could be used as a human cannon ball against any poor unsuspecting fool in a seated position. Speaking of said salty-tongued fool, he seemed not even half as pleased with her apology as she was. Ungrateful bastard. What did he want, one of those twenty dollar edible fruit baskets? A giant stuffed panda bear? Some peculiar assortment of caged exotic birds? Oh please, the most she felt willing to part with was her broken heel. He could have that, but only if she got to decide where he received it.

Having risen to her feet somehow and obtained some semblance of balance, she resented the fact that in order to address his suggestion she'd have to turn herself back around to face him. For a second, she entertained the possibility of being the bigger person and just walking away from what had to be an invitation to something that couldn't end well either way. They were both adults, after all. Should she conduct herself with some noble amount of restraint, he wouldn't have the gall to continue to call her out on what had obviously been an accident that she was not solely responsible for, right? No one could be so juvenile, she reasoned. On the other hand, she was also quite sure that she did not possess the necessary maturity to depart and lick her wounds in some kinder corner of the bar room. And so, though it physically inconvenienced her to do so, she clenched her jaw and spun around to face him with eyes already narrowed in distaste.

Caught up in a motion that challenged her newfound stability, she reached out a hand and caught the backing of the booth with her palm. Her white-knuckled fingers gripped whatever part of it she could, grasping at the support it offered her while she attempted to look down on him with some confidence. The fact that he was no mere slob, was actually quite fit and intimidating, made that somewhat difficult. Oh for fuck's sake, what was a big guy like him doing picking a fight with her? Moreover, why was she not hobbling away from him as fast as her uncoordinated legs could carry her? Because she was as stubborn as she was short, that's why. Her mouth formed a hard line while she studied him and tried to formulate what to say in her head.

It had only just occurred to her that she hadn't developed anything and all that she was left to do was lean and stare angrily down at him like a disgruntled mute, silently willing something random and hard and heavy to miraculously come crashing down on his handsome head. What a pity it was that their plane of existence didn't operate in accordance with the same laws of physics as an old school Bugs Bunny cartoon. Inadvertently, her gaze stopped tracing invisible angry evil handle bar mustache doodles on his face and slipped down to the bottle of whiskey. She was hard-pressed not to erupt into a childish fit of laughter at the sight. It was funny to see a man his age, she wouldn't venture more than thirty-seven, drinking whiskey. She'd always pegged it as an old man's drink, just the sort of alcohol people drink when they've decided they're done with life and are just waiting on death to come pick them up and cart them off to that big ol' disappointment in the sky.

Rory gave a wry grin that probably wouldn't do much in the way of making him any less pissed off at her. "If I'd been able to choose an empty one, I'd just as well have skipped the falling part too." she told him bitterly before asking him an offensive question in return. "Are you always such an ass when people make mistakes and apologize for them?" Some apology it was turning out to be. Had he been any nicer, well, she probably wouldn't have begun to verbally assault him after unknowingly assaulted his head. Woulda, coulda, didn't. So screw it.


taggage: joined!
word count: 731
wardrobe notes: proof that she's not an emperor.

[lucien]

Woohoo, if looks could kill, he’d be friggin’ toasted by now. It was like the scene was out of a bad scary movie; the slow turn, the semi-glare over the shoulder…then RA-RA-RA! Oh the horror! It was the ‘I WILL MAKE YOUR FACE MELT OFF WITH MY EYES’ look! Run away! Run awaaaay!

Griffin just managed to stop himself from bursting out laughing as he met the girl’s eyes squarely with his own. He was probably a sight to see; all mussed up from two days of chasing down a wanna-be drug dealer and bleary eyed from lack of sleep. Not to mention that, if his eyes were squinting like he knew they were squinting, he was probably looking like he was nearsighted and she was standing on his bifocals.

Shit, he really needed a day off. Hell…screw that; he needed to go to a bar and NOT get terminally annoyed. One of these days, his head was just gonna shoot right off his frikken shoulders…

Though, he had to admit; if he was going to be annoyed to all hell, it couldn’t be by a nicer looking lady. Sure, she kind of reminded him of the girl next door, with that cute little face of hers…but damn, after his little self-induced dry spell, he couldn’t help but appreciate a pair of fine legs when he saw them. If it wasn’t for the ‘die, bitch, die’ look he was getting, he might have just forgotten about his aching head and bought her a drink.

Man, once upon a time, he would have charmed her right out of that broken shoe. But now…bah, now he was lucky if he didn’t wake up and find himself sleeping next to three prostitutes and a midget. Shit, just send her away, Paoletti, he thought to himself. Just give her the finger and let her go tromp off with that proud lift of her chin and get on with her life.

Yeah, that would have been the Christian thing to do, but he was a selfish bastard to the core and he knew it.

”If I said ‘yeah,’ would you apologize again, just for my ego’s sake?” Despite his attempts to keep it tethered down, the mere fact that the woman was giving him tit for tat made that red hot irritation slowly slink away. It was rare to find someone with enough backbone to glare back at his scary ass, and he had to appreciate that. But still, there was that ‘send her away’ thing…

Nah, fuck it; he couldn’t surround himself by doughnut eating Deputies for the rest of his life. He’d go insane.

”Anyway, a guy’s gotta look out for pretty little things like yourself. It’s my civic duty to point out that those shoes,” He pointed down at her heel with a brow raised. ”Are a health risk.”

TAG - RORY!
WORDS - enough
NOTES – I <3 youuuu. ;3
TUNES - devil in a midnight mass , billy talent.
CREDIT - template by MUNZTAR * of caution 2.0

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[holliday]

The grizzly-man hybrid's shift in demeanor was so sudden and, had Rory not been temporarily struck dumb by it, she could have easily offered him more than enough reason to reconsider. Mean pair of gams or not, she had an even more formidable tongue when sufficiently riled. It just so happened that men with high-maintenance egos were a hot button subject. There was a higher probability of her unhinging her jaw and swallowing him whole than there was of her repeating the 'apology', especially if it was only for ego's sake. Mouth obstinately glued shut, her eyes strained against the obstacles of imperfect bar lighting and weary eyelids to assess him first. Was it his intention to confuse her with his words, or was that outcome just a fun little bonus prize?

He looked a bit frayed, like he'd just come out on top of a close fight, but there was some attractiveness in that. Throw a fedora and duster into the equation, stand him up against the lonely spotlight cast by a lamp post, and give him a cheap cigarette to puff cheerlessly on? Well, he'd have been the stuff of childhood fantasies. Yeah, yeah. Strange childhood. But she could never quite attach herself to the masculine ideal most girls did. Ken doll just didn't send her with his creepy molded plastic hair and wretched inability to bend at the knees or elbows. Heaven forbid that anyone place anything in Barbie's dream home that was either too high or too low. Absurdly, it had not even occurred to her until a few years later that it was scarier that he didn't have any man bits and, like his bleach blonde bimbo of a counterpart, had his undies permanently painted on.

Disturbing discoveries about childhood playthings aside... Not knowing immediately what to make of the living man sitting in front of her was even more vexing than it had been to merely be snarled at. Seriously. It was more thinking than her fake university of printable diplomas had prepared her for. Still, all sensible reservations aside, it had been a depressingly long while since someone had called her pretty and hadn't absolutely killed the compliment by inserting the word 'but' immediately afterward. Hesitantly, she willed her animosity to dissipate. Her features softened a bit, like the not-marshmallow bits of cereal that sit in milk for too long, but her gaze still expressed a healthy amount of mistrust.

Prompted by his point, her stare strayed from him to the state of her shoes. Having conveniently managed to forget about them momentarily, she grimaced at the remembrance of how much the over-priced pair of 'health risks' had put her out. Damn brands and their power over her! Online sale or not, it gave her no joy to see such costly kicks rendered practically worthless by a woman she was not at liberty to bludgeon to death with the sharp end of the casualty of her oafish stampede. Because she could not, Rory finally let the matter drop. What was done was done. No use lamenting over something she could easily justify losing if all went well with her job. With that kind of money she'd be able to prescribe herself plenty of retail therapy to make it up. Lifting her head, she met his delayed consideration with an unconcerned shrug of her shoulders.

"I suppose I should thank you then." She supposed, but didn't. He was a guy, so naturally she assumed he just didn’t get it. Even seated, it was obvious that he had all the height he needed. If he stood up, she was quite sure that she would instantly be transformed into a gnome with little more than a pointy hat to lord over him. Besides, it wasn't as if swearing off heels would guarantee that nothing else would ever try to kill her. Nah, her work would see to that. Less than a month ago she'd been sent in to investigate an abandoned apartment building, playing the role of faux ghost hunter yet again, only to just narrowly avoid being demolished along with it.

Stupid clients. Most of them were in dire need of some happy time pills if they thought that tacking on more cash to a case meant she could survive something like that. She was a businesswoman, not Wonder Woman. Falling tons of cement, brick, and whatever the hell else buildings were made of did the exact same thing to her as it would to anyone else. "You got a name I can attach to my gratitude? Or were you trying to look mysterious, sitting with only your whiskey for company?" Her mouth pulled into a friendly enough smile. She had a rule about talking to strange men in bars. If they had a name they were too embarrassed to tell, leave 'em where they sat because it would only be downhill from there.


taggage: joined!
word count: 813
wardrobe notes: proof that she's not an emperor.

[lucien]

It probably wasn’t a good sign that the sudden change of expression, from hostility to a seemingly forced friendliness made him want to reach for his gun. If anything, the girl seemed more formidable when trying to play nice! And given the healthy amount of ‘c’mon, punk…say something stupid’ in her eyes, he was wondering if pursuing a conversation with the little blonde was such a good idea.

He’d had SO many of those in the past few months, after all. Gah, with his luck, she’d be a man-hating lunatic who’d set his car on fire. Wonderful.

Well, upside; at least she didn’t catch the ‘pretty little lady’ comment and give him hell for it. She definitely looked like the type who wouldn’t mind handing him his own head on a platter, and given the fact that she wasn’t from around there...yeah, he had to tone down the local phrases. The girls around there were used to men giving them the girl-treatment, but out-of-towners? They sometimes didn’t appreciate the sentiment very much.

He had the hand print on his left cheek to remind him of that fact.

”Yeah, you can say that,” He agreed, his own version of a friendly expression sliding onto his face. His accent lightened and his shoulders relaxed, as he looked at her with a measure of amusement and curiosity. The cop in him wanted to start questioning what she was doing in the quaint little bar, but the guy who hated to drink alone was more interested in what she was planning to order. ”You come out to this part of the country in anything less than boots and you’re sure to find your foot covered in something nasty. Just count yourself lucky that this floor’s got nothing worse than dried beer.”

Along with other things that he really didn’t want to know about. When she asked for his name, a brow rose and he looked her over again. She didn’t seem like a reporter…but, then again, he’d been wrong in the past. Leaning back in the booth, he took a drag of his cigarette and thought on what to say. About a dozen sarcastic retorts came to mind, all of which would probably send her huffing toward the exit or grabbing the nearest solid object to hurl at his head. But, for the sake of conversation and his ever-waning sanity…

”Name’s Griff. Griff Paoletti,” He replied, offering her his hand. ”As for lookin’ mysterious…well, I’ve been called worse. Now, why don’t you have a seat, return the favor and tell me what brings you to Nebraska? I’d get up, but since there’s a relatively comfortable booth right here…” With a nod of his head, he motioned for the empty seat across from him.



((OMG IT LIVES! -hides under a rock- Sorry for the wait, boo. Muse was giving me issues. -.- ))

TAG - RORY!
WORDS - enough
NOTES – I <3 youuuu. ;3
TUNES - devil in a midnight mass , billy talent.
CREDIT - template by MUNZTAR * of caution 2.0

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[holliday]

The name she heard wasn't one she liked, but only because she was a little hard of hearing and misheard Griff as Grift. Well, who the hell names their kid that?!?! she wondered, sucking slightly at the inside of her cheek before simply accepting it as just one of those things women from the backwaters of civilization did. Maybe it was supposed to be some cruel and unusual form of revenge against the universe for dropping them in miserable towns where genius cows probably greatly outnumbered moderately intelligent humans.

Anyway, all that aside, Rory actually was in no fair position to mock him; she was named after an old western gunfighter, her sister an insipid Austenian heroin, and her brother...well, he probably had it the worst of the three. Not a lot of perps could keep a straight face when informed Officer Neil Diamond Holliday was taking them in. Anyway you sliced it, it was all one hideous bologna and Frito sandwich of epic fail and she might have felt genuinely sorry for him if not for the fact that he was a complete ass to her most of the time. Pretty much whenever he saw her and was within screaming or firing distance. Apparently he still hadn't forgiven her for all those times in their youth when she'd won arguments simply by belting out a few lines of Sweet Caroline at the top of her lungs while strumming an invisible guitar.

Satisfied that at the very least dear old 'Grift' wasn't making something up in a vain attempt to seem cool, Rory took his hand when offered and kinda just stared at it like it ought to have detached itself and done a quaint little jig. Handshakes were awkward for her and she really only gave them because for a lot of people it was sort of a thing. Whenever possible, she liked to come up with fun little alternatives like the double gun and wink ('Bang! Pow! Holy abalone, Batman! I don't like palm to palm contact!') or the germ phobic ('That really better be ketchup!') knuckle bump.

Alright, so none of those had really yet to catch on, but at the very least they saved her loads on hand sanitizer. Relinquishing the awkward hold, she decided to take him up on his offer and, with the help of the tableside, managed to pivot herself in the right direction with little incident. Almost immediately, she found herself assaulted by a waitress. Not having seen the woman come up in her all black attire, Rory couldn't help wondering for a preposterous second if maybe she hadn't been hiding under the table. Eager to have the little ghoul beat it and bring her back something with some bite, she speedily ordered a bottle of vodka and a tumbler.

Tempting as it would have been to tell him she was in town for an amateur cow-tipping competition (She prayed for the sake of mankind that there was no such thing.), she passed up on the possibility of pissing him off a second time and opted for a different means of introduction. Rory reached into one of the functioning pockets of her leather jacket and pulled out a business card, which she slid across the table to the real detective. If she had known exactly what he was doing in Nebraska, she would have been up and out the door before he could finish reading through the essentials.

Rory D. Holliday
Private Investigator
(872) - 727 - 8686

She'd yet to get a new cell phone number since leaving Chicago. Because she was constantly moving, it hardly seemed necessary to change her number each time. That, and she was incredibly lazy. The last thing she wanted to be stuck doing on her day off was trying to get her number changed and having to deal with a cell phone sales rep who was more interested in getting her to sign things and, as a result, pay more money for a service that was good enough anyway. No, she'd rather just go to a real college, somehow manage to defy genetics and become a genius, construct a time machine, and finally... kick the guy who came up with mobile telephones in the head. Yes, that sounded much simpler and far less of a headache, despite being completely impossible. Hey, if probability and likelihood were things she got hung up on, she wouldn't be in her chosen line of work.

"Okay, now you know me. Your turn. What is it that you do?"

Oh God, if he slid her a card that said something preposterous like Bikini Inspector or Hand Model she was going to die right there and then. It would have given him some much-needed humor though. Well, at the very least, he wasn't cursing at her. Yet.



taggage: joined!
word count: i dunno.
wardrobe notes: proof that she's not an emperor.
notes: Okay, so I'm officially the biggest jerk in the known galaxy. I've taken ages on this, which is absolute fail on my part. I got really busy with school and life and a whole bunch of other stuff and I don't know why but it pretty much killed this character for me for a while. Anyway, I'm terribly sorry for leaving this unreplied to for so long. I'll go subject myself to Vogon poetry now. Thousands of apologies if this sucks! -.-