garrickc

[garrickc]

Garrick laughs because hers is infectious. There's no animosity glinting in her hues. The same way he believes his are now sober, admiring the woman for every well-delivered line. A silver tongue, if there ever was one. A siren on the shore has his eyes diverting to look across the restaurant to capture the deep, dark lines of the ocean. Just before they leave it behind and make more friendly with the concrete jungle.

"I think you dredged it outta me," It's a light-hearted defence, "I ain't denying anythin'" In fact, he'll admit he's lost track of their back and forth a little while ago.

She's got a calmer take on what wreckages they're sharing. Sad, she says. Maybe, he'd agree. Brave, he's even less sure about. Not until she'd said it and opened up the barrel of all he'd left for dead at the base of his soul. What she'll never have to worry about, if they ever cross paths again, is someone like Garrick staring at palaces. He'd watch them burn before he might consider them grand.

So he doesn't speak more of wreckages, or what becomes of a man if left too long to dwell. There's nothing left in the wake of this; ghosts are haunting, but they are always gone entities. Never tangible, just a lingering essence driving a man to madness. He's the closest he's ever known to a version of resurrection; something forged of salt, blood and ash.

Garrick's eyes slip back to hers as they take steps away from the bustle of the food place. The words fall from his mouth in the same teasing tone she's shifted in: "And wha's he gotta do to earn it, Romy III?" She wants to goad, he'll bite the bait.

But he needn't have asked.

Garrick doesn't need saving. Maybe just from the confusion of a what fund me. "Ah. Alright then." On this one, he'll play pretend. And she keeps talking, firing off line after line. It's endearing, and he's following a little more than half of it. Pirate is a reference he refuses to bristle at; centuries ago, maybe. Now? Just memory.

"One ol' block." He agrees, like a deal hashed out with the devil who is posing as an angel. "And how many noir pictures 'ave you seen?" He's poking, just to see. And just because she's holding them out, he plucks a cold, miserable-looking fry from the basket and tosses it into his mouth. It's still as ashen as ever, but that's not the point. "Needs more salt."

Keeps up their pretence and metaphor-ridden conversation.

Her callback is a lofty statement, too. Ay, never dare a sailor like that, doll. "Yer forgetting the brinewater." He winks at her, doubling down on the ruse. He's only got a few streets before she might become wary as to how far, and how alone they are in the night. He'd have done all he'd said; taken her to her gate, walked her to the door. Made sure she'd got in the front all good-like.

A gentleman, he supposes, as he ceases at the end of the sidewalk where the turn-off is. "G'night, Romy."

Any further, and it'd have to be an invitation. Romy III ain't that foolish, he has to believe. But, even without monologues or knuckles on a parking meter dares. She ain't all bad, in fact, there ain't nothin' bad about her.

And that'll be the death of her; between wrecked carcasses and ghosts. She's too honest, talks like apple butter to all the wrong kinds. Makes him wonder if he hadn't let her stop him on their walk, and he'd convinced her to let him take her the whole way. Would she ever have let him cross her threshold? And would he ever let her know what she'd invited into her world?

Romy’s gaze lingered on Garrick a moment too long, caught between amusement and something quieter, heavier. The kind of look people get when they’ve just walked out of a movie that said something real and now they’re not sure how to breathe the same air again. But then he opened his mouth and let that ridiculous line roll out — celebrate our booty — and her laugh burst out before she could stop it. Sharp, warm, maybe just a little unhinged from the hour.

“Oh my god,” she said, tipping her head back with theatrical disbelief. “You absolute menace. You’re really gonna hit me with shake a leg and celebrate our booty in the same breath like we’re one good innuendo away from a sea shanty mixtape.” She gave him a slow once-over and then added, “I should’ve known the accent came with bonus pirate metaphors. You didn’t even deny the foreplay, Brinewater. Just rebranded it with panache.”

But something in the way he looked at her — at her fries, at her water, at her — changed the temperature of the moment. Romy felt it in her gut. That pull. That old grief twitching behind his smile. A man already made peace with the wreckage. She’d said it lightly, but the words came back to her like a ripple: not an insult. Not quite. Just a fact. And he hadn’t flinched.

“Scared?” she repeated, quieter now, her grin fading into something still but not cold. “Nah. Peace in wreckage isn’t scary. It’s just… sad, maybe. Or brave. Or a little of both, depending on the day.” Her fingers drummed against the table absently. “I think I’m more scared of people who look at the wreckage and swear it’s still a palace.”

And then, softer, eyes sharp under lashes, “And no, I don’t tickle berries, thanks. Not unless the sailor earns it.”

She was joking, obviously — that grin creeping back in — but her voice dipped on the last few words. Letting him know she’d caught the tension in him too. That weird little edge when he realized she might walk off and wrap this banter around someone else instead. She wasn’t planning on it. Not tonight. Maybe not anytime soon.

“Besides,” she said, standing slowly, draping her coat over one arm like she might forget to put it on if she didn’t keep it close, “I’m not in the habit of rescuing sailors who don’t ask to be saved. Even if they’ve got decent metaphors and better cheekbones.” At the flick to her hat, she rolled her eyes skyward. “If I start a GoFundMe for emotional whiplash, you’re gonna be the first donor. With interest.”

He stood, said he’d walk her — and she didn’t even pretend to put up much of a fight. Not when he said he wouldn’t fisticuff a parking meter. Not when his smile softened like that, all warmth and gravel. She met his eyes and exhaled.

“Alright, pirate,” she said, lifting her chin in mock challenge. “One block. But only if you don’t start narrating our walk like a noir film. And no lamppost monologues. I will throw these fries at you.” She held the basket up like a threat. “I’m taking them. They’ve suffered enough. They deserve sanctuary.”

Then, as she stepped past him and toward the street, she glanced over her shoulder, tone tilting toward something easier. “Keep being friendly,” she teased, echoing his warning from before, “and I might start thinking you’re just a gentleman in disguise. Under all that shipwreck and sea salt.”

What she didn’t say — couldn’t — was that she’d been haunted long enough to recognize another ghost host when she saw one. And somehow, it made her feel less alone.

But she let it sit unspoken.

Some things, after all, didn’t need to be said to be understood.

[garrickc]

There are no words in Garrick's vocabulary that can describe the moment in which he pauses, and takes a careful step backwards to reassess the face he couldn't possibly have seen. You gotta be kidding me? There's thousands of faces, and gowns and aristocracy that Garrick has no interest in making further idle chit chat with. Even less so, given the whispered talk is off a dead body found belly up on the balcony. A real shit sight, considering he'd made his own fun, stirring up a little trouble with the reps.

They'd all come out with the same sticks up their arses, regardless.

But this lad. The one who stills like a portrait about to get set alight, beady eyes that stare but breed a degree of terror in the glistening hues. He's someone that Garrick expected would be ash.

How'd you walk away then, when hunters and Roscoes took up arms and totalled Brooklyn? How did he, the Manhatten Jackals, and the Queens crew fare at the end of the bloodiest nights in Garrick's history ? (and that's a feat) He'd lost Lara, and later Frankie because of the fuckin' hunters. What did this one lose, if he's standing there, looking like he's about to wet his britches? He doesn't know what Quin did to crawl out of that bloodbath, or what he offered up in survival instincts. But it's hard not to be suspicious when another dead thing on the opposing side of the war gets out unscathed. Ain't no pleasure in seeing a survivor, he's not one of his.

Garrick can't be sure Quin had squat to do with it. But he doesn't have another face appearing from ash and bone to upheave all that wrath he'd shoved down.

He's hesitated long enough, and it takes him moments to cross the room. Take up a nice, quiet spot in the corner, the door behind him, and a friendly hand slams Quin into the wall beside it. Garrick's sporting a wide grin, devilish. The other hand takes a place on the wall beside Servatius' head so he can brace himself. Quin don't get to move til Garrick says so.

"Ain't this a sight." Light, amused. Hiding all that unease that makes a gangster one of those folks that ain't to be fucked with. Garrick hasn't been that in quite some time. But Quin doesn't need to know he's hung up his mobster jacket. "Thought you'd have got snuffed with the rest of them, ay? But here you is, in the flesh. Where you been, Quinny?"

Who: @garrickc Where/When: Pt. 2 of Conclave, near the end

For a moment, Quin almost didn't let himself believe it was real. He'd seen enough glimpses of people long-dead in the corner of his eye, faces in the shadows that he swore he'd never see again. A second glance had only made it worse, though, as the familiar face across the room continued to be there, as alive and present as an undead could be, bearing that crooked smile that should have been staked, reduced to ash, and kicked around by hunters decades ago.

Fuck the investigation, fuck the evidence he’d been meaning to hand over to Kali, he had to get out of here, immediately. 

New York, 1950’s, and he'd managed to find a solid few months of work as a go-between for the different vampire clans in the area. It was one little group that had been growing too quickly, getting too much attention from the police, from the hunters, from everyone. They were getting ambitious, putting the whole interconnected web of nocturnal life and crime in the city at risk. The Brotherhood wanted a target, a big name to drag down and collapse the whole system with it. With his own neck on the line, could anyone really blame him for handing over the information that had gotten Garrick and his little friends killed?

Survivors could. Survivors would, considering he’d be one of the few people who had known the time and place they would have been when the hunters swarmed. Garrick had known him, known he should have been there.  

Vampiric grudges were something he couldn't shed easily. Everyone else was a waiting game, a test of patience in how long he could avoid an old haunt while those who might do him harm aged out of the ability to fight back against him. He'd made a point not to cross other vampires without the knowledge that they'd at least be killed for it, which made it all the more shocking to see the man alive and well. He couldn't wait out this one.

What were hunters good for, if they couldn’t even successfully hunt? What were his legs good for, if they couldn't get him the hell out of this place before he was recognized? Too late for that. He was seen. A brief moment of shock, a glimmer of recognition, and the man was crossing the room towards him, breaking through the crowd and managing to get between him and the nearest exit in his approach. Fuck.

[garrickc]

"You flirtin' with me, wolf?" He's teasing; the stranger had been the one to mention looking good at whatever age. Garrick's just reading the lines right between that implication. Can't blame him. "You ain't a fan of the ivory towers either then, ay? Yer doin' anythin' to steer this ship the other way." Makes sense, and he can't deny that it isn't a far better route to sail. He hadn't been lying, lad's doin' okay in his book. "I ain't askin' you to guess, I might get insulted."

Tease after tease. But it ain't long before Garrick's out here needing to give some context to his explanation.

"Big wig up top. Mayor man. Dictator, overseer. I ain't know what he is, but I did hear he's got an ailment with the eyes; wears cheaters out in the fray. Whaddya say those guys are then, ain't you sayin' those with eyes coming to these places can see what it really is. Ain't matter what yer here for, don't change tha' the nosebleeds got an ivory tower complex." Equals. All of it. Garrick don't care what the issue is, unless they're lording themselves higher than another. Needless act; what does that ever serve other than inequality and oppression?

Free sailing and free streets; he remembers when he was out there burning up Roscoe's and knocking the same bigwigs out of their high gardens.

Curiosity, then: "What do you make of the half you do's hear?"

He and the vampire were both clearly disdainful about these sorts of things, but he must have said something to show his lack of real experience with it. Hating from the outside was a completely different thing than hating from the inside, and Lucas’ own experience with supernatural politics began and ended with getting dragged along to lose a bit of respect for his old alpha as he listened in on him trying to renegotiate territory lines with other packs. Year after year of walking out of that room with the exact same deals in place that they’d walked in with, it got pretty damn clear early on that the whole thing was some excuse to feel mighty. This whole thing felt the same, like one big show put on to make the leaders of all the covens and clans feel big about another year of doing nothing. 

He didn’t get the politics. He wasn’t sure he wanted to get them. Easier to engage with the stranger’s grin and wink, play with the social side instead of the political side. “Comes with the package of being immortal, don’t it? You get to look good forever. I'm guessing that means you ain't as young as you look?” 

“What’s that about a big wig?” He was brand new to town, barely aware of the supernatural side of the politics, much less the human side. An easy weakness to avoid admitting, but something about talking to this stranger felt a bit like he was getting bait tossed right in front of him, picking it up anyways to see where he might be going with it. “I guess those without eyes gotta rely on hearing the bullshit. Guess I got lucky on that front, I’ve seen enough and I’m only hearing half of it.”

[garrickc]

"I ain't too great at subtlety. I know my strengths." Neither is she, he realises, and that is something that he can work with. Better two ghost ships don't pass each other in the night, and instead load cannons and bullets in preparation for the battle. Garrick's not arrogant enough to believe he's all hands, and success with the crowd. He can work one if he has to; get a backing for the just cause if he needs to. But, the low digs and the jibes of Lana banana gives are as he remembers them to be during the hurricane.

Maybe I should put her to sleep again. Is that what she was woken up for? Whatever shite the trio of Lomidze have going on, Garrick just needs them to stay out his and Frankie's business. Ain't a tough ask.

She wants him to stroke her ego then? "I don't believe in none of that this and them, me and you's. I respect your hustle, like I would's anybody." Clear the air. He doesn't care if he's bracketed into men, or whatever. He knows every piece on the chessboard has equal rights to go for the kill, whether a queen or a pawn.

But, he has to puff out unneeded air at her hairline threat.

"Is tha' because there's truth to yer promises, doll?" and that by keeping them apart, it'll save Frankie the heartache when Lana banana puts her sister in a box. "We don't gots to see each other, but I ain't soft like my sister. Neither are you, are ya?"

No rumour. Truth. She's likely everything legends say she is. He likes to chase mths and monsters, because he likes to forge a world of no hierarchy and lesser. Imagine he and Lana as equals, instead of at odds. The Conclave as not some big-wig thing, and an equal parts conversation. Imagine. Existing for thousands of years, like Lana banana, and nothing but animosity in the bones. Sad. And not the poetic kind.

She catches his scent before he even touches her. His smell... so mixed now with cigarettes and something indescribably him that it makes Lana's stomach twist uncomfortably. She can't stand him, and his darling friend, sister, whatever the scandalous french girl is to him. He would had never step foot into her home had she had any say in it. And she did, most of the time, except she had put her sister to sleep for nearly sixty years and was now trying to... appease to her, lest Çaska think is a good idea to go against family.

But she can't help the way her body tense, in disgust, in outrage, at the casual manner in which his hands rest on her shoulders. She stands still, barely turning to him, her eyes falling onto the hands touching her skin with a coldness that'd freeze the bravest of men. She rolls her eyes, turning back out-front to the rest of the party, still searching, still hoping to find Kore amidst the closest crowd. Lana's never met someone with suck lack of self-preservation. Wonders just how Laure deals with him now in the city, under her responsibility, in a way.

"Perhaps that should had been warning enough then... to leave me alone." And it's such a shame... that this is conclave ground, that it's supposed to be... pleasant and polite and she can't carve her hand into his chest and rip his heart out of his ribcage. She feels like she'd be doing many a favor. "I guess I can ask a men to perceive danger when it's in front of them... less in the form of a woman."

Her eyes turn to find her sisters at his words, and catches just the one he's talking about. With Frankie, of course. "Why won't you be a dear and keep them apart, and just... stay away from me?." The question is thrown out of tiredness, with no real hope that he'll follow through.

[garrickc]

"Who says it's chivalry?" It's both a playful tease, and a warning that no matter how comfortable she might be with her drinks driving her actions. Scallywags aren't known to change their tune; they know how to play, but don't always know when to stop. He certainly ain't no gentleman, but he expects her to be attuned enough to see that it's for performative purposes. Nobody talks so freely in a place where freedom is a myth, not unless they're something other. Garrick hadn't meant to front that so easily with Juniper, but clearly he had. He makes sure to smile, so she knows he's mostly teasing her back: "Maybe I ain't got good intentions, flower."

His smile still grows wicked in knowing she's impressed. Ain't that something? Who knew Juniper would be a keen lady kicking it on the floor?

He thinks he's able to read her expressions, between warmth, pursed lips and the furrowing of brows. She's conflicted about something. Him? This place? The dance? Cutting a rug with him, in this place? Maybe? All of it. None of it. Perhaps she's in pain because he's been careless to consider her leg, thinking he might be able to lift her weight off of it with every new step taken.

She's got him thinking, using more than his dead ticker, and instead that gooey thing within the housing of his skull. I'm glad you made it out alright. He wonders what she reads in his gaze, or the curve in his mouth. What's written in the ink of his flesh, or the writing on his sleeve? He doesn't know what she can weave with those magical fingertips of hers, and perhaps it's his foolishness to allow her to grasp hold of him like a toy she could puppeteer. Yet, her lets her hands lift and place on his arm, and his shoulder like he knows nothing else. Garrick thinks he's seen plenty who would commandeer a vessel that's idle and unguarded, and maybe he's allowed that to happen. Juniper isn't the type, but he can't explain how he's decided that.

I hope you didn't lose anything.

It's never that simple. Better then, to keep steering that ship elsewhere. Driving that jalopy in the other direction. Garrick chuckles, "Ay? Is that what it is?" a beat, where they turn, and step in tandem. He leads, she comes along. He leans in, closer to her ear, nearer to her throat. "You 'ave it in you too, Juniper?" Different here, to the cove. To knowing that he's told her that nobody really knows anyone; there's always a worser side that says so much more about them. Playful, he knows when the song is nearing its end, and he rears his head away, bemused: "I best watch my step then."

Juniper will never admit how easy it was. Garrick had enough confidence for the both of them it seemed and it made the whole ordeal more simple than she deserved. This wasn’t the kind of dancing she was used to. But firm hands were easy to follow and he was good at leading. She felt more steady on her feet than she expected.

She bites the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from laughing when he speaks on her sobriety. A wink and a joke forcing her to scoff with a smile. “Well, aren’t you a gentleman. And here I thought chivalry was a myth.” She teases, confident this is a safe place to poke fun. 

He eases her into a spin and she is grateful for the brief rush of air on her face and neck. The combination of liquor and revelry making her skin feel flush. It was a good feeling though, it had taken a while for her to shed her heaviest nerves for the night, but she might have actually managed to let go like Jaya had suggested. 

She stepped back in and placed her hand back on his upper arm. “Alright, I’m impressed. I did not expect this.” She conceded, he looked more rugged than he acted, She wondered if that was intentional. 

She only wonders for a moment before she is falling. Only having the time to hold onto where she grasped his arm earlier a bit tighter before she looks up and sees a smiling face looking down at her. Heart racing, she huffed out a breathy laugh and relaxed, letting her head fall back as she took a breath to compose herself before looking back up. Expressing a mixture of amusement and frustration that he didn’t at least give her a little warning. 

Well it hadn’t been a lie when he said he wouldn’t let her drop.

“I guess you’re right. Other people needed that luck more.” She paused for a moment, having nowhere to look but upwards. “I’m glad you made it out alright too. For what it’s worth. I hope you didn’t lose anything.” Her voice was quieter. It felt silly to say. But there were a lot of faces she was seeing tonight for the first time since, and it was a relief every single time. This was no different. 

Just as soon as she had gone down she was back up, full faith in his hands to hold her steady as she got her feet back under herself. The hand on his arm finally loosening. Standing closer than before there was an edge to his smile that makes her laugh again. “I don’t know about troublemakers. But I think every witch has it in them to be problem if they need to be. It comes with the territory.” 

Magic was equal parts precision and chaos after all. Sometimes carrying that in your blood was like a balancing act. 

[garrickc]

She's fast to cut to the pleasantries. No real chase, or hard work to get a straight answer. So at least he knows that she understands how a clock ticks.

Garrick tries not to let it show on his face that she's got his name in her Filofax of straight-edged demeanour. Rumours gotta have a bit of truth around Vicky, else he's shooting more than just blanks at a dangerous target with some pretty out-of-time attire. He's been upfront, so he expects less deceit and games in return. His sister is important to him, just as he knows he's heard that the Lomidze are a tight-knit bunch'a nosebleeds.

When she speaks, he's already feeling irritated.

She sounds very much like Frankie; turning; dropping; a youthfulness to never understand lust and love. He ain't never wanted to hurt Frank for it, often, she'll listen if he warns her hard enough about the long game. It ain't Garrick's style to make immortals and rip apart the living, and he wouldn't make another undead without cause. But, even when he had, he knows what that had turned out like. "And you ain't say a word about it, you's jus' let her lord over you?" Big sister don't like it. So big sister calls the shots.

Fuck that. There should be equal give and take. Even in the gang, ain't nobody been lesser, but there's someone with the ideas befitting a leader. Family business. Clearly, none of Garrick's is what she's sayin'.

"Yer sure of that?" Ain't what he thinks, from their brief chinwag. Just in case there's a lack of understanding. Garrick isn't old and legendary like the Lomidze's, but he's less concerned about pride and appearances than they are. Makes it scrappy, and sometimes that's the kind of war that nobody sees comin'. "Because you better be. I ain't playin' with my sister, anymore than you do yours."

Out on the balcony, Viktoria is allowing herself a moment of peace just before the meeting begins. Sadie has been foisted off on some unsuspecting other vampire with a soft, warning full of smiles to not let her come to harm. The man interrupts her quiet thinking, and she simply watches as he situates himself on the balcony. A familiar face -

Caska's friend? Oh, yes. The pirate from the hurricane.

Her face makes no change following the recognition and allows him to start speaking as he needs to. She allows a quirk of a smile, simply a twitch of the corner of her mouth. "I know your name. I'm assuming you know mine since you sought me out."

The question of their family matters and putting their youngest sibling to sleep makes her pause for just a moment. Humming, she leans forward on the railing next to him.

"Our eldest believes Caska doesn't take too well to love and loss - she turns people, drops them like flies when she's done, and they seek to take their vengeance. It's quiet unfortunate and inconvenient, according to her." She doesn't agree, and that much is obvious in her somewhat neutral tone. "Family business, you see. Your sister is in no danger of Svetlana's machinations."

[garrickc]

It's impossible to kill the grin on his lips. Every time her deft fingers reach for him, whether to poke, caress or tug at his jacket. He never wants her to let go. Garrick, historically, hasn't ever been able to deny Lara much. So being less gangster in the fray of aristocracy is asking a world of him, but he'll do his damndest. Because it's her askin'. Yet he's still lying to her face; does she even know his name? Will someone else in this room who knows him, oust him for everything he is and was; all the sides of him that Lara's yet to know because he never got the chance to air those?

Not the place to do it when she admits how official she's got herself in with her new lady. Garrick doesn't bristle, but his tongue moves to say something before he stops it in its path. Eyes flicker down to her hand, as if he's missed the ring or something.

He supposes they've got differing versions of that. His had been Brooklyn bridge, holding out a black box and looking out at night lights. Lara's is confessing honesties to a woman at a shmuck-laden gala. Official, ay? Alright.

"How long did tha' take you?" He wonders if it'd been as long as they'd played with petroleum and leather. Grease and oil. And when she taps his cheek, his eyes flicker that shade darker, not entirely red but not light either. Maybe her senses can notice his lies and omissions now with an eye that's no longer mortal. Garrick doesn't mind the teasing; it's her. "I'm tryin' not to be." Not hard enough, he knows. But, it's a confession that isn't borne of an untruth. "I know it ain't like that with us anymore." It won't be, either. Decades have left them in different places.

And mischief suits him better for a distraction tactic.

"They here? The last Cab lot?" Honest question, he's not to know the faces; it ain't his city. And in some ways, he's glad Lara ain't got a scooby about the sisters. They ain't exactly bundles of fun, so he hears. Weird. Sure. One's shacking up with his sister, that's weird enough. "Now yer makin' it real hard to wanna stay out of trouble, Lara." A wily grin, a wink. "You knows I ain't no fan of squares like that."

"Of course I'm asking you to play nice." She flicks him, gently, on the lapel and tugs at it. Maybe once upon a time it would be nice to just see him go off and defend her in the middle of a party like this. Start a big, bloody brawl while she sipped her wine and enjoyed in the carnage. But she's tired now. The idea of curling up and enjoying a stupid TV show is exciting to her -- maybe one day she'll enjoy the chaos again.

When she smiles, she thinks she looks horrific, all scarred up and twisted -- but maybe both he and Birdie see something she doesn't. But she offers it to him anyways, "Yeah, we're steady. Made it official tonight." Garrick doesn't need to know what a battle it was to get here, or how they'd spent months breaking each other's hearts.

She reaches up, pats his cheek, deciding to tease him a little. "Jealousy is a fun look on you, I like it." Attention has always been her vice. But she follows his gaze when she's brought in close, and sucks in a breath through her lips. "Not particularly a fan of the ones who owned the Cabaret before, but the sisters?"

She hums at that. "Can't say I've met them, personally. All I know is rumors. Rich, foul, cantankerous. Fuckin' weird, if you ask me. And tight knit."

[garrickc]

Crown, tiara, useless piece of metal, whatever she'd like to call it. He don't care. He'd meant it when he asked if there's anybody the young-old-timer knows that isn't gonna give him the urge to flatten. She's assuming he's gonna pick a fight?

"I ain't here to bloody knuckles." but he's fuckin' thought about it more than he has in a long while. The room is agitating at worst, and he's got no desire to overstay the welcome. "Tryna avoid making it ugly, doll." Nowt wrong with a little wordplay that'll tickle those shmucks off their high horses.

Her sisters included.

He's already bashed heads with them. "Thought it were all about sleepin' it off under yer roof." Isn't that what Lana banana had said about little ol' Çask? Brought up the whole issue of by doing that, it's gonna get Frankie all twisted up.

He can read between the lines, though. Most scoundrels can, but not all of them like to admit they've noticed.

Robin Hood's a bit of a farce, but sure.

"Daylight dodgers?" a beat, and a scoff: "Ain't my speed, doll."

She is nudged, the piece wobbling on her head from the jostle, and she turns to face Garrick. "It's a tiara," she argues, nose scrunching and brows furrowing, but he moves on quick, and gives little space for further protest on fashion.

She listens, tries to parse just what exactly he's trying to get at before she shrugs, shakes her head. "I don't know anybody worth knowing yet, and I'm not about to help you pick a fight just because you're bored, my sisters would have my head or worse, Garrick." She smells mischief here, and not the sort she'd like to get into; her dance in the daylight's already in jeopardy off the back of this Conclave's meddling. "Go... bother Pembroke or something. You're all about being a robin-hood, yeah?"

[garrickc]

Garrick rolls his eyes at her shrieking, but there's a smile that doesn't match his disbelief. Even time apart, little has changed about her; she's still hungering for attention and fulfilment. A woman who craves and desires the spotlight. Garrick's always been fine handing that over to her; he's better in the shadows of a city. She wants to celebrate the victory at the end of the strip, he wants to vanish yet leave the memory of who he is. But he doesn't know what torturous thing she might do to the frog, and he should have expected the New Orleans deja vu as he nears her. A marquis of the underworld. If only they'd be so damn lucky.

There's been enough instances of amphibians in his life, he ain't too shocked to know that Frank's disappointment in lip locking with a frog comes as a given. No laughter, or mocking of her excitement. Merely a look that reads how her excitement is misplaced. He can't taste the magic in the air, like he can the blood. But he knows the room is filled with folk who would play every kind of trick on those who ain't paying attention.

He grimaces when the wet thing slaps his face, then drops to grip his shirt. He closes his eyes and wipes once at the slippery residue left behind.

"Ain't that lovely." It's a drivel of sarcasm. He's at least grateful the slimy bugger hadn't landed in his rum. It might've gotten itself stuck.

She's laughing now, and it makes him smile. Reaching up to manhandle the small creature, he jests: "I like 'em to give a little, doll. You know that." He ain't kissing the frog. Even if it disappoints his sister in crime by refusing to play this game. It's difficult to decline when she's so thrilled, but he holds it out towards her. He didn't wear the pink; he's already a little bloodied from his scrap, and there's no way he's had enough to drink to play backseat bingo with a toad. Three for three, ay?

"I reckon we gotta set it free somewhere no heel is going spear it."

If nothing else, she has learned quite quickly that a frog at a party is not one left easily ignored. At least she seemed to have scooted out of the way of the giant creepy frog munched. But next thing she's getting scooped up, again.

This time it's by another hottie, but not the hottest she's looking for, and her words are big and thus hard for such a tiny frog to process, but they become somewhat clearer when the lady's lips are getting closer and closer and... smooch!

Oh. Process later.

'True love? Buy me dinner!', she starts to croak out but then she's being smooched and shown off- that's when she recognizes who she's being shown off to.

'Hey! Hey! guy from the storm!!'

Maybe they can help her find Jeanette, she wages, becoming all happy with the prospect of rescue.

But all her squirming makes slippy work, and she pops out of Frankies hand, sailing towards Garrick landing squarely on his face before she bounces off and falls flump down the front of his shirt.

[garrickc]

For: @caskalomidze

"Hey, trouble," He nudges her like he would Frankie when she's poking his cheeks. But Garrick aims for Çaska's arm on this occasion. It would have been aimed at the gleam of gold on her head, but he withholds the disapproving display of grandeur. He's used to it. Even his sister has become less about the people and more about self-gratification. "Ain't that an adorable crown." He's about to ram it up someone's arse if they breathe the wrong way at him.

He tells himself this isn't a poison that seeps into his pores, infected by a green-eyed monster that knows where to hurt. That he isn't driven to make his own fun, because the type he wants has eyes for inked flesh that's more covering than his.

Garrick has historically never shied away from high stakes.

"Now this ain't my city yet, and every lad or lass I been chinwagging with is lighting up the tilt sign," It's not a threat, just an assessment, "So I don't know none of the political bits but I know 'nough 'bout those old Conclavion-almost-bonedust bunch." Not bitter at all. But, "I ain't like any of these new shmucks either, Çask. You's gotta give me a hand, ay? You's got to know somebody I ain't wanna tussle with."

[garrickc]

For: @viktorialomidze

He makes sure it's barely a few ticks from midnight, because it has to be.

The only one he ain't too familiar with in the brood of the tangled sisters is the one sitting in the talking chair for their exclusive club of blood. He ain't got much interest in her, either. He's certain it works both ways. Unless she's gonna turn over a new leaf, and favour the people over herself, there is nothin' they're gonna say that would do anything other than spark an anarchist's fury. Çaska's naive enough, in his mind, that if it weren't for the two shmucks on her shoulder, she'd be a lil bit better putting that ancient strength to use.

Ain't never happenin', and he's got bigger fish to fry than those oldies. Somehow.

Vicky's just a stepping stone in a sea of precarious politics. He don't mess with it (that's a lie), but he knows it. Understands the game, even if he'd rather not play.

She'll be in that room of nosebleeds, best to see what they might do when their most squishy, vulnerable parts are speaking for them. Eat the rich, isn't that the thing? Bleed them dry, is more his speed.

It's the balcony where he finds her, having done some unpleasant shmoozing to be certain he's got the right gal. Kitted in a bright shirt, like she's never left the sixties, an earpiece that says she rocked through the eighties too. Most recent century, that is. Ain't forgetting the seventies either, with that ensemble of chains nestled in the middle of her chest.

He's noticed. He's not blind. Garrick's obvious with it too, before his eyes fly back upwards to meet Vicky Lomidze's calm gaze; a politician's stature, right before she's to go rub noses with the other council shits. Stirring the pot is easy, but he's gotta be a little smarter about it at this level. Hopping onto the balcony rail, he's careful to balance himself between the solid side and the drop behind.

"We gots to talk, I think." he snaps his tongue on his teeth, but the smile stays, "Now I ain't all that savvy with some of your lingo, but I ain't get a straight answer outta folk, so I gotta ask the one I hear has a quick-slick mind, ay?"

But before that, "Garrick." Detaches Pretorius from his mind, because he doesn't need that here. Just his name, so she knows where to blame when it comes back to chew his ass out. "I got my ears bashed for lighting up your fancy manor a bit back, also got them burning when I overheard about sending one of you's back to sleep, now what is tha' all about, doll?"

For context: "I got a sister too, and I ain't about to let her get hurt with whatever you ivory tower folk do to get yer kicks." a wink, and he knows time's ticking; she's got a meeting to get to. "Speak quick, we're on a clock."

[garrickc]

For: @firstlomidze

Last time he bashed ears with the Svetlana Lomdize, it'd been when she'd given him some choice words about burning pictures into ancient fuckin' furniture during a hurricane. Garrick ain't even know how he'd gotten there, but smoking indoors rattled one Lana Banana, so he'd gone out of bounds in the monstrosity of a manor, and tossed some luckies on a dusty sideboard to smoke out a storm-weathered window.

Ain't much of a conversation when Lana's all eyerolls and neck grabbing.

Çaska's ultimately Frankie's friend, or bedfellow, who knows. But they'd had a ball in some way at the Lomidze manor, when the storm had made shipwrecks of the city.

Garrick approaches from behind, gently places hands on her shoulders and rubs them softly like it's a massage. "Ay, ladbybug, would'ya look at this, ain't no bone in sight." No smoke. Cigarette. No remnants lingering on his tongue, yet. He's considered burning holes in dresses, and stirring petty little squabbles amongst blame. Just to show the room that they ain't about anything but appearances, themselves and one-upping each other. Not a single fuck in this room wants to share a glory, or sit on the same page; no equality, they like their towers and their nosednubbing of peasantry far too much.

He moves his hands away after a few moments from her bare shoulders and glides around her to offer her a wily smile. "You looked like you've crawled right outta some place of perdition." A finger flicks at the chiffon-esque sleeves that wrap around her wrists. Demonness. Something that might come out of the depths of the ocean and lure sailors to the water. Endearingly, it's all things part of the wider vision: "Think our sisters are getting snug, ain't they?"

[garrickc]

"You givin' me credit, s'pose I better get slick about it then." Garrick can do that for her. He don't know this Lara, not really. He knows one that's more mortal, seventy years younger and with a different kind of wayward spark. Back then, he reckons she'd liked him for a little more than disappointing her old folks when they'd find out she were on the arm of a greaser. Worse than, even. But she hadn't known that either.

Still doesn't. 'Cause he's still a perjurer. Ray's a liar, and so is Garrick.

He can't stop the brow lifting on one side. "Soft, ay?" Ain't that a shock. That practically translates to a rollover, someone who ain't got the gall to go toe to toe with a lady like Lara. But he ain't gonna say it, because that's bitterness talkin' smack with his envy. He's late. So late. And he's got nothin' to give Lara besides a ressurected friendship; a thin trail of shared blood that gave her a second life she never asked for. No souped-up chariots screeching down streets. No fancy gifts, or unbloodied histories to share with her. No gang to straighten out a city full of corruption. They'll have to talk it out, sometime he knows. If not for her, but for him.

But timing's never been their strong suit.

Makes him wonder if she ever thought he wore his heart on his cuffs too.

"That mean you're askin' me to play nice, Lara?" It's not a jest, merely a query that rolls of his tongue whilst her hands adjust his bowtie, and the jacket hem. He doesn't stop her, just watches her, like she might see more now she's seeing him with an eye of the dead. Recognise what he is, beneath the suit and the layers of facade where she missed it before.

But he erases all idea of a scoundrel's wit when she tells him more than he deserves to know. It's impressive to imagine what Lara's endured against the youthful, tattoo-laden vampire that she's with. Garrick doesn't understand subtlety or when to bite his tongue. Because he isn't about the quiet. He's gas, and grease and gunshots; sirens and burning tyres on asphalt. Noise and smoke, rolled into a man.

"You gots my word, she ain't got nowt to get twisted up about with me, babydoll."

Whatever honour that is, he gives it. And he likes that she can still come along for a ride; she's still got a tango in her step. But whilst they're talkin', he's still askin': "You're steady with her, ain't you?" a hum, something knowing seeping into the mischief. It gleams in the dark of his hues; part threat, part dare. "You talk likes you are." Maybe the most volatile thing he's said is that he thinks this could be the most truthful lie he's ever told her: "I ain't wanna be the reason you ever stop smiling, Lara." If her bird does that, he'll preserve it.

But trouble? He's all over that.

"I'll keep your people outta it," No Kanemaru. Fine. He slings an arm around her shoulder, draws her in. No intimacy, just scheming. A finger lifts from his glass to gesture to the room, whispers pieces of a grander picture. Ears fuckin' everywhere. But what he can say that keeps her out of the wars: "Anyone you ain't likin' too much in here? Because I already gots an appointment with some sisters." Then, interest as he turns towards her. "You know much 'bout them?"

"I think you're too good at talking." She says, simply, and gives him a withering look - he should know exactly what she means: there might be jealousy there. The way he looks at her, talks about her, to her. The affection he still obviously holds. She's unsure how Birdie would react, but she doesn't want them to dislike each other. "She's soft. Despite how she looks, she wears her heart on her sleeve."

At this she reaches over and adjusts his clothes, absentmindedly. "And very hurt. Think she's experienced more trauma in less than a decade than I have since the damn 60s." A murmur, but her tone is laced with a soft warning: be gentle with her, please.

It doesn't take long, though, for the mischievous glint in Garrick's eyes to appear. She should have assumed it would make an appearance at some point.

But his idea is fun.

"So long as Kanemaru walks away unscathed." Her grin is wide, mimicking that glint in his eyes. "Point me where to go, sugarpie."

[garrickc]

"Bad business tha' is, in a place like this." Garrick's tittering, leading him to assume the lad's new to this. Don't matter how many security there are if they're all batting for different sides; that's how civility turns sour. He figures the wolf ain't never seen what folk can do when they're all chasing the same bounty. But he's got his head screwed on nice and tight, on some things. "Damn right they are."

Better use having them at the bottom of the locker, in Garrick's opinion. Hell, he'll drag them behind a Cadillac, see how many streets they last before they're gristle, dust and marrow. Feed the hungry with some of that meat.

A new spark lights in the dark of his gaze.

"Startin' to like you, lad." From each corner of his lips, pulls a wry grin. A crinkle in his eye when he delivers a wink: "You think I look like a spit of youth, ay?"

What laddie lacks here is foresight. It's the curse of the young'uns as much as it is the old tossers on their thrones of blood and bone. Ain't gonna change anything if they throw in the towel. Only takes one person to ruin a march, to be a martyr, to make a statement for the people that gets those hawks in their ivory towers looking down once in a while. One bullet caused a presidential rift, and so did a secretary. One photograph tore entire nations to ribbons. One stood in front of a tank, faced down a bmber, and it's remembered in history; if that isn't a change, the boy needs to see the feckin' world once in a while. Sit at fewer guardposts and doors. Ain't nothing wrong with one in a crowd who knows the crowd are sheep.

The wolf in front of him should know that. What are the sheep to the wolf?

"What does tha' make those without them?" Anyone with eyes appears to be the majority of the room. And how would this guy know that he's got a protective streak for a girl who has lost one? But instead of allowing himself to be bristled, or caught up in a private irritation that he's trodden on a sore spot. Garrick pulls on learned knowledge, too: "Ain't this city got a big wig in office who likes his cheaters?" Smile sharpens, "What's he learnin'?"

“I’m not the only security guy here. Not that it’ll help much, if things really go sideways but they’re only paying us at the end of the night, and I’m not leaving without my money.” He said, shrugging as he looked over the crowd and back to the stranger. “And I’m not looking to be a big talker for anyone. I know the type, they’re all tryin’ to beat their own gums to death without doing anything worth shit.”

“Centuries, eh? You been around for that long, or are you just saying what you’ve been hearing from others?” He looked Garrick up and down as if that might give any hints of his age, the basic black suit cutting a nice figure but giving him no hints at what he was looking for. “Seems like anyone with eyes could come to enough of these things and realize they’re not going to do much. Surprised I’m not seeing more old-timers using it like a party instead of trying for something they know won’t happen. You’d think a few of ‘em would’ve learned by now”

[garrickc]

“Wiser man than me once said that you ain’t really know anybody until you see who they are on their worst day,”

Garrick doesn't know if it's that today — with her whistle slick with gin, and greasing that smile wide. Or if it'd been that night at the cove, carving wood and staining it with whatever magic she bleeds. He's never denied dancing with the devil and its advocate, though — because well, that sounds like a gas.

And their bodies lock, guided to the source of the music to witness the spectacle that is the ensemble. He's got her almost in a snare; if she's busy with him, she'll have a few moments where she ain't necking liquor straight down her gullet.

"Looks like," He assures, feigning the belief that she's holding her brine pretty well. Nowt wrong with a little cheer. She's got a bit of life in her, and he'll stare shamelessly at it until he forgets the woman who that reminds him of. A wink, but it delivers his gentleman-esque line differently than intended: "If yer were lily livered, I'd just gots to take you home, doll." But he leaves it there. She's coming up good.

They spin at the first beat stepped into; he's yet to know if she has the moves as deeply buried in her mind as they are in his; of when he first took a deckhand's palm and showed them a jig that hadn't nearly been as ancient as theirs. When he ghosted the ballroom with a Frenchwoman who had footwork more gallop than step — hooves over feet. All those times he'd made home of the dying speakeasies, when people only danced a certain kind of ferality in the dark. Garrick has understood, watched and admired the other folk with their small worlds and easy living. But he's never been at peace with it, just restless.

Always the rogue, baring teeth the moment some fucker couldn't leave well enough alone.

He dips the woman in his arms, smiles. Hands that move to steady Juniper and keep her upright. Delicately too, more so than he believed he was still capable of. She can't see the layers of blood soaking his hands. She's just light in their grasp, and she can follow a path laid out for her, without too much unease. He's not lingered too much on the hurricane; storms aren't new to him. And he'd had an interesting few days out of it, what can he whine about really? Met some good'uns outta it.

"They'd have found a place," he states quietly, because he has to lessen the bitterness from his tone. Conclave ain't his shtick, even if he's got his name attached to the older nosebleeds. "Sticky lot, they are. " At least, the undead ones he knows of. He pulls her back up to her feet, turns to add with a devious smile: "Don't know much about yours, though. They troublemakers, ay?"

Juniper still finds it amusing when he calls her flower, and she is in no state to pretend she doesn’t. Though she did attempt to at least temper her smile with a roll of her eyes. The comparison felt more appropriate tonight. She looked nothing like herself. A brief bloom into something nice to look at. Preening for coven image and personal enjoyment. Juniper isn’t blind, and Garrick isn’t subtle, she can see and feel him looking at her. Tonight, it means nothing, almost everyone here was done up to be looked at. 

Eyebrows shoot upward as he tips his head back. Thinking he must have needed a stiff drink more than she first thought. The thought crosses her mind of taking another sip before putting it away once it’s back in her hands, but she resists. It’s better to save it in case she finds herself in a place later in the night where she would rather check out. The buzz she felt right now was warm and pleasant anyways. Alcohol and magic dancing in her blood in a way that prickled at her skin. 

“Hmm, no, loose is not a word I would use for you. Though if you’ll let me be devil's advocate for just a moment- I don’t think a brief shoreside chat is really enough to get a full picture of anyone. Don't know about you, but I certainly wasn't at my best.” It felt like a lifetime ago almost. If someone had told her then that she would be here now. Feeling more herself than ever, a little drunk sure- but happy? She would have called them insane. When was the last time she had as much fun as she was having tonight? 

Even so she could still feel anxiety in the edges of her consciousness. The joke about stepping on his foot had been just that. A joke. She was clumsy before the cane. She expects a joke back; instead, he’s gentle, and she’s confused. While she wasn’t too fond of being seen as fragile, she couldn’t blame him. At least coming from him right now it didn’t feel diminutive. 

I’ll be the cane. It would be funny if she didn’t believe him. She doesn’t hesitate when he pulls her in and settles closer. Focusing on callused hands and her own breathing so she doesn't manifest her own bad luck. She just needs to relax and let him lead. “I’m gonna hold you to that y’know. But I wouldn’t worry, takes a little more than a travel flask to get me that unsteady. I can hold a drink, thank you very much.” 

She looks over her shoulder for a moment, assessing the people around them while also avoiding looking forward for too long. Eye contact was never her strong suit. Especially in places like this. “Feels like an understatement. I knew conclaves were big… I didn’t think they were this big. We all got really lucky that the hurricane didn’t damage the arts center too badly. I don’t know where else this could have been hosted on such short notice.” The nice thing about proximity is she didn’t feel like she needed to shout over the music as much.

[garrickc]

He'd recognise Eddy and his twisted stick-up-his-ass anywhere. Don't matter that it's usually on the other side of the Atlantic. He's never been a fast, nor a fink like some of the other sasanaigh he knows. Always been a flutter bum, though.

Still a fuckin' Pret, he bets.

Garrick ain't sure he likes many of the Pretorius lot on the best days, but he has a select little niche towards liking the folks who know how to get their undies a little wetter than most. Eddy's stick has just been planted there (he reckons) because he's forgotten the taste of a bit of gas. Missed out on the funs of the greasers back when it was turf wars. And Ed has lacked knowing the taste of asphalt and burning rubber is like.

But he can't recall the last time he saw Elford, really. It then means, without a doubt, that it's been too long.

Hand presses against the other man's back, it glides around a suit jacket to garner his attention. More reasonable of ways, Garrick thinks.

"Yer standing at attention like a mast, I ain't wanna know what you gots up to this early to get you all tight," A jab, because that's his favourite opener for any Pretorius. Ask Laure. She loves a tip and a poke. "And if you's ain't up to sumthin'," he points the drink at Elford, eyes narrowing: "I hope yer planning it, 'cause you used to be funner than a shmuck, Eds."

Garrick brings the drink to his mouth, drops it back and lowers it again. Another moment passes to assess exactly what Edwin is doing here. He snaps his teeth on his tongue, feigning irritation: "I'm feelin' shmuck." a sigh that titters for longer than necessary, "I thought you had more jets than tha'."

open with a limit of 4 ( 1/4 claimed ), the conclave, the night begins to roll around 8 pm

He descends on the town as more shadow than man, the traditional all-black attire with the exception of his ox blood red dress shoes. With time, after the rolling color of dawn turns from pale, to dark blue, and finally to black, the sky dotting with few stars and cosmos, he's learned the ways to sink into his environment. He appears before the Arts Center draped in moonlight, far after the events of the red carpet and early pleasantries, with intention, of course. His few hours spent in Port Leiry, watching and lurking, had taught him this town, not necessarily the patrons but the town itself, the earth that is walked on, the air that is breathed, is not fond of visitors.

So, he wonders, what exactly this night has in store.

He walks into the grand affair and his senses light up; eyes catching glimpses of diamonds, well pressed table cloths, the sound of champagne bottles being opened, of laughter, clicking heels, the smell of perfumes, citrus, vanilla, musk. It's a beautiful location, clearly treated and planned with dedication. He glances over the figures spreading throughout the room, some faces familiar, some very much less so. He starts with those he knows, some in clusters, then biting off more than he can chew. Small smiles, polite laughter, slitted eyes and tongues.

He converses with an old ally from decades ago, catching up meaning a generally longer conversation between eternals, when he's interrupted by a slight pressure against his back, warm, persistent. He turns, not sure whether to expect a hand lightly interjecting or to catch the stumble of a patron, either with a long dress and sharp heels or perhaps someone that went a bit too hard a bit too quickly.

[garrickc]

"You mentioned foreplay, doll. I ain't say a word about it." There's a lighter lilt to his accent now, as the rum wears off. He's looking at her water and her picked-at fries, slathered in sauce with new interest. "But what can I say? I'm all gent. Shake a leg whilst we celebrate our booty." Maybe it is time he takes his leave. Let her walk away from the gimmick-house and rescue another sailor sunken into their glass.

Garrick doesn't like that idea, and as soon as he thinks it, it raises his hackles. Can't let her go blindly so she can tickle the berries of another with her talk of skirting by death, and angels an' all that.

A man who's already made peace with the wreckage.

That's some wordsmithing. "Tha' scare you? To think there's peace in a wreckage?"

He'd thought he were able to gauge her better, figured out the wavering shift in her tone, rising and falling. Following the rough waves of an ocean in its ascent and descent. She's a ship gone off course, and a captain without a crew. A rogue navigator with nothing but the oath to crumble alongside the vessel. Though that had been a detail so glaringly obvious when she'd sat down. Shed been so kind to help a stranger, so wayward to think they were all so nice behind the eyes. He knows matchlights, and he knows the frostbitten cold. She only has to reach out her hand, and ghost his flesh to understand the ice of the dead.

Romy III is becoming an enigma. Haunted by those ghosts they speak about, and they ain't the type'a ones that want to cut a rug with her, he realises. Heavier things, writing her epistles in cursive and etching them into her mind, and deeper.

Garrick ain't got no advice for the soul.

"Then you's gotta find a parlay, 'aven't you?" an agreement, some bounded thing that lets her and her demons rest. Garrick reaches up and flicks the hat she's wearing, as though reminding her she's in a position of power between them. The irony doesn't stay too long, but they're both fishing to raise the cool of the tension. They've allowed the phantoms to linger at their table too long, and they're half a tick from losing themselves in them.

If he manages to break her armour, Garrick would peel it off of her and say she doesn't need it for the night. It'd be a lie. He'd say something witty or slick that assured her there's nothing she needs to defend from, because he'll watch her six instead. But he's no good at polishing dents or shining boots. He's all about the mud, and the graf in other wayst. He'll sooner give those shoeless the new shoemaker's stolen import than he would ever take a pair for himself. The same goes for Romy III's armour. If she doesn't need it, give it to someone who does.

But Garrick doesn't believe she'll survive long without it. Not between her language, her humour and those angelic conversations with those who are no longer with them.

"Keep being friendly, and I reckon you'll get another ghost on your roster."

He don't like the idea she's walking home alone either, even if she knows the city better than he does. He'd say he knows people far more than she'll ever get to.

"Let me walk you," he already begins moving from the bench to a stand; sobriety makes it easier, "I ain't gonna stumble, nor fisticuff the parking meter," he tells her, pretending that it's with faux conviction. "An' I can stay a block back if you ain't about me opening yer gate for you. I know that's not popular no more."

But she's yet to know he doesn't need a cab because Garrick sleeps beneath the stars. No roof in this city. No urgency to coerce some mortal to give him a room. Garrick's a vagrant, sliding between existences these days, the same way he shadows himself from the day and waits to walk in the night.

Romy III doesn't stand when he does, rolling his shoulders back. He could lie, make up an address. Pretend he knows the number of a cab service. But he won't. Not directly, anyhow. "Ain't no worry over me either." A smile, softer, without its provocation. "Yer really tempting me with your map skills. Maybe I gots to see that, sometime." He clears his throat, licks his lips of a realisation he'll never admit. "Don't promise things there's no plan to keep, ay, trouble?"

He's still waiting. But he doesn't say it again, merely nods his head towards the basket on the bench: "You takin' the fries with?"

Romy let the rim of her glass rest just beneath her lip, unmoving, while her eyes did that slow blink thing again — not sleepy, just deliberate. Like she was mentally opening a drawer labeled Garrick Brinewater: Proceed With Caution and finding it already too full to close. She didn’t answer right away, letting his words hang like a tune in a bar you know by heart but haven’t quite figured out if you’re in the mood to sing along to.

“Cut a rug after we rob the train,” she echoed, lips twitching into a grin that was more teeth than smile. “Look at you, already putting a little foreplay in the felony. You smooth talk every girl with a felony-misdemeanor combo platter, or am I just the lucky one tonight?” She didn’t flinch when he called her trouble. If anything, she accepted the title like it had been etched into a badge years ago and she’d simply stopped bothering to hide the shine.

And when he asked what told her about the fight-first instinct? Romy leaned forward just a hair, the angle lazy but deliberate, like a card sharp testing how far she could push before getting told to cash out. “‘Cause you talk like a man who’s already made peace with the wreckage,” she said, quiet but not kind. “Like someone who’s got practice holding a match too close and calling it warmth.”

She didn’t say it to wound. But she didn’t say it to spare him either.

Still, the edges softened when he asked who the right people were. That tugged something, though she was careful not to let it show all the way. Just a small glance down, then back up again, like the floor had whispered something useful and she wasn’t ready to admit it.

“I don’t think ghosts work on your schedule, Garrick,” she said finally, voice low and even. “They don’t all come to rattle chains and shriek in the vents. Some come to watch. Some owe you. Some stick around ‘cause they never got the map out. And if they’re still standing when you are, it’s not always a kindness to send ’em packing.” A beat. Her eyes flicked to his hand on the water glass, then back up, sharp with something unreadable. “So no,” she added, calm. “You don’t always let them die. Not if they’re the only ones who remember what you looked like before the wreckage.”

But she didn’t let the weight sit long.

The moment passed, and just like that, Romy shifted again — like someone flipping the station back to something lighter, tinny piano music overlaid with static and neon charm. The armor wasn’t down, but it flexed, just for a second.

“You crack my armor, Brinewater, and what? You gonna polish the dents?” she teased, plucking one last fry like it might be a peace offering. “Spoiler: the ghosts are unionized. They’ll want hazard pay.” She clinked his water glass this time instead of her own, then leaned back with a satisfied hum, as if the clatter meant something had been settled — even if it hadn’t.

At his offer to call a cab, she shook her head, the movement small but certain.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said, finishing off what was left in her glass with a small, content sigh. “I’m not far from home. Five blocks, four if I cut through the alley and don’t get distracted by the old poetry vending machine.”

Then, a little quieter, eyes sliding sideways to meet his without any theatrics left, “Are you good to make it home safe? Or do you need more water and a note pinned to your jacket in case you wander off? I could draw you a little map. I'm really good at that.” She didn’t stand just yet — not quite. Just watched him like she wasn’t done deciding whether the man across from her was more lighthouse or shipwreck.