#giffing their glances actually made me quITE unwell

[danburys]

POLIN WEEK 2024 DAY 7, POLIN SONGS

She's the rope that holds me Yes, I know she knows me well enough, oh She's the fire that blinds me Leaves my fears behind me for a while, oh

In Need by Gert Taberner

[supremeinlilac]

The Weeping Angel

Pairing: Billie Dean Howard X Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2007

Warnings: none???

Summary: An introduction story with Billie Dean, how you met on the Hotel Cortez's devils night

A/N: For @lilypadscoven !! Thank you for always pushing me and being so supportive, here's your little Billie fic :)) ps sorry for any mistakes, I have yet to go through it <3

Gif by: @illuminated-blue

It wasn’t the first time you’d had to spend a night in a sketchy motel in downtown LA, and although you’d hoped you’d gotten yourself to a place where you wouldn’t need to rely on them, you knew it wouldn’t be your last.

The wallpaper was dusty, peeling at the join of the ceiling to reveal the damp clinging to the walls. You tried to ignore the mildew that crept across from the corners, dark and whispering and eery against the dirty white paint.

There was a hole where a past resident had quite obviously punched through the wall and into the bathroom, showing the fragility of the plaster that separated you from the rooms next to you. The room was alive with past anger, souls in the walls with spindly arms that reached for the living.

It was cold, and you shivered beneath the itch of the hotel blanket, wrapped loosely around your shoulders. The motel windows did nothing to still the cool draft of the city night, allowing it to cut through ill-sealed panes.

You’d left your college accommodation earlier that evening, clothes thrown haphazardly into a rucksack as you’d hurried to leave. You hadn’t time to collect your personal belongings in the rush, so you knew you’d have to return there at some point.

There was no point worrying about the why’s now, you were locked in the room and you were safe. Safely unsafe in one of the roughest areas you could find, but you knew they wouldn’t think to look here. You couldn’t bring yourself to care about the details of your leaving.

You could hear the almost constant wail of sirens as police cars zipped past the motel, piercing and fading as they neared and went.

You sat with your back against the wall, in the space beside the bed. Your laptop balanced on your crossed legs, you connected to the flaky hotel Wi-Fi to try and get some of your college work completed before your food arrived. You still needed to keep up with your work if you were to have any semblance of a future.

A muffled sniff broke your concentration, cutting through the thin wall to you. Trying not to pry, you refocused on the illuminated screen, words blurring as the sound didn’t cease behind you. Sighing, you tore your eyes away from your work and onto the floor.

You were meant to be keeping a low profile, goddamn it.

Listening, an ear to the rough wallpaper, you closed your eyes to better gage if the occupant next to you was simply unwell or was crying. You settled upon the latter when a clatter of what you assumed was the bedside lamp fell to the floor, and the sniffling intensified.

“Are you alright?” you spoke to the wall, wrapping your knuckles against the plaster to show that you were talking to her.

Another sniff, this one an obvious attempt to disguise it as a cough. Feminine, you concluded, closing your laptop and sliding it onto the bed so you could shuffle around.

“Yeah, I’m alright.” Billie spoke, the pads of her fingers coming to wipe hesitantly under her eyes at the smear of mascara.

She stopped pacing at the sound of your voice, coming to kneel at the wall where she thought you’d come from. Unknowingly, you both reached up to the wall with searching fingers, resting on opposite sides in a fateful mirroring. Reaching out.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I-” she paused, voice cracking as she shook her head in surrender, “no.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“I- I can’t,” Billie confessed, forehead falling to the wall with a thud that you felt from your side.

You could practically hear the pain in her voice, the fear. You nodded in understanding, despite her not being able to see you. Luckily for the mysterious woman in room 124, you were capable in the art of distraction and it was an apt skill for moments like these.

“Okay. Well, urm- I, what’s your favourite colour?”

“I don’t- wait what?”

Her confusion had you subconsciously repeating the question, fingers pressed to the wallpaper as if you’d slip right though and into the woman’s arms, able to hold her and chase the demons that plagued her.

“Pink,” she rasped, “like the faded kind.”

You hummed, your stranger in pink.

“What’s your name?”

“Billie Dean Howard,” she paused, a small smile flickering at the corner of her mouth, “medium to the stars.”

“I’m Y/n. Medium to urm, LA?” you laughed uncomfortably, unsure of why she’d spoken her name as if a catchphrase.

Billie’s eyes narrowed to the wall momentarily, were you mocking her? She felt the tugging need to feel offended by your taunt, the familiar jolt of anger under skin. It would be easier to be mad, to rage at the world for giving her this gift and putting her in danger; but the silk to your voice softened her.

“You don’t know me?” She assumed, an expecting tone in her voice that made you faulter. You’d never really been one for reality television, even for factual programs like Billie’s.

“I’m sorry, should I?”

“No, I suppose not,” she trailed off, happy that you were in the dark about her personality. Glad you

People who knew her were curious, always asking questions she would be too eager to answer with a bat of her lashes and a confident tone. But on this occasion, she was relief that no questions would be asked.

Questions about what happened would be dangerous if answered. She knew she could never speak of the happenings if she valued her life, or those around her.

Billie Dean wasn’t stupid. But she was scared.

Your phone buzzed beside you and Billie jumped, hand to her chest to still the frantic beating of a nervous heart. Your food had arrived, and you moved away from the wall with a whispered goodbye.

Your new absence was overwhelming for the medium, panic looming as eyes darted around the dimly lit room. Lights from passing cars cast menacing shadows across the walls, each resembling ghosts from the hotel.

Reaching claws to drag her back to the Cortez, a change of their mind. Why should they let her go, when they could have much more fun with her in that chair.

Tears fell freely again and she let out a strangled sob. The phantom touch of the knife against her throat had Billie reaching up to push it away, the whir of the hand drill behind her closed eyes. She’d been so close to death, practically tasting its breath against her tongue as it mocked her.

The crack of a knock against her door pulled her from herself, and had her hastily wiping her tears with the back of her palm, smoothing down the dress with trembling hands.

Was it her, at the door, ready to finish her off?

Treading lightly against the scraping of old carpet, Billie Dean made her way to the door, fingers ghosting over the handle as she willed herself to be braver.

Through the peep hole, with Billie holding a nervous breath, she saw your back, and how you kept glancing up and down the corridor as if someone were to jump out. So you were frightened of someone, something, too. Just as she was, running.

With a shaky exhale, Billie drew the door open. You turned at the familiar click of the mechanism, a shy grin ghosting on your face as you held the takeaway bags up in silent offering.

Hello.

She was so familiar, almost as if you could reach out and touch her and remember. As if your past self was emerging to greet you again. A phoenix in fire from the ashes, a weeping angel from the rubble of death.

It’s you. It’s going to be you.

You couldn’t help but rake your eyes over the mysterious women silhouetted in the doorway. She looked out of place here. Too perfect to be haunted.

Your stranger in pink wasn’t actually your stranger in pink.

She wore a cornflower blue dress that held delicate white flowers, too dainty and too perfect to be dampened by the tears that tracked through her natural make up. It was cinched at the waist and just served to make her look ever smaller, more frightened. Like a child awoke by a nightmare.

Her hair was dishevelled, and it haloed her face in rays of glowing honey.

A weeping angel.

She wore pearls around her neck. Expensive and slightly scratched, as they get when they are someone’s favourite accessory and must be worn.

You could see where her rosy acrylics had picked her skin raw, worrying it unforgivingly between the nails. See the pain and fear reflected in her eyes, could she see it in yours too?

“Hey,” she whispered, ushering you past her and peeking into the empty corridor as if staying out in the open for too long was dangerous for the both of you. Maybe it was.

In her room you saw no belongings, nothing personal that would serve to tie her to the space around her. It was as if she were an echo before you, neither here nor there. An angel sent and trapped as a mortal, an echo.

She patted the bed beside her, drawing the table closer for you to place the bag on. You hesitantly set it down, moving to perch next to her and shyly look down at hands clasped on your lap.

Uncomfortable silence filled the air, thick and suffocating and it made your joined hands clammy with sweat. You busied yourself by unwrapping the food on the table, there wasn’t much due to your need to save money and only buying for one, but it would go round. You didn’t suspect that she’d eaten that evening either.

“Thank you.” She smiled, and you offered her one of the boxes of food with a shy glance. You assumed she meant for more than just the food. Her eyes conveyed what her words could not.

There was only one pair of chopsticks so you passed it back and forth, wordlessly, gratefully. The hum of the TV balancing upon the wall giving a welcomed distraction from talking, although you talked anyway.

You’d described your degree, your hopes and plans while she listened, the hint of a smile again on the smudged lipstick. She still looked beautiful, you thought, even with her messed up makeup and leg that bounced unrelentingly against the floor.

She still looked like an angel to you, one carved from marble, imperfectly chipped by the sculptor. Too broken to be granted eternity but ethereal all the same. A mortal angel among the living.

The angel spoke with chords of light and you were caught, hanging onto every word that dripped effortlessly from her silver tongue. She spoke about nothing, about everything.

At one point, Billie Dean reached her hand tentatively towards your, searching for the comfort of a strangers touch. You didn’t shy away from that touch; because even though there was safety in loneliness, you couldn’t help but feel the shelter from her invisible wings.

Perhaps Billie Dean Howard could be your safety, and you hers.

You knew she was running, and maybe she could run faster if she had an encouraging hand held fast in her own. Your hand. You weren’t an angel but your hands were steady. They were strong and guiding and made of your own marble. Forged by your own touch instead of the delicate chisel of an artist.

Neither of you asked the other why salty tears dried against the curve of delicate cheek bones, knowing that knowledge would do nothing but bring more pain. More pain that neither needed.

After all, misery likes company, and both of you were content to give that, even just for the night.

You hoped for more, but could learn to settle for a single moment of her presence, if that was all the weeping angel could allow.

taglist: @pearplate @billiedeansbottom @pluied-ete @notokpaulson @extraordinarilycelestrial @nothingbut-a-beautiful-monster @mssallymckenna @magnificent-paulsonn @shineestark @commanderspeach @grilledcheeseandguavajelly @darling-dontforgetme @amethyst-bitch @its-soph-xx @germansarechill @bluesxrgnt @d14n4ol @ninaahs @sarahp-stan @natasha-danvers @imgayandmymomdoesntknow @lovelypeasantjellyfish @rainbow-hedgehog @paulawand @saucy-sapphic @lilypadscoven @citizenoftheworld-stuff-blog @sapphicsarahpaulson @delias-bitch-craft

[sunlitroom]

Random lengthy Gotham meta time.

There’s a gif set of Oswald visiting Jim and Barbara’s apartment doing the rounds.  It’s the little scene where Barbara tells Oswald that Jim never tells her anything, and that he never introduces her to any of his friends.

Looking at it made me think of one of my perceptions of Jim, which is that he’s not actually too great socially.  He’s not especially good at making friends, and probably doesn’t have a particularly wide circle of friends.  After we find out about Ed, and what he’s done, you’d expect absolute anger and contempt from Jim.  But that’s not what we get.  We get, instead, the same thing, rather plaintively repeated from Jim

I was your friend

I considered you a friend

Neither statement is thrown angrily at Ed.  He’s not bitter, or accusing.  The first sounds almost confused, resigned.  It takes place when they confront each other in the woods.  Ed is laughing about how easy it was to frame Jim, and Jim just replies, quietly, ‘I was your friend’.  Of course Jim would have trusted him, and wouldn’t have expected him to deliberately hurt him, because they were friends.  

Jim tries repeatedly to find a way to explain Ed’s betrayal away

How did you become this?

When Ed tells him this is just the truth of who he always was, Jim replies

I don’t believe that

And then, finally, in an attempt to somehow absolve Ed of his actions

You’re insane

Even Ed points out that the latter explanation is simply the one Jim finds easier to deal with.  The notion that Ed did this because he is unwell allows Jim to still keep hold of the idea that their friendship was sincere.

 The second is downright sad.  In the car, waiting for Kathryn to show up and take Ed to the Court of Owls, Jim talks about the night that they all had dinner together.  He says that Lee had to twist his arm (which ties in with what Barbara says about not getting to wear her fancy ‘night out’ clothes anymore: Jim is not the most social of guys) - but that he enjoyed the time they spent together.  And again, there’s that plaintive I considered you a friend.

With that last instance, there’s no reason to share this with Ed right now.  Jim is exactly where he needs to be in the context of his larger mission at this point.  He needs to keep the Court of Owls sweet in order to save the city.  The Court wants him to deliver Ed.  Ed is demanding to be delivered to them or he’ll continue to wreak havoc.  

Jim can solve both problems - but here he is, looking suspiciously red-eyed, trying to remind a man with a gun pointed at him that he once saw him as a friend.  What will that achieve? What would he have done if Ed had wavered?  If Ed had lowered his gun, and changed his mind?  Would Jim have turned the car round and got them both the hell out of there as fast as possible?  It would have put him in a very tricky position with the Court, but I honestly believe that Jim would have done it.  Despite everything that’s happened between them, all Jim is looking for here is an excuse not to hand Ed over.

This, in turn, made me think about the times where Ed just hasn’t been quite able to pull the trigger on Jim.

The first is when they confront one another in the woods.  After Barnes, Harvey and all the back-up has appeared, Ed has his gun pointed at Jim.

Now.  The game is up at this point.  Ed knows that he’s thoroughly caught.  There’s no real reason not to kill Jim right now - even if it’s only out of rage and frustration.  Ed is done, anyway.  

But he doesn’t.  He points the gun for a couple of seconds, he stares at him... and then there’s a strangled snarl of frustration as he drops it and runs.

We see him do exactly the same thing in The Primal Riddle, when he brings Aubrey James to GCPD.   At about 2m11s, Jim reaches into his pocket.  I glanced back at my recap to see if the same thing occurred to me at the time:

Ed aims his gun.  Jim reaches for his pocket.  Ed reverts for a moment to GoodEd in terms of flustered impotence – reduced to yelling

Don’t!

(An aside. And isn’t that interesting.  I think it’s unclear whether or not Ed doesn’t want Jim to go for his gun because it’s interfering with his image of how this would go; or because if he shoots Jim he risks losing the information he needs; or simply because – somewhere – there’s a part of Ed that doesn’t want to shoot Jim.)

I honestly think it’s the latter.  Yes - it bruises Ed’s ego when things don’t go to plan, but the plan’s already ruined at that point, because the detonator didn’t work.  What’s bothering him here is the prospect of Jim forcing his hand by going for his gun, because - in spite of everything - there’s still some part of Ed that sees Jim as a friend, and doesn’t want to shoot him.  He couldn’t bring himself to do it in the woods, and he can’t bring himself to do it here, either.

(It’s all much sillier in tone - but I think the same would go for season four, when Ed has Jim in his squishing machine.  If Ed really wants Jim gone at that point- he just shoots him.  If he insists on torture, then maybe choosing a more private location would have worked.  This is just begging to be caught and stopped before he crosses the point of no return)

I do like it, the idea that neither of them is entirely willing to relinquish their friendship.  I like even more that it’s partly down to the fact that neither of them does well with making friends, and so they’ll stubbornly cling to those they genuinely felt friendship for at one point.  They’ll merrily punch each other in the face whenever they meet, but they’ll be damned if they’ll shoot each other.

Thoughts, anyone who is still up for any Gotham meta?  @dashokeypokey?  @marcceh?  Anyone else?