tacostop | (no subject)

💀 WHO: Booker DeWitt and Elizabeth DeWitt
💀 WHERE: Little Parasites Cafe, Little Hades, Hell
💀 WHEN: Early June
💀 WARNINGS: TBA
💀 SUMMARY: A family reunion.

It's been around about a year, Elizabeth reflects, that she's been down here in the sweltering heat. Long enough to carve out a small space for herself inside the city that has no qualms with chewing people up, and spitting them out; demon, angel, and limbo case alike. She's settled uneasily, created a structure and routine to her days, so that every single moment is not spent searching the millions of Little Hades' citizens for the one person she hopes will be here.

It isn't all bad, really. Elizabeth has friends (barely a plural) which is alien enough, considering she's had so few. She has a place to live, a job, and a small web of connections to help her keep eyes on the city. It would be a stretch to call Hell comfortable, but considering her experience, it isn't the worst place she could have spent her time. The days swim along in a fairly steady current; she does Community Service (like a large portion of the city, as it is favorable to torture), paints, and she spends time with Christine; she sings upon the stage of a small shifty cafe for a little extra cash. And when she's not doing any of that, she takes to her 'borrowed' mechanical stallion and combs the streets, hoping beyond hope that she'll finally find him.

But so far? No dice. The day starts like any other; a cigarette and a coffee accompany the quiet empty static that occasionally bursts from the busted shortwave radio on her table. She checks her messages, dresses for the ridiculous heat, and descends from her loft above the cafe at which she works. The bright red neon letters above the entrance declare the place 'Little Parasites' but the lights occasionally flicker, spelling instead 'Little Paris'. Tucked beside the brick and glass building is Elizabeth's ride, and a keen eye might spot a spattering of her paintings through the large glass walls, hung inside the cafe.

With the doors propped open, the suspiciously sweet smells of baked goods (that are incredibly illegal, in Hell) and dark coffee saturate the grossly humid air that surrounds the cafe. Chatter, along with the sound of music unfurl from the door; mellow rich guitar cords of accompaniment play from what appears to be some kind of ghetto blaster, tucked against the back of the tiny stage. Elizabeth quietly yet sternly occupies the small space inside a faint haze of stage-light.

The folk here are not classy; actually, no one in Hell really is. But if it's one thing Hell does right, it's music. So when Elizabeth starts to sing, a fair few customers shut up pretty damn quick to listen. Once she had sang for Sander Cohen, so the crowd of the cafe doesn't usually bother her. Today... she feels tense, in a way she can't define. She'll go for a ride when this is over, she decides. Follow the road as far as it goes. For the moment, she firmly presses her restlessness beneath her heel, and pours her focus into finishing her song.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He once heard a theory that the higher someone was from the ground the less they weighed. He considered the possible heaviness of his feet meant that he was deeper into the core of this world—

wherever Hades might be. All he knew was he felt a few shades darker here, a heightened intensity for irritability, a complexity of shame and guilt and a bit more disdain for himself and for this world. Booker found little comfort here and even less joy. The spirits here, however, were strong and he wasn’t sure if it was some sort of ironic dark twist of comedy that the sins of his past world felt so much better here or if it was a general joke that spirits in Hades would harness a satisfying quench just for namesake alone. Either way Booker took to the drink with a dependent need of comfort and reliability.

He had been here for over a hour, a new bar for him to try and stumble out of. He was grateful there was no shortage of places for him to hang his hat, no matter what time of day it was. Little Hades was at least accommodating to the sinner and over indulger. What would he care, the worst he’ll ever do he’s already done; so coming here was the best he could ever hope for, especially when this place was well equipped to handle his kind of taste.

He left the bar about three hours since he’d come to it and his wandering feet took yet another road untraveled as he spiraled deeper into his mind. His trek was slow and his hands occasionally went out around him to steady his balance, this was when he felt the best. Drunk and numb.

Yet something penetrated his thoughts and he looked with unfocused eyes as he followed the sound of a voice familiar to him. It was like he was on auto-pilot because he didn’t find himself focusing until he saw the girl on the stage. He had both hands on the frame of the door and the open door pressed to his backside. His sight moved through the cloud of darkness with the dim of lights and beneath the spotlight a raven haired beauty had his heart skip a beat.

This shade of Hell in particular was one of some fairly unique circumstances and composition; certainly nothing like the hell Comstock promised his enemies. It was nothing like any of the lore Elizabeth had ever read, but by now the novelty had all worn off. She didn't really think about the things she's done in this town, because really, all of it paled in comparison to what she had already done.

Some additional petty theft (and a few other things) probably wouldn't tip the scales; after all, she had already been judged.

All means to an end, was her justification. Everything she did was to find Booker; every crooked deal, traded favor, every draco (Hell dollar) passed beneath the table. It was almost the only way to get anything done in this town.

She never expected him to just walk through the door.

In the moment, the muddy dimness kept him hidden. As her song drew to a close, one particularly poignant lyric ('and then he climbed my tower, and off the edge of me he ran') struck an unpleasant cord in her chest. In the end, it didn't matter that she didn't-- couldn't walk through that door with Booker; that she couldn't bare to be among the hands that drowned him. She saw it, felt it, from so many points of view that even skirting the memories made her mortal head split.

Elizabeth's reflections stirred her restlessness; though she finished the song softly, she was quick to flee the tiny stage. She didn't even bother to gather her tips, because to hell with it. A year is a long while to work so hard for nothing.

Well, maybe not nothing. She did have someone track down her bird pin; an accessory she was almost never without. It was perched upon the rich red velvet band she wore around her throat, clean over a few nicks and scratches.

It took her only moments to cross the cafe, striding purposefully for the door--

And she very nearly walked right into him. For a lengthy moment she could stare, a subtle war of fear and hope tarring up the blue of her eyes beneath a barely held composure. This was Hell, after all; it could be a trick, or a Booker that wasn't... her Booker. She gazed at him uncertainly; maybe she had outgrown the free and careless impulse to reach out and touch his face... but her hand lifted a few hesitant inches, regardless.

"Booker," she spoke uncertainly; a small amount of suspicion overcome by a wounded hope that had barely broken past her fear. "Is... it really you?" it didn't even matter to her that he smelled like a brewery. A small smile attempted to turn the corners of her lips, and for a moment it made her look younger and softer than the harsh suggestions of her makeup.

"Are you really here?"

Edited 2017-05-18 18:24 (UTC)

There was no mistake, despite his eyes trailing over her waiting for some movement to betray this imposter. Her step, the color of her eyes, the twitch of her lips, this was all evidence of his Elizabeth. His stomach tightened and turned with discomfort. His head even felt light and his eyes unfocused. It would be likely of him to pass out about now but he fought to keep his stance. His fingers twitched beside him and the door closed on his back. The force was not excessive to push him forward but his feet fell into a few clumsy steps toward Elizabeth and his fingers twitched again before his arms moved up to hover his hands over her arms.

His brows were drawn together and he had a deep frown to his lips. This wasn’t the first time she haunted him but the only time he was certain she was there. The only way to break this spell was the contact of his hands to her arms. Once he had his fingers curled around her upper arms he expected to see her eyes dull, her face grow, and her expression angered––

he expected her to turn into a stranger in which his over exaggerated loneliness for Elizabeth had become so tangible it morphed yet another person into his angel. His Angel.

When his touch did not break the spell he leaned his head in and his arms then moved around the girl and he pulled her close. She would feel his heartbeat quicken and his breath quiver his lips with a shaken, “Elizabeth…” over her shoulder. Then it hit him as if he was falling freely from Columbia to the damned earth below. His head was light, his knees were weak, and his stomach now lurched up to his throat as he leaned heavily onto her.

He was drunk and this still might be a demon in disguise to haunt him still, but he was falling quick for her despite it all.

'Please let this be real', sounded the tiny hope at the back of her mind. Like her father, suspicion had made itself almost second nature in Elizabeth's mind; she already knew there were many Bookers that were not... well, hers. Beyond that, Hell could be a cruel bitch with its jokes. She wanted to be suspicious, but more than that, she wanted to believe that she had finally found him.

At the man's initial stumble, Elizabeth's arms moved by some remnant of reflex; she was ready to catch him, if need be. It seemed like ages ago, but she still remembered playing combat medic and patching him up on the field, whenever he went down. They protected each other, and even with everything that had changed, that was still a thoughtless impulse; an instinct.

She hung long in the moment where she wasn't quite catching him, and he wasn't quite touching her. The frown illustrated Booker's hard-taught suspicion; the sensation of his hands on her bare arms suddenly cut down the serene uncertainty and brought up a sudden sense of crisp reality.

This was real. The breath was all but knocked out of her when Booker tugged her against his chest, and it occurred to her that through all thier travels, they had never actually hugged. She spent a moment stunned by the newness of it, before her thin arms darted around his ribs, and her hands clasped around the backs of his shoulders.

"It's me," she replied to the almost reverent sound of her name; her voice felt suddenly unsteady and raw, struggling past a sudden tightness in her throat. She was a bit taller than Booker might remember, but perhaps that was the heels. She was softer in places too, with curves that were perhaps more luscious than memory might suggest. Booker's heartbeat filled her head as she clung a little tighter, and buried her face at his collarbone. A few stunted breaths struggled past her painted lips.

It was a lucky thing that Elizabeth had developed a bit more strength, or Booker's sudden weight might have knocked them both down in the doorway. But if she could handle the kickback of a shotgun in heels, she could manage to hold his weight-- for a time, at least.

"I've got you," her voice is slightly strained, still shaking off the disbelief. "I guess you've had one or six too many," an odd little blip of sarcastic humor, devoid of any judgement. "Can you stand, Booker?" gentle concern chipped away the harshness of her learned persona, but she was still... different, in as many ways as she was the same. Fishnet stockings and heels were probably among the more striking changes.