(no subject)

[once_janus]

{WHO}: Christine and Elizabeth
{WHERE}: Some hotel in the target city
{WHEN}: The night before the reunion
{WHAT HAPPENS}: Chris and Liz probably get drunk and make horrible life decisions idek.
{WARNINGS}: N/A as of yet...?



It takes several failed sparks to ignite the demure curl of fire at the spout of her lighter, and Elizabeth breathes in quick to catch the small flash of brief flame. Her addictions grow craven on the fuel of her distress, but ultimately it doesn’t matter, right? No damage that can’t be undone.

If only that was a universal Constant.

The young woman’s tarnished silver sigh trails behind her as she walks restlessly to the window, and gazes upon the almost labyrinthine streets below the fourth story suite. The room had been whatever Hancock could swing at the moment, with Liz being so inconveniently unconscious and all. They’d arrived to the target city a few sparse hours before Christine, thanks to that suicidal shortcut they’d taken.

The reunion didn’t quite go how Liz imagined, and she spends a moment settled with a self deprecating smile; as the only angel left in the group, she sets a terrible example. It was more than once or twice her huge black wings had fooled someone into thinking she was Officially Damned.

Her eyes wander to the patiently waiting mirror upon the wall, and her memories flash super-vivid across her senses. She sees herself in contrasting reflections, just like she did in the tiny bathroom of that plane as it cut through the skies towards Rapture’s lighthouse. Three separate girls, almost like entirely different people, and now there is a fourth; the reflection she belongs to now. Her eyes and her bird pin are practically all that remain of the girl who lived in that tower.

Somehow, Elizabeth gets the impression that Christine understands. With Hancock absent for what he bluntly termed a Drug Run, only Christine remains for company, and Elizabeth can’t deny she’s glad; she wants a chance to speak to her alone, to do anything she can to make things even a little easier on her dearest friend. There’s no judgement in her thoughts, no disappointment. Only that caring tenderness that had been all but smothered in blood; it comes to her more easily in matters that concern Christine. Beyond that, her protective streak has her wondering if there’s anyone she needs to ‘encourage’ to walk off a cliff.

When there’s footsteps by the door, Elizabeth hopes it’s Christine returning-- but it’s roomservice, offering a selection of various alcohols for sale. She doesn’t hesitate to drop a pile of dracos on a hefty bottle of red wine. It’s horrible, of course, but it does the job.

Returning to the spacious bed, Elizabeth perches upon the corner to finish with her smoke. By the time she’s finished, her position has degraded and she’s laying listlessly on her back, wondering if every goddamn hotel in Hell has mirrors on the ceiling.

She hopes Christine returns with something illegal and sweet.

(It’s only a happy coincidence that fretting about her means Elizabeth doesn’t have to focus on tomorrow.)

Comments

[lethermindwander]

Christine had sorely overestimated her ability to keep herself busy in any sort of constructive way with Hancock’s absence. She should have just gone with him on his drug run. With such a black pit still trapped in her chest, she can hardly stand to be near Elizabeth or anyone else right now. She doesn’t want to hear any more platitudes, she doesn’t want Elizabeth’s sympathy or for her to get angry on Christine’s behalf--No. No matter how much good Elizabeth or Hancock mean to do, there’s nothing that can really help ease this sort of suffering.

So in her quest to avoid her friends at all costs, Christine’s day has gone a bit like this: Go to bar. Get drunk. Get thrown out of bar for dubious reasons. Find new bar. Realize that this place is also a piece of shit. Steal “The Good Stuff” from the backroom. Pass out on a rooftop. Take that, universe.

Wake up and have a sudden realization that there’s quite a few things she needs to say to Elizabeth before tomorrow because Christine has been a supremely terrible friend as of late. With heavy feet and dread hanging over her like a heavy cloak, she trudges back to the hotel room. Her head is still cloudy from an alcoholic haze, somewhere between being both hungover and still drunk from the ungodly amounts of booze she’s consumed in the last 24 hours.

And considering all the contraband she’s dragging up to the room, she’s probably just going to find a way to give her extra resilient demon body alcohol poisoning.

Christine enters the room with as much fanfare as a galloping elephant, her balance slightly wavering as she closes the door behind her. With an airy laugh, she sets the heavy bag full of illegal goodies down on the table.

“I come bearing gifts. Who needs abhorrent Hell wine when you could have delicious living world champagne instead?” She pulls a cigarette from her jacket’s pocket and quickly lights it before pulling a chair over towards Elizabeth’s bed. Cigarette in one hand, a half empty bottle in the other, she sits down backwards in the chair. She leans forward and rests her elbows on the back of it.

“We need to talk.”

[once_janus]

Elizabeth doesn't blame Christine for wanting to be alone; hell, after Booker died (after she drowned him, occurs the vivid memory) she pretty much immediately shot off to Rapture with murderous intent, so she understands very intimately that overwhelming pain can drive one to all manners of impulsive madness. And honestly, those are Christine's mistakes-- Christine's choices to make. Elizabeth knows that nothing she can say will ease Christine’s pain in any substantial way… but she still had to try; had to let her know that she is there for her. For all her book knowledge, Elizabeth has little enough experience with true substantial bonds to know comfortably how to best be of help.

Failing that, booze, sweet foods, and frivolous distractions seem to work well enough, so the grim young woman is silently very pleased with her friend’s haul of goodies.

Though things have fallen apart for her dear friend, Elizabeth still cannot shrug off the sense of comfort that comes from simply being in her presence. That, strangely, has not changed in the slightest. In the back of her mind, she wonders if Christine feels anything like she did, when she first slipped into her Rapture attire…

Like there’s suddenly someone else in the mirror, looking back with your own eyes. A brand new monster under your own skin.

Elizabeth sits up as Christine gracefully enters the room. She puts out her cigarette in a cracked glass ashtray, turning towards Christine with a demure little smile, comfortable in her familiar cool composure, because it’s about the only familiar thing she has right now.

“Well isn’t that ominous,” she replies smoothly, lifting one dark penciled brow with a twitch of the mouth too dry and humorless to be a smirk. Seeing this catastrophe unfold for her friend, along side the sudden plethora of worries about the next day’s meeting, drives the point of how much could potentially go wrong.

But the only thing worse than going through with it, would be running away now.

“You’re going to spoil me rotten, you know,” she replies with sarcastic disapproval, sliding towards the table and keenly examining the treasures within the bag. “But if you insist…” Elizabeth finds the champagne first, and expertly pops the cork. Also who uses glasses anymore come on.

“Chilled?” she questions elegantly, allowing a few flecks of frost to curl around the hand which grips the bottle.

[lethermindwander]

“Getting drunk and indulging in various illegal substances before a monumental meeting is tradition at this point, yes?” Christine smirks and exhales a long puff of smoke that curls around her in a haze.

But then she’s tipping her head back and letting booze slide down her throat and her good humor dissipates slightly. She finishes the bottle and it slips from her grip, clanging to the floor with an echo. She narrows her eyes and stares Elizabeth down, their golden color absolutely fierce and piercing.

“I want you to know,” she starts, “Fantasies are sometimes best kept as just that. Fantasies. You still have a chance to turn away and leave this steaming pile of shit alone. You have a choice, no matter how much it feels like you don’t.”

Christine looks down and bites her lips together while she collects her words. Her wounds are still so raw and new, she can’t entirely figure out what she wants to say. Or maybe she’s just too drunk to make much sense at all.

“You still have doors open. Don’t close them all because of something that might happen. Don’t fucking do something you can’t come back from. No matter what you’ve done in the past up ‘till now, you still have wings.”

Christine looks away, the ceiling swirling above her, the walls spinning and her chest aching.

“Angels don’t belong in Hell,” she chokes on the words. Christine finally takes the offered, chilly bottle. She takes a long drink before handing it back to Elizabeth.

“Angels don’t belong in Hell and there will be consequences you never would-- or even could imagine. And you, you deserve better.”

[once_janus]

“True,” she easily concedes; it’s a tradition she has no qualms with upholding. When it seems her aggressively concerned friend is about to impart some wise pessimism, Elizabeth elegantly pulls out a demure chair from beneath the table’s edge and sits. A small sense of morbid curiosity mumbles beneath her much louder concern, confusion, and tepid anxiety about the morning to come. Christine is, unfortunately, the perfect example of everything that could go wrong. Inside eternity, there is so much potential for making things so much worse than one could stretch to imagine. Elizabeth cannot tell her she isn’t right, and that bodes ill of the following day.

Permafrost blue eyes shift steadily towards her makeup bag, perched upon the unremarkable table. In brief preparation, she corrals her humidified lazy curls into a loose tie at the back of her neck. Keeping a keen ear while her companion continues, Elizabeth unzips the small neat bag and withdraws a little black compact mirror and a tube of swabs for removing her makeup.

“I’ve heard that somewhere before,” she remarks dryly, yet not sharply. Her own wisdom, mirrored back at her… and yet, what had she done then? Veered towards the truth, no matter the cost.

Someone she loves taught her that.

Elizabeth absorbs Christine’s words in all their raw painful honesty; just because things went so wrong, doesn’t mean they can’t go right. Still, DeWitts seem to have crap luck when it comes to making such risky gambles.

“So you’re telling me… what? I should high tail it back to The Land of The Dull to save myself from potential emotional agony and ruin?” There is a friendly faint mocking, and more so affection in her tone as her brow (paler than the other) lifts with the tiny curl of her lips.

“I’m not saying there isn’t some logic to that, but… I think you’re forgetting someone; someone I’d rather not leave behind,” she remarks, meticulously cleaning every wisp of smoke from around her left eye. “Don’t misunderstand me; you have more than enough reason to think tomorrow is a terrible idea-- more reason than anyone.” She bleeds the red off her mouth-- oddly, half of her mouth, so when she turns to look Christine dead on, her face is split between painted, and naked.

It undercuts her fierceness and doesn’t smother down her softness; beneath the paint she’s tired and hurting because she can’t let go of hope, like a dagger through her palm she refuses to release.

“Think back, to the time just before you found Erik; how did you feel? What did you believe?" she pauses, her voice dropping into unsteady quiet, "I bet you were scared, just like I’m scared, but...” her lips press into a thin joyless smile and her eyes dart away to catch her own reflection in her little hand held mirror. “Do you think you could have possibly barred to run?”

And it seems like somewhere smothered beneath the smoke and fire and pain, there is a small something in Elizabeth that aches to be completed, chaining her to hope like the tethers that bind a body to burn on its pire.