(no subject)

[nestingdevil]

Open PSLs | Just throw up a subject line and GO FOR IT! All's green!

Comments

➥ DMC/Brotherhood | Always Open for Business

[nestingdevil]

It's mutually beneficial, isn't it? This - whatever this is. Of course, it hadn't started that way - least, not the mutual part. She'd come to him down the barrel of a nine-shooter first, trigger already cocked, loaded, and pulled before he even had a chance at a proper introduction. He can still remember the finer details: the smooth-silver sides, the pitch black hole staring at him with empty disregard. It was only after, when the splinters of his skull had puzzled themselves back together, did she pause, question.

It was one of the more interesting cigarette breaks he had had in a long, long time.

Greed clips his sunglasses by edge of the frame. The metal between his fingers is cold to the touch, colored hot by the drool of medical-pink neon blinking from above. Honestly, the politics of the current climate aren't his issue, not entirely. They come into play here and there (be it an interest of his, an intrigue, a switch-up of the known players). She, though - she's involved. A renegade woman laced to the gills in pipe bombs, grenades, and enough ammunition to make even the most chest-pounding monsters question their routes.

Which brings them, this, whatever it is, meeting at the hairline of a crossroad.

"You're late," the Sin presses his tongue against the back of his teeth, his eyes drifting to a clock on the wall that doesn't exist. Amusement, deceit - they play on his crooked mouth, expressing his intentions. She isn't late, not really. Appointments aren't kept here. Instead, they're vague. Vague days, vague hours, vague circumstances in which they'll inevitably meet again. Greed folds his sunglasses on top of the bar and exchanges them for a half-spent cigarette smeared in an ashtray. Ambiguous is a good enough definition for what they share.

It's satisfying.

The fluttery-breath of a lighter brings his attention back and the Sin's eyes shrink to pricks. He sucks purposely at the filter, dragging not a whisper of smoke, but a cough, down, down, down. The day's weather's taken a turn and against the windows of the bar, pellets of rain stick to the glass like moths congregating around a single, blaring lamppost. "If she was in a mood before," he thinks and his smile only quickens across his face.

If she was in a mood before, the added rain could have one or two outcomes.

He almost hopes it's the latter.

The homunculus pockets his hands, letting his elbows puff out as sure as a fine-feathered vulture knowing the answer to a traveler's riddle, but foregoing any hints. Lady brings a little bit of the other side whenever she comes strolling in. Not good, no, but so unlike his usual company. She walks a fine line between righteous and practical, which is hard to come by these days.

One of the reasons he admires her, maybe.

Greed's heels hit the floorboards sharp and drumming. With the sign out front off and the bar empty, every nck and tck of his boots echo like a marching band coming in at a distance. He shoves his right elbow out while he walks on by, nudging the power button to a stereo that, in three hours or so, will be drowned out by an increasingly-drunken slur. For now, the music fills the building; the sound, like booze to an empty glass slowly drinking it in, in, in, until the brim teeters close enough for a spill:

"Don't get too comfortable with the man who has no history
Shadows climbing walls hide cracks we don't want other eyes to see-"

Melodically, Greed snatches up his sunglasses, swinging them over his fingers and keying the frames with the tips of his fine pointed nails. One of the ear pieces snaps open, catching gaudy light and shadow like a wash of fresh paint turned up by the wheel of a car. He pats a pedal with the point of his boot. The sign out front struggles, pops, buzzes.

She'll show up. Today, tomorrow, a week from now. And him, well.

Greed's grin ignites to no one but himself.

Sin will always be waiting.