Inspired slightly by Sin City, hence the title.
Overall rating: NC-17
Pairing still undecided *L*
Previous parts: vol. 1, vol. 2, vol. 3, vol. 4, vol. 5, vol. 6, vol. 7, vol. 8, vol. 9
There wasn’t much to work with in Fred’s room. Clothes, make-up, books on physics and a volume of Grimm fairy tales... picture of her parents on the desk, small figurine of blue-eyed kitten... and a knocked over fern.
“Sir Roland,” Cordelia said. Very dadaist of her.
She gestured at the plant. “Sir Roland. Fred likes to talk to him.”
Explained a lot. “How Nice. Anything actually useful you can tell me?”
She smiled. “Am I the detective now? Work it out. Go, ask around, upset people... you do that so well.”
I shall take that as a compliment.
Lilah kicked off her shoes, heading straight for the bedroom. “Do you always have to upset people?”
Everone’s gotta have a hobby. “I can’t believe no one knew about Lindsey and Eve. It was blatantly obvious.”
“Maybe for you, Sherlock.”
I smirked. “Don’t you owe me something?”
She sighed theatrically, handing me one dollar bill. It was rumpled and my signature was almost faded, blurred. “Now, don’t you owe me something?” She smiled suggestively.
And I still owe her that one dollar. I had bet we’d divorce before our third anniversary. I was wrong. By almost three months.
Cordelia’s phone rung and she checked the caller’s i.d before answering, her voice as fake as sweet, and it contained enough saccarine to make my teeth hurt.
I took my time investigating the desk, looking for something Cordelia would call ‘a clue’.
“I need to run,” she announced, tone again normal. When I didn’t answer she came closer. “Hey? Sir Roland got your tongue?”
I gestured at the box of matches. “Did Fred smoke?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
I sighed, looking at the pub’s advertisement on the side. “It had to be Caritas, of course.”
Just my luck.
Caritas is your perfect cliche. Decent pianist and worse drinks and a bartender who offers sympathetic ear as long as you can pay.
Money here are handed under the tables, guns are pointed over them. The fallen angels had chosen it their teritory and there’s always one to ask you to buy her a drink, and her name is whatever you like.
Early enough for Lorne to look cheerfull. When working he needs sad face, he says. Happy pianists work the circus.
“Looky, looky what cat dragged in,” comes teasing voice from behind the counter and I sigh.
She managed to knock out one officer and break another’s arm before they put handcuffs on her. A difficult case, they said.
That qualified her as one of mine. It usually did.
Very pretty, slightly crazy and possibly psychotic. Defiant look and determination to make it as hard for me as possible. And our only connection to Willkins.
Twenty minutes later she finally spoken, two simple words.
It could go two ways from this place. Or it could go the third. “Is that a proposition?”
Slowly, a smile appeared on her face as she leaned forward. “Could be.”
Comments? Suggestions how to make it better? *g*