assassinwithahairpin: PB: byung-hun lee (Default)
Billy Rock ([personal profile] assassinwithahairpin) wrote2016-10-17 12:50 am
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[voice test]

Even at night, Rose Creek was a city of desert heats this time of year. Billy had shucked his jacket in the room of the boarding house and excused himself from Faraday and Vasquez's increasing revelries in favor of a cigarette. Though the heat still lingered in the clapboards and railings, the night had a breeze that carried mining smells in from the east.

Billy leaned his elbows on the railing of the balcony, cigarette pinched between his fingers, and considered. This was not his sort of a play, if he were perfectly honest. He was here because he was Robichaeux's man, because he needed him; and Robichaeux was here because of--a debt? A promise? An inescapable and inexplicable need to right his past? And what about the others? Money, connection, promises. He and Red Harvest seemed the odd outliers which Billy could not explain.

A door opened to his left, but he didn't react to it. He knew who it was. He brought the cigarette to his lips and looked up at the moon, wan on the horizon, providing no real light to the evening.
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[personal profile] goodnight_robicheaux 2016-10-20 04:02 am (UTC)(link)
Goodnight had managed to get by without violence for an impressively long time, considering. He rested on his reputation, and later on Billy's ability to scare the shit out of most challengers.

But he didn't think it would be an option now. He feared, inevitably, he would need to raise his hands in violence again. He met Billy's gaze, seeing reflected in them a confidence he longed for. He wondered if Sam knew, if he realized. He had to.

He tried to take a deeper breath and let it go slowly, but it came out in a huff. "Let's hope he finds other interests to occupy his time." But Goody knew disdain when he saw it.
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[personal profile] goodnight_robicheaux 2016-10-20 10:40 pm (UTC)(link)
Goodnight tried to relax, especially when Billy leaned over, lip brushing along his skin. He turned his head toward him, kissed his forehead, his hair. "Mon cher," he murmured. "I'll be to rights in the morning."

Or he damn well hoped so.