I Will Carry Queue Gently Away - Tumblr Posts

@s-unfleur asked “ so, we gonna talk like grown-ups? ” / jeremiah + alexis

He can feel himself bristling at her words and he forces himself to calm down. It wouldn’t do any good to get upset with her. Alexis is a good henchwoman, even if she still hasn’t gotten over her senseless infatuation with Jerome. “I wasn’t aware that I was talking like a child.” He could care less what she was acting like, especially these days. “But by all means, continue carrying on like a chicken with its head cut off. I’m sure Jim won’t find us at all.” The sarcasm is palpable in his tone and normally he would try to disguise it, but he can’t bring himself to at the moment.

@s-unfleur said how dare you fucking ask me that. / jerome + alexis

He stares at her with a grin slowly unfurling across his face. He can’t help it. She’s pretty when she’s angry. “What?” His grin has morphed into a smirk in the two seconds it took for him to speak. “I can’t ask if you’ve got the hots for my brother?” He knows (hopes) she doesn’t. If she does, he might have to kill Jeremiah. “I ain’t gonna be upset, sweetheart.” Liar. “He ain’t a bad guy.” Liar. Again. Jeremiah can’t have Alexis. Jeremiah can’t have anything that Jerome has, if only because Jerome barely ever gets to have anything that’s truly his these days. He’s allowed to be possessive. “He’d take care of ya.”

@originhl continued from here

Eight hundred. Patrick doesn’t have eight hundred dollars. Patrick has, at most, one hundred dollars in his bank account. And that’s on a good day. He should’ve had more money in there, but the stupid Phil’s Tire Town people had taken his check when the court shit went through. It’s yet another reason Patrick hates Art. He can’t truly hate Art, not really, but sometimes he really, really doesn’t like him. And this is one of those times. “And if it’s not?” He’s hoping it’s not either of whatever it was that MJ had said. He doesn’t have eight hundred dollars. “Thanks. Should be fun.”

Jeremiah doesn’t like Alexis. He doesn’t know why Jerome allows her to lounge around their warehouse like she owns it, and he doesn’t know why she hasn’t been forcibly kicked to the curb. Jeremiah isn’t really one to talk about people lounging around, but he likes to think that Ecco doesn’t count. She’s been with him for nearly his whole life. Jerome has only known Alexis for a few months. And, even if his brother were the type to rely on an assistant or a proxy, Alexis isn’t assistant or proxy material. She’s too similar to Jerome for Jeremiah’s liking. He can tolerate his brother. He can’t tolerate a teenaged girl following him around like he’s some sort of messiah. And yes, there is the possibility that he’s jealous, but Jeremiah Valeska doesn’t get jealous, so he chalks his dislike up to annoyance.

He’s not surprised that her weapon of choice was a fork. He watches the spoon clatter back onto the table with a raised eyebrow, staring at the utensil for a moment before he lifts his eyes to Alexis’ face. His lip curls at the nickname. He already endures awful nicknames from Jerome. Why must he put up with equally awful nicknames from this nobody? “Throwing things, typically, is not accidental.” He can’t keep the haughty edge from his tone. He doesn’t want to, either. “Unless you are a toddler. I’m not entirely convinced you’re not a toddler, but so far all evidence is pointing to the contrary, so unfortunately I must give you the benefit of the doubt.” God, he hates her. Why can’t she go away and leave him in peace? “I am plenty fun. Just because your idea of fun is throwing forks at people, which, again, is incredibly toddler-like, doesn’t mean I’m not fun.” He feels more petulant than he has in years. “Go away, please. I’m busy.”

@notefinal (jeremiah) said: ❛ did you just throw a fork at me? ❜

green eyes are wide, like she just got caught with her hand in a cookie jar. jerome isn't around to defend her, so she simply allows a smile to spread across black lips. laughter emanates, feigning innocence [ it doesn't work with jeremiah, it never has ] — spoon that was about to follow the fork is dropped back onto the table, though only for the time being. the clown is quick to lean back in her seat, shoulders lifting in a shrug.

❛ it was an accident! ❜ no, it wasn't. & it won't be the last time, either. ❛ don't be such a buzzkill, jere-bear. ❜ she laughs again, as if the nickname is the funniest thing in the world to her [ really, the man's annoyance is what amuses her ] & it erupts like a madman: maybe the toxin she built for jerome was beginning to rub off on her. ❛ you really are no fun. ❜

* MEME, always accepting.

@originhl continued from here

The question should have been expected and yet Tashi is still caught off guard by it. Normally, she sneaks off to find Patrick. Patrick Zweig isn’t a big enough name to get invited to these parties, but he can attend as a waiter, which is what he does every time Tashi texts him to do so. It brings a little bit of excitement to her boring life. But she can’t tell Carnegie this. Tashi doesn’t think Carnegie will care that she’s cheating, but she can’t risk it. She sips at her drink instead, mulling over a better answer. “This, mostly.” She flashes a bright smile. “Or I find a pantry to raid.”

He watches intently as she comes closer, just barely leaning into the hand on his neck. His hands go to her waist and he gives her a slight squeeze. “Where’s the fun in that?” If he offered it back earlier, she might have taken it, and Riff would be out of ways to see her again. He could always track her down, but that required more time and effort than he was willing to risk. If he didn’t have his crew, he would’ve done it in a heartbeat, but there was always the threat of mutiny looming, even with a crew as loyal as his. “If I’d offered, you probably would’a taken it. And where the hell would I be now?” Certainly not here. He grins at her. “It’s common sense, sweetheart.”

SHE CARES BECAUSE SHE IS POSSESSIVE. She cares in the same way a cat cares if there is a rat on board of the ship. It is hers and hers alone ; even if she has to bite through a neck to get it. Her gaze drops to the bracelet wrapped around his wrist. PERHAPS TONIGHT IS THE NIGHT SHE TAKES IT BACK. But not because he offers. Tongue clicks against the roof of her mouth as she stalks closer to him. Chest to chest, her hand against the nape of his neck. Better lovers might kiss him. Better women might be kinder to him. He just has to settle for what he fucking got. ❝ Not yet. Not until I say I want it back. But I expected you to have offered before now. ❞ Riff is late to an appointment he never even knew he had in the first place.

@foxtaeil said “ now that’s a headline. “ @ art!

It is indeed a headline. He’s been staring at it for the past five minutes. ART DONALDSON DIVORCES WIFE TASHI IN TENSE COURT BATTLE, it reads. There’s a little bubble under the sprawling text that promises more information on page six, but Art isn’t going to read it. He knows all of the information. He was there. He flips the magazine over. Despite the joy he feels at finally divorcing Tashi, he still doesn’t want to look at her face glaring up at him from the cover. His face is on the cover, too, but Art doesn’t want to see that just as much as he doesn’t want to see Tashi. “Did you read it? The article?” He’s hoping Mellie says no, but he has a feeling she’s going to say yes.

He huffs out a quiet laugh. “I don’t got any lice.” If he did, he’d probably be bald by now. Lice are creepy and weird and Riff counts himself lucky that he’s never had to deal with them. He’s heard horror stories from other pirates, but thankfully his crew has remained lice free so far. He glances over at her as he wrings his cloth out and drapes it over the rim of the bucket. He puts the bucket on the floor and steps up into her personal space, brushing his fingers over her knees. “You should’ve said somethin’. I would’ve slept with ya.” He grins a little as he says it. Hopefully the innuendo won’t go unnoticed.

SHE STRETCHES LIKE A fat and lazy cat underneath the morning's light. Quite pleased to remain in his bed for a moment longer. Perhaps later she would invite him underneath his own blankets to establish what weird dominance neither of them truly had. SMILE BELONGS TO A SHARK when it creeps onto her features ; her eyes lingering on exposing skin as if she was already marking the spots where to bite. ❝ I would not fear if I were you - if there are any lice here they will scatter in fright the moment your head hits this pillow. ❞

Against her better judgment, she rises from the bed, feet light and steps true as she crosses the distance between herself and him. Abandoning the warmth and comfort of a makeshift nest in favour of sitting down on his desk next to his bucket of water. A CHALLENGE, silently offered as she spread her legs just so. ❝ It could have been a better nap if you had been there. ❞

The fact that Chrissy probably knows her own limits doesn’t do much to make Riff’s nerves go away. But then again, he supposes she’s been cheering for a lot longer than he’s been watching her cheer, so his worry is probably unfounded. He glances over at the other girls on the team, flashing them a grin just to watch them try to hide their blushing faces. His grin gets a little wider. “I guess.” Riff wasn’t the type to work hard unless he wanted to. And most of the time, he didn’t want to.

“To the mall? Sure.” He’ll never say no to the mall. He’s pretty sure half the guys are already there, so he can meet up with them if he wants, too. “Who’s car are we takin’?” Riff doesn’t own a car. He can drive just fine, but he doesn’t have a car. Or his license. “Yours?”

Maybe, if it had been someone else, she might have been a little more prickly about such advice. After all, she'd been cheerleading for years, nearly half of her (very short) life. She'd had to learn her body and its limits, and she thought she had it down to a science.

But there was something very... nice, about Riff being concerned. Nicer still that he was even there at all, at school after hours, just to see her at practice. It made her stomach swoop not unlike the throws that had her in the air. "I won't pass out, promise," she said with a bright smile, aware that the other girls were most likely looking over and getting ready to feed the gossip mill, but not finding it in herself to care for once. He was more interesting than them at the moment anyway. "That's why we usually go to the mall after practice. Work hard, play hard, you know?"

A glance over her shoulder and then she was looking back at him, smiling again. "You wanna go, by the way?"

Steve nods, reaching forward to lift Ben’s elbow a little bit. “Just like that.” He nods at the punching bag in front of Ben, a small smile on his face. “Try it again.” He knows it’s probably frustrating, going through the same motions over and over with a guy you barely know, but Steve knows it’ll pay off. He had to practice when he was a kid. And then he had to relearn everything once he’d taken the serum. That was the worst part. He was fine with his new body, but he’d hated having to relearn how to do everything. “You’ll get it. It just takes practice.”

it’s always odd and slightly unsettling training with people outside those he’s allowed himself to get comfortable to, but he knows steve means well and can be trusted so ben makes the effort to be grateful for the opportunity presented to him.

with a little nod and a deep breath inhaled through his nose and exhaled past dry lips, he adjusted his stance and does his best to take the advice given. once he settles into place he glances uncertainly at steve, feeling a little silly.

“like this?”

“Right.” It’s incredibly clear that he still doesn’t believe her. Jack Kelly isn’t a boy that trusts easily. He’s also not a boy that forgives easily. And for Katherine to break his trust the way she had, well, it’s going to be hard for her to get it back. Jack isn’t sure if she ever will. “Dunno. Money? Power? Stickin’ around just to feel better ‘bout yaself?” He crosses his arms as he glares at her. “You tell me. I ain’t the one that sold us out.” He’s being unfair, but he thinks he’s justified. She’d lied to Jack. She’d lied to everyone. And Jack has never liked liars. Not ones like Katherine, anyway.

the jab at her intelligence is what digs under her skin, just as she suspects he meant it to. she’s so sick of people gently trying to steer her away from what she wanted, telling her she wasn’t smart enough, wasn’t tough enough for this field because she was just...some girl. no one cared until her last name was brought into the conversation. as if all she was ever going to be good for was her inheritance and her future as someone’s bride. there were so many doors closed to her because of what people saw at first glance, and yeah, she messed up by not letting jack or davey or any of the boys know about her connection to the man they were striking against, but she couldn’t figure out why it had to be this personal. 

she wasn’t a spy, she didn’t sell them out. her father was smart, far more than anyone gave him credit for, and had real power and reach in this city. he’d known all he needed to before her story had even made it to the presses.

“maybe it started like that,” she concedes, eyes narrowed and not budging from her defensive stance, “but that’s not how it is anymore. i saw an opportunity for a story here, but what this is is so much bigger than that. we could make things better for not only the newsboys, but the whole city, jack. i took a chance and i got my story, so if that’s all i was in this for, why am i still here?”

The only reason Riff had good reflexes was because he needed them. Technically, he didn’t, but he never really knew when someone would try to start a fight, so it payed to be alert. He watched the fight for a while before he spoke again. It was a good fight. Riff didn’t know who was fighting or why, but it looked like a good fight. “The middle’s always the worst part.” The middle was where the worst fighting happened. He dropped his cigarette on the ground and stubbed it out with his boot. “Just here.”

He wouldn’t consider himself a superhero. He doesn’t really think he’d consider himself any sort of hero. And, even if he were, it’s not like he’s got anywhere to be the superhero of. Riff and his guys only hang around behind the mall, and that’s not really the best territory to be guarding, especially when the mall itself was right there. “I haven’t found anywhere else yet.”

Truthfully Chrissy had never much cared for cigarettes — she really only smoked while part of the crowd, when it would help her fit in rather than stand out — but she took the one he offered, glad for something to do with her hands and an excuse to stick around and keep talking to him.

"I guess I gotta work on mine, then," she said with a little smile before holding the cigarette to her lips to light. "I'd thought they were better than that, you know, with all the cheerleading but I guess not." She smiled sheepishly at acknowledging that, for the moment not bothered by the fact. Later she'd fret, and make a point of pushing herself harder.

But just then Chrissy was distracted enough by her rescuer for it not to matter. "Next time I'll stay out of the middle." Even if that was usually the best place to be for an aspiring head cheerleader. Sure, one got chosen based on skill and talent, but it definitely helped to be seen and part of the group when she'd be part of keeping the school spirit high.

"You have other places around town to be a superhero at?" she asked, mostly just teasing even if she was genuinely curious about what he normally did.

Riff had no idea what the hell the thing was. It looked sort of like a dog, but only if the dog had somehow managed to fall into a nuclear power plant before making its way to Hawkins. “No idea.” He didn’t feel like sticking around to find out, either. “Come on, let’s go.” He grabbed Chrissy by the hand and pulled her down the street, heading in the opposite direction of the dog thing. He hoped it wasn’t a threat. He didn’t want the poor person whose yard it had climbed into to end up getting hurt.

Once they were safely down the street, Riff stoped to turn back and stare into the darkness. “Should we tell someone?” He didn’t know who they’d tell. And he didn’t think they’d be believed even if they told someone. Riff had a reputation with the cops already. If he went to them talking about a dog thing that had climbed into someone’s yard, they’d never take him seriously.

@notefinal asked ❝ what is that monstrosity? ❞

It wasn't pitch black quite yet, but night came so much quicker and darker as fall shifted into winter. Growing up in Hawkins — and the conceit of being a teenager with her whole life still ahead of her — meant that Chrissy rarely ever thought twice about walking outside after sunset. Especially with Riff beside her, a sort of talisman against trouble as much as he was a beacon for it.

So when the shadow shot past the corner of her vision she was ready to write it off as one of the animals that occasionally strayed into town from the woods. His exclamation made her turn her head and really look, still expecting something like a particularly ugly dog.

The thing running past on the street was definitely not a dog, or deer, or anything Chrissy had ever seen before — it looked like something out of the fantasy books she sometimes got from the library and hid from her mother, except it was too ugly. Barely a step to the side and she was half stumbling into Riff, reaching for his hand but clutching his arm instead. She didn't mean to repeat his question, but it was the only thing running through her mind as it climbed over a fence into someone's yard. "What is that?"

@hatigave said Victoria hands Art a box wrapped in white wrapping paper that she stuck way too many stickers of flowers on. (it contains this)

Art is a little confused at Victoria’s gift. It’s not his birthday, and it’s not Lily’s birthday. He can’t think of any other reason she’d be giving him a gift, but he takes it anyway, unwrapping it carefully to preserve the flower stickers. Lily would probably want them at some point. He opens the box and blinks. The little taco-dinosaurs inside are incredibly adorable, and he picks them up with a small smile. “Where did you find these?” He doesn’t know what he’s going to do with them, but he knows one of them is going to Lily. She’ll probably want the tyrannosaurus rex, which is fine with Art. He can take the triceratops. “Thank you. They’re adorable.”

He blinks at her. “Nothin’?” He’s never said there was anything wrong with it. It’s not really the life Riff would choose to live, but there’s nothing wrong with living an easy life. “Why?”

@notefinal's rolf lautmann sent, 💬 for a random line of dialogue from here.

❝ i just want a nice, easy life. what's wrong with that? ❞

Steve laughs softly. Rogue is right. Steve’s always said that whatever mysterious they people conjure up for their sayings is bullshit, because the mysterious they probably didn’t say those things in the first place. He crosses his arms over his chest and nods. “I know.” And he hates it, but there’s not much they can do about it except try to prevent it. Steve plans to try and prevent it, that’s for damn sure, but he isn’t quite sure how he’s going to go about it. Yet. “But we’ve got to do something. We can’t just sit here.” What that something is, he has no clue. But he can’t sit around and watch it happen.

@notefinal said: “ They say the devil that you know is better than the devil that you don’t. ”

"Y'know, someday I'd like to meet this they. Seems they've got everythin' all nice and figured out. Everyone's always quotin' them when they want ya t'shut up an' go along."

Rogue's got her hands on her hips, ready for a longer argument. Not braced for a fight. Because this won't become one. She's holding fast to that.

"This ain't right, Steve. You know that well as I do."

He laughs softly at Ennis’ words. “That so?” He can’t quite fathom being the death of anybody, let alone Ennis Del Mar. It’s not something he’s ever considered, and it’s not something he wants to start considering. Especially not now. Thinking about Ennis dying, even if they’re joking, sends a chill through him. Jack may not know much, but he knows he doesn’t want Ennis to die. He also knows that’s probably a big thing to know at this point in their—whatever this is, but he knows it. Thankfully, he’s saved from that line of thought by Ennis moving closer. Jack blinks, his gaze dropping to Ennis’ mouth for a second before he looks up again. “Wouldn’t dream of it, cowboy.”

𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄 , 𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐄 𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐃 to die by overconsumption. of jack , at least. he hears jacks' words despite being spoken under his breath. in so many frames of mind , he's sure they could be on the same page. should be. and probably are. ennis thinks on this for a moment. he always does — think before he speaks. too much for his own good. no word comes easily out of his own lips. ❝ you'll be th' death of me then. ❞ he owes him some shard of his own soul , he supposes. this place feels too much their own to admit anything less. he leans over to jack , whiskey in his veins and only half creating the heat he feels there. lips hover some centimeters away from his companions'. ❝ don't make me regret you. ❞

Dodge blinks, a little caught off guard by the question. He hasn’t really eaten at the diner. He works there, but most of the time he brings a lunch from home, or he just doesn’t eat until he gets home. “I, uh. The cheeseburger’s pretty good. Or the onion rings.” He gives her a slight smile and goes back to wiping down the counter. He doesn’t know why she asked him that. Obviously it’s because he works here and knows what’s good and what’s not, but Dodge has never been good at not being suspicious. He’s trying to work on that, though.

› GENERAL STARTER CALL , accepting , @notefinal .

" do you have a favorite? " ... and it's asked so casually , if dodge and kristen aren't nearly strangers [ he said his name a few minutes ago. SHE NEVER SAID HER NAME ] . she's just looking over the menu , aviators still on her face. a question asked like he's a friend and she doesn't know how to make up her mind at the moment.

@s-unfleur liked for a starter ( alfred & erik )

“Look,” Alfred starts, his hands clasped behind his back as he comes to a stop in front of Erik. “I won’t ask you again.” Alfred Pennyworth is not a stupid man. He knows appealing to a man like Erik is futile, and yet here he is, trying to appeal to Erik. He doesn’t think it’s going to end well. “Normally, I wouldn’t be here. I’m perfectly content to let you rot in jail, or wherever it is they’re gonna cart you off to. But I made a promise. So, Mr. Lehnsherr, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to tell me why you killed those people. And if you don’t, I’m going to make your life very, very miserable.”

Where are we going then? The question makes Jerome’s unnaturally wide smile stretch even wider. “You’ll see.” He shifts the van into drive and pulls away from the manor. He’s practically vibrating with excitement. He’s very pleased with himself for managing to pull this off. After a few minutes of tense silence, Jerome sighs dramatically and flips the radio on. He hums along to the song spilling from the speakers, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in time to the beat. “Loosen up, Bruce. This is gonna be fun.” It’ll be fun for Jerome, at least. And that’s all that matters. He cackles as they continue on to their destination, his laughter mixing with the music to create an odd cacophony of noise.

When they arrive at the carnival, Jerome hops out and grabs a bag and a pair of handcuffs out of the back of the van. He shoves the bag over Bruce’s head and clamps the handcuffs around his wrists. “Come on, handsome.” He tugs Bruce from the van and shoves him in the direction of the carnival. “Don’t worry, you won’t be a baghead for long.” He laughs again, giggling as they get closer to the carnival.

When they reach the entrance, he whips the bag from Bruce’s head and tosses it over his shoulder with all the dramatic flair he can muster. “What d’ya think? Ya like it?” He drapes an arm around Bruce’s shoulder and shoves his face next to Bruce’s. “Hm? Come on, gimme something! I can’t work with silence, Bruce.” As he speaks, he leads Bruce deeper into the carnival, occasionally pausing to play one of the macabre games his followers had set up. He wins a stuffed octopus at one of them and proudly presents it to Bruce. “For you, darlin’.”

He fought the frown that threatened to form upon his facade — a mask of the young man he imagined his father would have wanted him to be: calm, collected and calculating. With a stifled exhale he regains his composure, returning his steady gaze towards his captor. If prodded about his passed parents upon their first meeting, perhaps the performer might have triggered a desired reaction. However, as the years without them neared the number with, Bruce forced himself to adapt to their absence. Not that he wasn't without his juvenile outbursts; when Alfred first forced socialization upon the grieving, self-isolating adolescent, he didn't make it a day before finding a fight with Tommy Elliott and his imbecilic entourage who found pleasure in rubbing salt in the young orphan's fresh wounds. He had learned two lessons that day: when to hold back and when to hit hard (and, that his father's watch was an excellent makeshift wrist wrap in a pinch).

His expression darkens at the mention of Alfred. Bruce's gaze flickers, falters, yet his lips stay sealed, sewn shut in stubborn defiance. Dark hues widen once more following the random intrusion of his personal life — or rather, the embarrassing lack thereof. Not that Jerome necessarily knew that. But before he could come up with anything cunning, Jerome had already thrown another punch. Pretty boy, Bruce loathes the deep scarlet that surfaces upon his cheeks. He scowls in response to Jerome's growing grin, jerking himself as far from the joker's touch as he can manage. This only tightens the gloved grip of the showman, however, and Bruce feels himself launched towards the night's cool call. His attention shifts and for a minute he leaves the moment, instead staring ahead at the shattered surface of the broken glass that webbed the destruction of Jerome's entrance. He found himself mesmerized by the shimmering shards of sharp glass that glistened against the backdrop of snow that began to gather. Bruce looked towards the dark sky above, charcoal clouds obscured the city in the distance molded into an enormous, ominous entity. For a few seconds, the sickle moon shone through the shadows, reminding Bruce of his mother's shy smile. Jerome could kill him here and now. And maybe Bruce should have egged him on. Maybe then he could return to his parents and be free of the showman's stunts.  With closed eyes he could picture the ghosts of his parents with their arms open, ready to soothe him into the eternal silence. But it wasn't his time yet. No, not yet. Not here and not now. He staggered under Jerome's grip, his blush growing as he was easily overpowered and pulled every which way. He grimaces, giving the joker a rough shove but doing little to hinder the larger's hold.  He hated this, how helpless he felt  — it brought him back to that day, that allyway. A harsh voice in the back of his mind questioned the purpose of all his training if he could still be so easily subdued. You couldn't save them then and you wouldn't be able to now.  Say goodbye, he shakes his head, messy raven locks obscured his expression. He's survived Jerome once and he'd do it again. He'd return home to Alfred, to his mission. But once again he fumbles, and his words bring forth a shudder. He can only imagine what the criminal considers to be fun. His mind immediately jumps to what weird things Jerome could possibly want to do with him. Having already probed his love life in the little time they've been reunited, Bruce's anxieties metastasized and wandered. I'll make it good for you, Bruce squirms in the arms of his infatuator and childishly attempts to wipe the touch of Jerome's lips from his temple. A warmth gathers and grows in his stomach — ravenous — spreading by the second. He tries to shake him away, alongside his growing need for affection and attention. For a moment, Bruce considers running. Whether back to the mansion or to the forrest that outlined his family's estate, he knows running from Jerome only meant he would take his aggressions out elsewhere, on the innocent. He holds Jerome's unwaivering, all-consuming gaze for a few moments before proceeding to the passenger's seat without much complaint (aside from his ever present scowl). "Where are we going then?" Bruce reluctantly relents.

@notefinal