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konstantyaTitle: In Every Prayer
Fandom: This Gun For Hire (1942)
Genre: AU, drama, romance.
Characters/pairings: Philip Raven/Ellen Graham
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3,024
Summary: In hindsight, he supposed it was what some people might have called fate. (Or, in which the man formerly known as Philip Raven has a big ol’ crush on a gal, but isn’t capable of recognizing it as such. A prequel of sorts to There Are Dreams I Must Gather.)
Notes: Follows the same continuity as my other TGFH fics, which is to say: Raven somehow escaped at the end of the film, then changed his name and joined the army. Takes place post-war, in 1946.
If you’d like to leave a comment, please do so on AO3!
In hindsight, he supposed it was what some people might have called fate.
He’d been in Chicago for a little over a month now, and might never have even gone down that particular street if his shoe hadn’t dropped a heel, forcing him to seek out a cobbler. He’d been walking back to his boarding house after the repair, his shoulders hunched against the April wind, when his eyes had idly caught on an advertisement posted outside some swanky supper club. And then, before he knew it, his feet had come to a stop, and the harsh spring weather was all but forgotten as he took the time to properly read the words.
“Dinner! Dancing! Entertainment!” it said. “Featuring the musical stylings of Leslie Hershfield and His Orchestra, the magical voice of Ellen Graham, the dancing duo of Millicent Key and Joseph Juarez, and The Foxtail Club Chorus Line!”
He stared at the name: Ellen Graham. Ellen Graham. It couldn’t be the same girl he’d known all those years ago, could it? No, surely it was just some coincidence. Each name was popular enough (it was, in fact, one of the reasons he’d taken the latter as his own, after fleeing California), so it stood to reason that there might very well be another person out there with both of them, and that she might even work in show-business to boot.
But—his mind insisted on arguing—what if it was her? His heart gave a sudden, sharp thump at the prospect, and he was acutely aware of the blood pulsing through his veins. It felt too much like anxiety, too much like when his sense of self-preservation told him to run, but he forced himself to stay there, frowning in focus at the poster and wondering at his own reactions.
Plainly put, it didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be her. She was supposed to be married, maybe even with a kid or two by now. That was what normal, functional people did, right? They got married and raised a family and eventually grew old enough to have grandchildren to visit. And she deserved that much, at least. Deserved a quiet, comfortable life with a man who loved her and who she loved in return. It didn’t make sense.
Unless she was married and she’d simply kept “Graham” as a stage name. He admitted that was a possibility. But that still didn’t explain why she would be all the way over in Chicago, nor why she’d still be performing at all, for that matter. He couldn’t claim to be an expert on female behavior, but he’d gathered that most women with jobs hung up those hats upon getting hitched.
Which meant it was probably someone else, another woman entirely.
But, again, what if it wasn’t?
What exactly were the chances that there’d be two Ellen Grahams out there anyway, and that they’d both have a history of working the nightclub scene? His formal schooling had ended long before he’d learned anything about probability, but his guts told him the odds were pretty low.
Which left him in an unusual position: He’d honestly never expected to see her again, but now that the opportunity to potentially do so had presented itself, he found he very much wanted to—if only to confirm it was really her, if only to make sure nothing was amiss. After all, she’d treated him so well all those years ago, when she really hadn’t had to, when he really hadn’t deserved it after everything he’d put her through. The least he could do was make sure she was okay.
Decision made, he finally dragged his eyes away from the advertisement and took note of the address. And then he pulled his coat tight around him and resumed his pace down the street.
---
And so that was how he ended up standing in front of his shabby dresser the following evening, readying himself to go out.
He didn’t have much in the way of fancy threads, but he’d done what he could to make himself presentable. His shirt wasn’t pressed, but it was clean—he’d managed that, at least. As for the rest of him, his hair was combed, his chin freshly shaved, and he was currently in the process of reknotting his tie—something he typically avoided as much as possible, but he’d wanted it to look a little neater tonight, and so, there he was.
The cumulative effect of it all suddenly struck him and he paused, scowling at himself in the small mirror. What exactly was he doing? Trying to make a good impression? It was an alien concept, and one he wasn’t sure he liked. The urge didn’t even make sense; assuming it actually was the Ellen Graham he knew, with any luck she’d never even realize he was there. And as far as the doorman or any of the other patrons were concerned, who the hell cared about what they might think?
With a frustrated shake of his head, he cinched the tie then slipped on his jacket. The suit was a few years out of fashion, purchased second-hand months ago, but it still fit well enough and would serve its purpose. Absently, he reached into the inside pocket and pulled out the worn handkerchief that was there. It was the same one she’d tied around his wrist way back when, and even though it was nothing special, it had since become a source of reassurance, something he occasionally liked to just hold. It was, perhaps, the one possession he genuinely cared about, the one thing he couldn’t simply replace, and he’d taken to carrying it on his person for safe-keeping. He could still recall the tone of her voice from all those years ago in the train yard, the way she’d grabbed his scratched arm and asked what had happened, and when he’d dismissed her comment about it getting dirty, she’d let out an angry, exasperated breath and gone digging around in her purse.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” she’d said, and practically yanked his hand into her lap. “It’s a wonder you haven’t died from tetanus, let alone a bullet wound, if this is how you carry on.”
He’d been so stunned—by the words, by the actions, by the concern buried in both—that all he’d been able to do was blink at her for a few seconds while she gently wiped the blood from the back of his hand and then wrapped the handkerchief around his wrist as a make-shift bandage. Had anyone ever tended to an injury of his with such care before? Maybe his mother had, back when he was very, very young, but if so, he couldn’t remember it.
Afterward, after he’d enlisted, when darkness had fallen and the neighboring bunks were quiet, sometimes he’d loop the fabric around his wrist like a talisman or a piece of jewelry. Other guys in the service had photographs and wedding bands; he had a last name no one knew wasn’t his own, and a plain cotton square dotted with old bloodstains. If he took a step back, he recognized how wacky it all sounded, but it had made sense at the time, and to an extent it still did—that he should so treasure something that had once been hers, a physical reminder of her kindness toward him.
Sometimes he suspected she was the main reason he’d even joined the army in the first place. Not that she had instilled a sense of patriotism in him or anything like that, but he liked to think it was something she would have approved of, maybe even would have been proud of him for. (That it got him off the police’s radar and gave him time to come to terms with the idea that, hey, maybe he could be something more than just a hired killer was a pleasant bonus, sure, but he probably could have accomplished that without going through the trouble of basic training and getting stationed in the South Pacific.) Sometimes, back then, he would lie awake at night contemplating his own death—because what else was there to do in the middle of a war?—and he remembered coming to the conclusion that he was oddly okay with the concept, that he was pretty sure he could have died at peace out there, fighting for something she believed in.
Occasionally, one of the guys in his outfit would ask if he had a girl back home, and he’d always brush the question off with a line about how it wasn’t any of their damn business one way or the other (honestly, the army was depressingly similar to reform school in a lot of ways, but at least in reform school he’d had a reputation that generally kept the other boys from bothering him; in the army, everyone wanted to be chummy, as if having friends would somehow ward off the existential dread). In truth, though, he’d always wanted to say yes. Because of course he did, of course she was his girl—what else could she possibly be, even if she was married to another fella by then? Or maybe it was the other way around, maybe he was hers, and the idea wasn’t as off-putting as it perhaps should have been.
He swept his thumb across the handkerchief one final time, tucked it back in his suit jacket, then decisively reached for his overcoat and hat. Well. Whatever their relationship was didn’t much matter, and there was hardly any point in worrying about it now. After all, he reminded himself, as he made his way outside, it might not even be the same Ellen Graham.
---
As it turned out, it was in fact the same Ellen Graham.
It was strange, seeing her again, and elicited an emotion in him he couldn’t quite identify. Fondness, he supposed it was, maybe mixed with a bit of fear, though why he should be afraid, he had no clue. Her size and sex rendered her thoroughly unintimidating, and he had no plans to physically confront her, besides.
He sat far away, against the back wall and as near to the corner as he’d been able to manage, but he could still see her well enough, even from this distance. She looked more or less the same as he remembered—her hair was perhaps a bit shorter, but that was about it. She was dressed in a dazzling light blue number and sang some silly song about how love was a charming mystery, all while doing flirtatious sleight-of-hand tricks with the audience up front. He’d known she was a performer, but had never known what kind specifically, and admitted that the magic at least was somewhat impressive, if only due to its rarity.
He squinted at her fingers as she moved. It wasn’t the secrets of her act that he was trying to figure out so much as whether she was wearing a ring or not. Eventually he caught sight of one—one on each hand, as a matter of fact—but they were flashier pieces with dark stones, not the typical diamond wedding band.
He furrowed his brow at that. Was it possible she wasn’t married? And if that was the case, what exactly had happened to prevent it? As irritating as that cop of hers had been back then, ultimately the guy had only been doing his job, and appeared to genuinely care about her, too. If she absolutely had to marry someone, well, he could have imagined far worse types for her to end up with.
In the dim light of the club, he leaned back in his chair and studied her. Granted, it was an act, but her heart seemed to be in it, and as far as he could tell, she was having a swell time overall. Which meant that she probably wanted to be there, that it wasn’t just some job she was stuck in out of necessity. The thought was reassuring, and he managed to relax a little as a result of it.
And so the program wore on. She sang a few more songs with a few more props—a trick top hat, some juggling balls, and the like—and finished with a big flourish that involved the help of one of the chorus girls. The music drew to a conclusive close, the final bout of applause started, and she gave a deep, gracious bow before turning to clap for the band. He gave a few perfunctory claps of his own, then watched as she gave one last bow, grinned, and sashayed out of sight. The bandleader proceeded to announce a break, but encouraged everyone to stick around for more music and open dancing upon their return, and with that, the musicians themselves began filtering backstage.
Despite the appeal, a number of patrons appeared ready to leave now that the floor shows were officially done, and he eyed them as they made their way out of the establishment. Others, intent on staying, picked up their drinks and relocated to tables closer to the dance floor. Within a matter of minutes, he was the last person still seated in the back of the club.
He considered leaving, himself, then. Not because he felt self-conscious or uncomfortable being alone, but because, with her act now over, there was simply no reason for him to stay any longer. He’d confirmed it was her, and—regardless of what her current relationship status might have been—she seemed to be doing perfectly fine, and so that was that. Unfortunately, he still had a decent amount of his whiskey left, and at the price he’d paid for it, he was fairly set on getting his money’s worth out of sheer principle.
Of course, he could have just downed the rest and been on his way. He had, in fact, entertained that idea. But old habits died hard, and he was still instinctively wary about drinking fast enough to risk drunkenness. The promise of a temporary reprieve from his own thoughts was tempting, he would admit, but the dulled faculties that came with it had always been too much of a liability for his liking—after all, in his former life, he’d easily picked off more than a couple marks by merely following them back from some bar. And then there were the memory issues that often accompanied inebriation, and he already had one glaring gap from when he was a boy (not the murder of his aunt—that was forever burned into his brain in excruciating detail—but the period immediately succeeding that incident; presumably the police had gotten involved at some point, but for all intents and purposes, he’d gone directly from sitting on the floor of his aunt’s kitchen, cradling his broken arm while blood pooled around her body, to sitting in a courtroom, his hand in a cast, listening as the judge declared him guilty and doled out his sentence). Suffice it to say, he hardly needed an alcohol-induced blurry spot on top of that.
So, better that he just take his time with the whiskey, even if it did mean suffering through another set of music.
About half an hour passed, the open dancing was in full swing, and he was blissfully coming up on the tail end of his drink when he caught a hint of movement out of the corner of his eye. He glanced over just as someone came in through the main entrance, and upon seeing who it was, he froze in his seat.
Because it was her. Ellen.
She’d changed out of her glittery costume and was now dressed in a simpler, deep green ensemble, with long sleeves and a knee-length skirt. She pushed her hair behind her ear, smiled to herself in private amusement, then began making her way around the outside of the room. In his direction, so help him. Suddenly, he found himself very grateful for the low, atmospheric lighting that filled the place—to say nothing of the concealing noise of the band—and all he could do was follow her with his eyes as she wandered ever-closer. Thankfully her attention was focused toward the dance floor, and when she paused in front of his table to peer through the mess of people, he dared to look up at her. She seemed to be searching for someone in the crowd—or perhaps just for a good place to sit?—but it was then that a waiter came darting out of a side door, effectively startling the both of them.
It happened in an instant. She bumped into the extra chair across from him, automatically turned her head, and then did a double take upon seeing someone was actually sitting at the table. And then she similarly froze upon seeing his face.
His heart was doing that anxious hammering again, and he watched her, silent. Her eyes were wide in shock, her painted mouth parted, and an eternity appeared to pass in the space of a few seconds. His nerves were poised on the edge of panic, but he resolutely stayed stock-still, waiting for her reaction.
It took a solid minute, if not more, but eventually she blinked, and then—never letting her gaze stray from his form—slowly lowered herself into the empty chair in front of her, so deliberately as to suggest she no longer trusted her own legs. The glass was hard in his hand, the closest exit a good thirty feet away, and if someone had taken aim at his chest right then, he wouldn’t have been able to do a damn thing about it.
“Hello,” she simply said, and it seemed their whole history was held in those two tiny syllables: Their meeting on the train, his attempted murder of her, his rescuing her from Willard Gates’ house. (Her bandaging his wrist, his giving her his coat, the way she’d kissed his cheek before leaving the old rail car.)
And because he didn’t know what else to do, he replied with a tragically understated, “Hi.”
-----
A/N: And if you don’t already know what happens next and want to, go read the original fic linked to in the summary!
I’ve said it elsewhere, but I’m pretty sure I headcanon Raven as asexual (though probably not aromantic, it should be noted). I’ve been wanting to write a fic from his perspective for a while now, but it took a long time for it to really click. (And even now, I’m still not entirely sure I succeeded? Time will tell, I suppose.) Suffice it to say, he’s a very internal guy, but surprisingly self-aware when it comes to his personal issues. (And while he’s far from a barrel of laughs, I will forever be amused by the idea that, upon realizing he needs some time to sort his shit out, he decides the best way to do this is by joining the army during a goddamn war. And because the dude is already so fucked up, it actually ends up working, bless.) He’s kind of a disaster and doesn’t know the first thing about romance, but he’s sweet in his own weird way, and I love him.
In other news, oh hey, I guess I had to name the club Ellen works at after all, pfft.
All other fics can be found here.
Fandom: This Gun For Hire (1942)
Genre: AU, drama, romance.
Characters/pairings: Philip Raven/Ellen Graham
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3,024
Summary: In hindsight, he supposed it was what some people might have called fate. (Or, in which the man formerly known as Philip Raven has a big ol’ crush on a gal, but isn’t capable of recognizing it as such. A prequel of sorts to There Are Dreams I Must Gather.)
Notes: Follows the same continuity as my other TGFH fics, which is to say: Raven somehow escaped at the end of the film, then changed his name and joined the army. Takes place post-war, in 1946.
If you’d like to leave a comment, please do so on AO3!
- In Every Prayer -
In hindsight, he supposed it was what some people might have called fate.
He’d been in Chicago for a little over a month now, and might never have even gone down that particular street if his shoe hadn’t dropped a heel, forcing him to seek out a cobbler. He’d been walking back to his boarding house after the repair, his shoulders hunched against the April wind, when his eyes had idly caught on an advertisement posted outside some swanky supper club. And then, before he knew it, his feet had come to a stop, and the harsh spring weather was all but forgotten as he took the time to properly read the words.
“Dinner! Dancing! Entertainment!” it said. “Featuring the musical stylings of Leslie Hershfield and His Orchestra, the magical voice of Ellen Graham, the dancing duo of Millicent Key and Joseph Juarez, and The Foxtail Club Chorus Line!”
He stared at the name: Ellen Graham. Ellen Graham. It couldn’t be the same girl he’d known all those years ago, could it? No, surely it was just some coincidence. Each name was popular enough (it was, in fact, one of the reasons he’d taken the latter as his own, after fleeing California), so it stood to reason that there might very well be another person out there with both of them, and that she might even work in show-business to boot.
But—his mind insisted on arguing—what if it was her? His heart gave a sudden, sharp thump at the prospect, and he was acutely aware of the blood pulsing through his veins. It felt too much like anxiety, too much like when his sense of self-preservation told him to run, but he forced himself to stay there, frowning in focus at the poster and wondering at his own reactions.
Plainly put, it didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be her. She was supposed to be married, maybe even with a kid or two by now. That was what normal, functional people did, right? They got married and raised a family and eventually grew old enough to have grandchildren to visit. And she deserved that much, at least. Deserved a quiet, comfortable life with a man who loved her and who she loved in return. It didn’t make sense.
Unless she was married and she’d simply kept “Graham” as a stage name. He admitted that was a possibility. But that still didn’t explain why she would be all the way over in Chicago, nor why she’d still be performing at all, for that matter. He couldn’t claim to be an expert on female behavior, but he’d gathered that most women with jobs hung up those hats upon getting hitched.
Which meant it was probably someone else, another woman entirely.
But, again, what if it wasn’t?
What exactly were the chances that there’d be two Ellen Grahams out there anyway, and that they’d both have a history of working the nightclub scene? His formal schooling had ended long before he’d learned anything about probability, but his guts told him the odds were pretty low.
Which left him in an unusual position: He’d honestly never expected to see her again, but now that the opportunity to potentially do so had presented itself, he found he very much wanted to—if only to confirm it was really her, if only to make sure nothing was amiss. After all, she’d treated him so well all those years ago, when she really hadn’t had to, when he really hadn’t deserved it after everything he’d put her through. The least he could do was make sure she was okay.
Decision made, he finally dragged his eyes away from the advertisement and took note of the address. And then he pulled his coat tight around him and resumed his pace down the street.
And so that was how he ended up standing in front of his shabby dresser the following evening, readying himself to go out.
He didn’t have much in the way of fancy threads, but he’d done what he could to make himself presentable. His shirt wasn’t pressed, but it was clean—he’d managed that, at least. As for the rest of him, his hair was combed, his chin freshly shaved, and he was currently in the process of reknotting his tie—something he typically avoided as much as possible, but he’d wanted it to look a little neater tonight, and so, there he was.
The cumulative effect of it all suddenly struck him and he paused, scowling at himself in the small mirror. What exactly was he doing? Trying to make a good impression? It was an alien concept, and one he wasn’t sure he liked. The urge didn’t even make sense; assuming it actually was the Ellen Graham he knew, with any luck she’d never even realize he was there. And as far as the doorman or any of the other patrons were concerned, who the hell cared about what they might think?
With a frustrated shake of his head, he cinched the tie then slipped on his jacket. The suit was a few years out of fashion, purchased second-hand months ago, but it still fit well enough and would serve its purpose. Absently, he reached into the inside pocket and pulled out the worn handkerchief that was there. It was the same one she’d tied around his wrist way back when, and even though it was nothing special, it had since become a source of reassurance, something he occasionally liked to just hold. It was, perhaps, the one possession he genuinely cared about, the one thing he couldn’t simply replace, and he’d taken to carrying it on his person for safe-keeping. He could still recall the tone of her voice from all those years ago in the train yard, the way she’d grabbed his scratched arm and asked what had happened, and when he’d dismissed her comment about it getting dirty, she’d let out an angry, exasperated breath and gone digging around in her purse.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” she’d said, and practically yanked his hand into her lap. “It’s a wonder you haven’t died from tetanus, let alone a bullet wound, if this is how you carry on.”
He’d been so stunned—by the words, by the actions, by the concern buried in both—that all he’d been able to do was blink at her for a few seconds while she gently wiped the blood from the back of his hand and then wrapped the handkerchief around his wrist as a make-shift bandage. Had anyone ever tended to an injury of his with such care before? Maybe his mother had, back when he was very, very young, but if so, he couldn’t remember it.
Afterward, after he’d enlisted, when darkness had fallen and the neighboring bunks were quiet, sometimes he’d loop the fabric around his wrist like a talisman or a piece of jewelry. Other guys in the service had photographs and wedding bands; he had a last name no one knew wasn’t his own, and a plain cotton square dotted with old bloodstains. If he took a step back, he recognized how wacky it all sounded, but it had made sense at the time, and to an extent it still did—that he should so treasure something that had once been hers, a physical reminder of her kindness toward him.
Sometimes he suspected she was the main reason he’d even joined the army in the first place. Not that she had instilled a sense of patriotism in him or anything like that, but he liked to think it was something she would have approved of, maybe even would have been proud of him for. (That it got him off the police’s radar and gave him time to come to terms with the idea that, hey, maybe he could be something more than just a hired killer was a pleasant bonus, sure, but he probably could have accomplished that without going through the trouble of basic training and getting stationed in the South Pacific.) Sometimes, back then, he would lie awake at night contemplating his own death—because what else was there to do in the middle of a war?—and he remembered coming to the conclusion that he was oddly okay with the concept, that he was pretty sure he could have died at peace out there, fighting for something she believed in.
Occasionally, one of the guys in his outfit would ask if he had a girl back home, and he’d always brush the question off with a line about how it wasn’t any of their damn business one way or the other (honestly, the army was depressingly similar to reform school in a lot of ways, but at least in reform school he’d had a reputation that generally kept the other boys from bothering him; in the army, everyone wanted to be chummy, as if having friends would somehow ward off the existential dread). In truth, though, he’d always wanted to say yes. Because of course he did, of course she was his girl—what else could she possibly be, even if she was married to another fella by then? Or maybe it was the other way around, maybe he was hers, and the idea wasn’t as off-putting as it perhaps should have been.
He swept his thumb across the handkerchief one final time, tucked it back in his suit jacket, then decisively reached for his overcoat and hat. Well. Whatever their relationship was didn’t much matter, and there was hardly any point in worrying about it now. After all, he reminded himself, as he made his way outside, it might not even be the same Ellen Graham.
As it turned out, it was in fact the same Ellen Graham.
It was strange, seeing her again, and elicited an emotion in him he couldn’t quite identify. Fondness, he supposed it was, maybe mixed with a bit of fear, though why he should be afraid, he had no clue. Her size and sex rendered her thoroughly unintimidating, and he had no plans to physically confront her, besides.
He sat far away, against the back wall and as near to the corner as he’d been able to manage, but he could still see her well enough, even from this distance. She looked more or less the same as he remembered—her hair was perhaps a bit shorter, but that was about it. She was dressed in a dazzling light blue number and sang some silly song about how love was a charming mystery, all while doing flirtatious sleight-of-hand tricks with the audience up front. He’d known she was a performer, but had never known what kind specifically, and admitted that the magic at least was somewhat impressive, if only due to its rarity.
He squinted at her fingers as she moved. It wasn’t the secrets of her act that he was trying to figure out so much as whether she was wearing a ring or not. Eventually he caught sight of one—one on each hand, as a matter of fact—but they were flashier pieces with dark stones, not the typical diamond wedding band.
He furrowed his brow at that. Was it possible she wasn’t married? And if that was the case, what exactly had happened to prevent it? As irritating as that cop of hers had been back then, ultimately the guy had only been doing his job, and appeared to genuinely care about her, too. If she absolutely had to marry someone, well, he could have imagined far worse types for her to end up with.
In the dim light of the club, he leaned back in his chair and studied her. Granted, it was an act, but her heart seemed to be in it, and as far as he could tell, she was having a swell time overall. Which meant that she probably wanted to be there, that it wasn’t just some job she was stuck in out of necessity. The thought was reassuring, and he managed to relax a little as a result of it.
And so the program wore on. She sang a few more songs with a few more props—a trick top hat, some juggling balls, and the like—and finished with a big flourish that involved the help of one of the chorus girls. The music drew to a conclusive close, the final bout of applause started, and she gave a deep, gracious bow before turning to clap for the band. He gave a few perfunctory claps of his own, then watched as she gave one last bow, grinned, and sashayed out of sight. The bandleader proceeded to announce a break, but encouraged everyone to stick around for more music and open dancing upon their return, and with that, the musicians themselves began filtering backstage.
Despite the appeal, a number of patrons appeared ready to leave now that the floor shows were officially done, and he eyed them as they made their way out of the establishment. Others, intent on staying, picked up their drinks and relocated to tables closer to the dance floor. Within a matter of minutes, he was the last person still seated in the back of the club.
He considered leaving, himself, then. Not because he felt self-conscious or uncomfortable being alone, but because, with her act now over, there was simply no reason for him to stay any longer. He’d confirmed it was her, and—regardless of what her current relationship status might have been—she seemed to be doing perfectly fine, and so that was that. Unfortunately, he still had a decent amount of his whiskey left, and at the price he’d paid for it, he was fairly set on getting his money’s worth out of sheer principle.
Of course, he could have just downed the rest and been on his way. He had, in fact, entertained that idea. But old habits died hard, and he was still instinctively wary about drinking fast enough to risk drunkenness. The promise of a temporary reprieve from his own thoughts was tempting, he would admit, but the dulled faculties that came with it had always been too much of a liability for his liking—after all, in his former life, he’d easily picked off more than a couple marks by merely following them back from some bar. And then there were the memory issues that often accompanied inebriation, and he already had one glaring gap from when he was a boy (not the murder of his aunt—that was forever burned into his brain in excruciating detail—but the period immediately succeeding that incident; presumably the police had gotten involved at some point, but for all intents and purposes, he’d gone directly from sitting on the floor of his aunt’s kitchen, cradling his broken arm while blood pooled around her body, to sitting in a courtroom, his hand in a cast, listening as the judge declared him guilty and doled out his sentence). Suffice it to say, he hardly needed an alcohol-induced blurry spot on top of that.
So, better that he just take his time with the whiskey, even if it did mean suffering through another set of music.
About half an hour passed, the open dancing was in full swing, and he was blissfully coming up on the tail end of his drink when he caught a hint of movement out of the corner of his eye. He glanced over just as someone came in through the main entrance, and upon seeing who it was, he froze in his seat.
Because it was her. Ellen.
She’d changed out of her glittery costume and was now dressed in a simpler, deep green ensemble, with long sleeves and a knee-length skirt. She pushed her hair behind her ear, smiled to herself in private amusement, then began making her way around the outside of the room. In his direction, so help him. Suddenly, he found himself very grateful for the low, atmospheric lighting that filled the place—to say nothing of the concealing noise of the band—and all he could do was follow her with his eyes as she wandered ever-closer. Thankfully her attention was focused toward the dance floor, and when she paused in front of his table to peer through the mess of people, he dared to look up at her. She seemed to be searching for someone in the crowd—or perhaps just for a good place to sit?—but it was then that a waiter came darting out of a side door, effectively startling the both of them.
It happened in an instant. She bumped into the extra chair across from him, automatically turned her head, and then did a double take upon seeing someone was actually sitting at the table. And then she similarly froze upon seeing his face.
His heart was doing that anxious hammering again, and he watched her, silent. Her eyes were wide in shock, her painted mouth parted, and an eternity appeared to pass in the space of a few seconds. His nerves were poised on the edge of panic, but he resolutely stayed stock-still, waiting for her reaction.
It took a solid minute, if not more, but eventually she blinked, and then—never letting her gaze stray from his form—slowly lowered herself into the empty chair in front of her, so deliberately as to suggest she no longer trusted her own legs. The glass was hard in his hand, the closest exit a good thirty feet away, and if someone had taken aim at his chest right then, he wouldn’t have been able to do a damn thing about it.
“Hello,” she simply said, and it seemed their whole history was held in those two tiny syllables: Their meeting on the train, his attempted murder of her, his rescuing her from Willard Gates’ house. (Her bandaging his wrist, his giving her his coat, the way she’d kissed his cheek before leaving the old rail car.)
And because he didn’t know what else to do, he replied with a tragically understated, “Hi.”
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A/N: And if you don’t already know what happens next and want to, go read the original fic linked to in the summary!
I’ve said it elsewhere, but I’m pretty sure I headcanon Raven as asexual (though probably not aromantic, it should be noted). I’ve been wanting to write a fic from his perspective for a while now, but it took a long time for it to really click. (And even now, I’m still not entirely sure I succeeded? Time will tell, I suppose.) Suffice it to say, he’s a very internal guy, but surprisingly self-aware when it comes to his personal issues. (And while he’s far from a barrel of laughs, I will forever be amused by the idea that, upon realizing he needs some time to sort his shit out, he decides the best way to do this is by joining the army during a goddamn war. And because the dude is already so fucked up, it actually ends up working, bless.) He’s kind of a disaster and doesn’t know the first thing about romance, but he’s sweet in his own weird way, and I love him.
In other news, oh hey, I guess I had to name the club Ellen works at after all, pfft.
All other fics can be found here.
