[The moment seems to drift to a standstill. Nothing moves — his surroundings are made a pale glaze of color and light, the goings-on of the lounge and its inhabitants like shadows on the wall, silhouettes carved out of someone else's dream. He doesn't see any of it, only watching her, the woman in front of him with dark hair and a soft, cherub smile. Robin.
He doesn't breathe. He thinks the horror of the realization would be enough in these circumstances, but part of him wonders if she is an illusion he's cast on himself. Every night he's slept he has dreamed about her, after all — even before he ever woke on this world. It would be better if this was another of those dreams. They would still be separated, and she would not be here.
He moves before he registers it, hand coming out to grasp the woman's wrist. He is wearing a pair of suede black gloves, but he can still feel the real, tangible warmth of her skin through its palm.]
Robin.
[Silence falls in, the gasping of some desperate last breath. He maintains his disguise, but now it's less of a performance for her than it is the rest of the room. No longer thinking, he pulls her up, out of the booth, and begins to tow her away. Even shredded by the indecision of the moment, Sunday knows above all else that he cannot stand to leave his sister here alone in this place. In this outfit. Yet his mind has stopped at this terrible summit to go no further, and so he just — drags her out of the lounge completely.
It may not look... good, to any watching eyes. The guard at the door turns as they pass, assessing the situation and scrutinizing Robin's body language to see whether they should intervene. Then again, one of them is a waitress and the other is a high-society elite. Should they look away?]
no subject
He doesn't breathe. He thinks the horror of the realization would be enough in these circumstances, but part of him wonders if she is an illusion he's cast on himself. Every night he's slept he has dreamed about her, after all — even before he ever woke on this world. It would be better if this was another of those dreams. They would still be separated, and she would not be here.
He moves before he registers it, hand coming out to grasp the woman's wrist. He is wearing a pair of suede black gloves, but he can still feel the real, tangible warmth of her skin through its palm.]
Robin.
[Silence falls in, the gasping of some desperate last breath. He maintains his disguise, but now it's less of a performance for her than it is the rest of the room. No longer thinking, he pulls her up, out of the booth, and begins to tow her away. Even shredded by the indecision of the moment, Sunday knows above all else that he cannot stand to leave his sister here alone in this place. In this outfit. Yet his mind has stopped at this terrible summit to go no further, and so he just — drags her out of the lounge completely.
It may not look... good, to any watching eyes. The guard at the door turns as they pass, assessing the situation and scrutinizing Robin's body language to see whether they should intervene. Then again, one of them is a waitress and the other is a high-society elite. Should they look away?]