I fell in love with the flim-flammer,
charming con-artist, sexy counterfeiter,
pretty grifter, hidden ace switch making quick fingers.
I fell in love with the most beautiful vulture,
she picked away my flesh, I’m left with skeletons,
welcome warm and tearing through my shoulders.
(The Story of My Life; Astronautalis)
When you’re in the middle of a really interesting rp and the other person has to leave
“I spent most of my life watching HBO series wishing that at some point in my career I might be able to work with them.”
Marion Cotillard photographed by Julien Lachaussée, 2012
ooc; oh holy shit you’re fucking evil
She’d been hiding it so well. Even Jonathan, who was basically living with her in the little cottage near the temple, hadn’t noticed the first three days. But there wasn’t hiding it for long. When Jonathan came back from his lengthy day of experimenting under Barsad’s vigilant and judging eye, Talia was sprawled out on the cottage’s floor. Trembling, she was weakly trying to get to her feet, and all around her was blood. Her blood.
"Talia!" Jonathan cried out as he rushed to her side, arms immediately trying to support her. Talia made a weak attempt to slap his hands away, not wanting help, but she knew it was too late.
"What happened here?!" Jonathan asked, nearly frantic. Had she been stabbed? Shot? Where was she wounded?
Yet as Talia lifted her face to look at him, he saw that blood was coming from her eyes, like she was crying, and that it was seeping from the corners of her mouth. Shocked, Jonathan stared at her, trying to puzzle together what was going on.
Then it hit him: Gotham.
"No," he whispered, eyes wide in disbelief and horror. "The virus—"
She merely nodded.
"But you were inoculated! This is impossible!"
She smiled wryly. “Didn’t work on me. Guess I was immune, a rarity among a population—” She had to stop speaking, because she began coughing up more blood.
"Talia," Jonathan said, beyond worried. Nearly panicking. "I have to get help. Bane, Barsad, anyone—!"
He was already getting up, but Talia held onto his arm with all her strength. “No, it’s too late,” she said, voice weak. “Don’t leave me here alone, Cr— Jonathan… Please… I’m scared…”
The desperation in her voice made Jonathan stop his actions and crouch down by her side again. “No…” he said. This couldn’t be. “Tell me what to do. There must be something I can— This— This can’t be happening!”
Talia took his hand in hers, looking him in the eye. “Please, Jonathan… I… I don’t want to die like this. I don’t want my skin to burst, I don’t want to overheat in agonizing pain. Please, I beg you… End this. For me.”
"Talia…" Jonathan muttered, tears stinging in the corners of his eyes. He didn’t even try to stop them. "I— I can’t— you can’t—"
In the end, there was nothing that Jonathan could say that would have been rationally humane. He didn’t want her to suffer. But he also didn’t want her to die. Eventually, he carried Talia to the bathroom, and gave her a cold bath to somewhat regulate her body temperature. She didn’t have long. All washed up, he placed her upon the bed, before getting his medication.
"Are you sure you don’t want to say goodbye to Bane? Barsad? Anyone?"
She shook her head. “There’s no time. It’s better this way.”
Nodding solemnly, Jonathan filled up with a clean syringe with 300 ml of morphine. “You won’t feel a thing,” he promised her. “Only pain relief, maybe some positive emotions if the high kicks in soon enough and then you’ll just… drift off.”
Talia nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Trying to keep his emotions under control, Jonathan tried to smile, before leaning over her, and kissing her warm lips. “I love you,” he whispered against her lips. “I love you too,” she answered.
Why she never came to him or anyone else when she started showing symptoms was a mystery. Perhaps she knew there was no cure. But Jonathan sure would have tried to create one.
When he injected her with the painkiller he watched her nod off almost immediately. Her body struggled for breaths for a few minutes or so, before going still. Jonathan put away the syringe and climbed in bed next to her. He brushed her still damp hair from her face, and kissed her lips again. “I love you,” he whispered again.
This time, there was no answer.