come_sailaway | And I'm tryin' my best to believe in the best left in me [OPEN]

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And I'm tryin' my best to believe in the best left in me [OPEN]

Who: Honoria Crabb & you!
What: Mostly memshare
When: March
Where: Memories & the Serena Eterna
Warnings: Nothing really to start off, added as we go
Notes: Feel free to flip me to brackets I am comfortable with either style. The only prompt with any particularly notable risk of death is Prosperity Bridge, and only if things get screwed up majorly.

1. Oh your cryin's a test of the veins, of my fluid beliefs [4v1 fight, day she met Tom Broadfoot]

Gallery, in the dead of winter. New South Gallery Orphanage, or, more accurately the burned down husk of the old orphanage next door. The ground is covered in a thick layer of snow and there are children playing in places they shouldn't be, but none have strayed within the fenced off perimeter that Crabb is currently exploring.

She doesn't notice the arrival of four other adults until they're already there with her, two coming from the same gap in the fence she did and two more coming from behind her. The two men behind her are nondescript thugs she doesn't recognise, but the ginger woman and tall man are a different story.

"Y'know, I'm actually glad to see you two. Felt like I left a job half-done back at the bulletin—"

"Ooh, sounds like fun," the ginger woman taunts, "but I was thinking instead that Cork and the fellas here could go ahead and stomp you into something a little more lumpy. Something to show your boss at City Hall he needs to keep his beak out. And for me?" She pulls out a knife, holding it up like a demonstration. Crabb grits her teeth, already squaring up for a fight that only seems inevitable. "Well, see, I met this Lady back in the pen, and she's paying out large to anybody who can put another scar on that big face of yours. And I'm saving up for a new flat."

It's then that the four legbreakers move, and Crabb has to think fast to avoid getting killed right here and now.

2. When people burn bridges, the rivers, they don't seem to mind [Prosperity Bridge, the night it collapses]

Prosperity Bridge. Eight minutes to nine o'clock.

Prosperity is a hub for the rich socialites of Gallery. Fine dining, high-end shopping, a place to show off and be shown off to; a place for the upper crust to socialise and hold themselves separate from the rest of the city around them. A place that is mere minutes away from crumbling out from under their feet.

Unbeknownst to anyone here tonight, there is already a fight for their lives ongoing in the clock tower. A fight that will ultimately only end partially in their favour, preventing the bridge from collapsing quite as quickly as the Black Note intends.

Well. One person outside that clock-tower knows. Crabb arrives in a skidding frenzy, automobile coming to a screeching stop across from the tower and in front of an employee. She clambers out of the car, looking up toward the tower.

"E-Excuse me! Ma'am you cannot park your automobile here—" The poor employee protests, only for her to shut the door. "Ma'am! I said—"

But Crabb's distracted, listening to a strange, high-pitched eeeeeeeeeee sound coming from above, "Wait. Shut up. I know that sound—" Right then, a spiderweb crack appears between the 7 and 8 marks on the clock, and without a second more to waste Crabb turns and grabs the guy by his collar. "Listen to me. You gotta take me to your manager's office right bleedin' now. 'Cause there's a real good chance this bridge's minutes are numbered."

3. There's a violence I've found, in the regular things left behind [Margrave Ballroom Fundraiser, date with Tom]

The Margrave Building Ballroom. Extravagant and lustrous and filled with members of Gallerian High Society milling around discussing the latest theories about Lavender Jack, the Black Note and frankly paying very little attention to the supposed point of the evening: fundraising for the South Gallery Orphanage.

Honoria Crabb and Tom Broadfoot stand out like a sore thumb, sat where they are at the bar, dressed in police dress-blues and a cheap suit that don't match up to the glamour of those around them. Both even look like they feel out of place, sticking by each other and generally keeping out of the way rather than mingling.

"Cute," Crabb sneers, watching the politicians on stage. "Not every day you see a wolf making nice with a bear."

"Plenty of livestock to go around, I guess," Tom sighs, and Crabb snorts a grim laugh.

4. And I'm tryin' my best to believe in the best left in me [Bastrop Manor] (Sols will hop in to play Ducky, unless someone has any objections to a 3-way!)

It's two in the morning, and Crabb and Ducky are waiting for Bastrop to return from a mission, of sorts. Crabb seems fairly comfortable, here, with her police uniform's jacket shed, her tie tossed aside, and her sleeves rolled up where she and Ducky have been playing chess between cups of coffee. Speculative chatter about parts of the case has been most of the fare tonight, though Crabb's found herself drifting more and more into more mundane topics the more tired she gets.

They are the only people in this entire manor, hidden away in the canopy with a giant telescope and Bastrop's tools. The mansion is expansive and silent.

Until, of course, you arrive.

5. Oh this world is a mess [Blue Horsehoe Pub, mundane day]

In this memory, Crabb looks the closest to the Crabb that everyone knows from the boat. No police uniform, no skirts, just her go-to white button down, brown trousers with suspenders and her trenchcoat draped over the stool underneath her. Her tie is loosened a little and she's at ease, at the bar, wielding a glass of mid-tier whiskey and chatting occasionally with the tall, muscular blonde man who serves as the place's bartender.

It's a matter of business, more than it really is about relaxation; Ducky isn't here to come and gather information that Masters has picked up anymore, so while Johnny continues to run the high-society end of things, Crabb's taken to coming down to the Blue Horseshoe to see if there's anything they need to know.

It is, however, still one of the few things she does that comes close to taking any time off, during this stretch of her life. And there's space at the bar beside her.

6. But it's prettier, than what lies beneath [Serena Eterna]

Crabb is trying her best to hide the fact that this 'reality breaking apart at the seams' thing is actually shaking her up more than she'd be proud to admit. There's a part of her that can't help but wonder if this is her doing, at least in part, what with Friday MIA thanks to her actions and after she smudged the sigils in the first place. Sure, there's the whole feeding a corpse to a ghost thing, and who knows what else, but...

So, she's doing what she does best. Bury it in other work. She tries to keep track of memories she's been into or had entered, she tries to see if there's any sort of pattern (not as far as she can see), she even tries to dip back into her project writing up the story of Lavender Jack, but she's still a bit all over the place no matter what she does.

Find her in any of her usual spots around the ship, places like Windjammer or the Drunken Sailor, Tauva, the Library, the gym and sports deck, or just around.

7. Oh where do I go from here [wildcard]

Find me at

bluecitrine or at artisticblueteam#5757/in the discord.

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"I don't think I broke his jaw," Watson says, firmly. "I think I'd know if I did. Though he does deserve it. If he gets up, I can give it another try. Or -- I'm a doctor, I can set it and then break it again for him."

But he looks down at Cragen, and his expression twitches, then hardens, because there's something horrible about someone's face coming off, even if it isn't (for you) entirely unexpected.

"Why don't you show us, then?" he asks Cragen, a mocking challenge.

Crabb scoffs, looking around from behind Watson as she drags his arms back with an incredulous look, "Really, doc? Really?"

Cragen grits his teeth, a motion that, with the mask in the state it is, does not do him any favours whatsoever, but it's when he tries to move that things truly begin to fall apart. He can't both push himself up to sitting and meaningfully hold his face together at the same time, despite his best efforts.

His lower lip is hanging off his face by a single glued edge, the jowl on the side Watson struck has fallen off entirely to reveal the real skin beneath, and the ripple effect of damage to the upper lip and cheek has completely crumpled in a way normal skin just doesn't.

Even with one hand still trying to cover it, it's hard not to see, now.

Watson will feel Crabb freeze in real time as her brain catches up with her eyes, until she abandons trying to restrain him entirely. "—Tom?"

Watson lets Crabb pin his arms, though there's a brief moment where he has to fight himself not to fight her; there are old instincts which he never has lost, but also one black eye is enough for this adventure, thank you.

Unless Cragen gets up and goes after him, in which case he will gleefully accept the consequences.

This is a terrible idea.

"If you don't want to punch him, I will happily do so again."

Reflexively, Crabb snaps, "Can it, you—" but despite that she steps away from Watson towards Cragen, who is now trying to back up along the floor away from her.

"Honoria, please," he says, still in Tom's voice but not quite able to keep the same calm steadiness anymore. "This isn't—"

Crabb bends down and grabs his wrist, yanking it away from his face so she can get a proper look at the damage. The sudden motion is enough for his fingers to catch on the edges of the mask and pull it further away from the skin beneath, leaving almost the entire side of his face barely hanging on—

And Cragen, backed into a corner and acting with the instinct of the much more volatile man he really is, jerks his hand free to backhand Crabb squarely across the face and send her toppling back to the floor.

"You damn bastard--"

A backhand carries with it an insult in the way a straight on punch does not, and that enrages him to see. Watson is not a skilled boxer or a graceful fencer or a swift practitioner of martial arts; he's a rugby player and a brawler.

But he does have a good right hook, and the knowledge of how to put his weight behind it. Watson surges forward with another good, solid punch, ready to send Cragen sprawling again. Maybe this time he will break his jaw.

Even with more time to react, Cragen doesn't get his arm up to block the punch in time. The second impact not only makes something in his jaw audibly shift, but causes the mask on that side to slough off entirely. With the weight of the prosthetic's material, the rest probably won't be far behind after he lands flat back on the ground with a curse.

It's at this point other building employees turn up to try and manage the situation, though whether Johnny called them or they've come on their own is unclear.

But Crabb stays sprawled there on the ground, completely stunned with her head throbbing from the strike, mind suddenly racing. The sudden flip from kind, sweet, gentle Tom to Cragen hitting her is enough to give a person whiplash, and she's suddenly far more aware of the watching eyes of all the swells around them than she was before.

Watson glances from Cragen on the ground, to the employees coming in to interfere, to Crabb on the ground, and he makes his decision; he steps back to offer her a hand up.

He hopes she'll take it. He can't really blame her if she doesn't.

"Are you all right, Inspector?" He keeps an eye on Cragen; he is not a violent man, but oh, had that felt good.

Crabb blinks a few times before she lifts her head to look at the hand, then at Watson's face, then at Cragen being dragged to his feet, then back again. After a final moment of consideration, she accepts the hand.

(Somewhere in the room, Bastrop is no doubt watching all of this and cursing the fact he can't intervene without risking connecting the dots that would lead someone like Cece to Lavender Jack's identity.)

"Who are you?" she asks, sounding like she's hanging by a thread so thin it might just snap. "What is this? How did you— who is—"

"My name is Watson," he says, "and it's all rather complicated, but I am a friend. I promise you that."

His voice is firm, reassuring, the best sort of doctor voice. He's had practice. "I'm sorry to interrupt your dinner, but I rather lost my temper. I had a bit of a score to settle with him, you see."

"Then who is he?!" First at Watson, and then at Cragen, who isn't have much luck freeing himself from the grip of two workers. "Who are you?! Tom Broadfoot exists, people know him, there's posters, so who are you?!"

Cragen doesn't answer, but there's a moment where his eyes flick around the room to see if he can find Maddox. Not seeing him, he only tenses up more, because that doesn't mean Maddox can't see Cragen.

With a frustrated noise, Crabb lunges— but doesn't punch him. Not this time. Instead she grabs the dangling mess of prosthetic skin and tears it the rest of the way off, revealing the scarred, angry face underneath.

She's not the only one to gasp, at the sight of someone nearly a spitting image of Gall if not for the scarring. Now it's Crabb's head whipping around looking for someone, trying to see where the Hell Bastrop has gotten to, but they can't share more than a second of eye contact.

"Alright, I think we need to take this outside," one of the members of staff says. "More police should be on their way. They'll straighten this out."

"I don't know all the details," Watson says, "but I don't think Tom Broadfoot has existed for some time now."

He should... probably slip away, in the confusion. Find his way out of here. That would probably be wise. At the same time, this sure is a lot to have dumped on Crabb. He rubs his knuckles, a little gingerly, watching her.

Crabb exhales shakily and says, in a stunned sort of voice, "Jeezus Christ..." as she scrubs a hand over her face, feeling those eyes around them bearing down on her even more strongly. Already her mind is reeling with questions, with wondering how she didn't see this, with the realisation about why Tom never let her touch his Goddamned face—

But after a moment she forces composure on herself. Clears her throat, takes a deep breath, and nods. Then, loudly, projecting to the rest of the room: "Alright, let's get them outta here. Sorry, folks, looks like this evening's main event is off."

Sorry Watson, no chance to escape, you're being ferried out by Crabb while the staff force Cragen to follow.

Oh, oops.

Well, fine. Is he being arrested? He's never been arrested before. Watson sighs and allows himself to be escorted out, without protest. If this is the price he pays for a small amount of revenge on behalf of both Johnny and Crabb, well, he will accept this.

Shame about the whole... charity event thing, he has to suppose.

Every step through the packed ballroom towards the exit is accompanied by hushed, scandalised chatter amongst the patrons around them, but despite the urge to shrink and perhaps throw up Crabb stands defiantly tall the whole way out.

As the doors shut behind them, Johnny can be heard stepping up to manage the situation. Until the doors close completely and leave them in silence.

Crabb sags just the barest amount, but grits her teeth and points up at Cragen, "You better start talking, fast. 'Cause I ain't gonna be nice but I am sure as Hell gonna be nicer than Gall."

Cragen just sneers. By the looks of her, the only thing that stops Crabb punching him is the fact she's still wearing a uniform and unlike many of her fellow constables, she actually has principles.

And as Cragen braces himself for the nightmare his life will no doubt become once Gall hears about this, Crabb is already feeling herself sinking into the nightmare that's already started.

The memory unravels shortly after that (though not after Watson is put in a cell, which is faintly alarming), and Watson finds himself back on the ship, with a fresh black eye forming. He spends some time investigating it in a mirror, working out what he's going to tell César and Johnny, especially Johnny.

The general public can just wonder about it.

He'll need to talk to Crabb. Possibly he needs to apologise to her, depending on how she's feeling about things. For the time being, he wanders down to the Drunken Sailor to have himself a quiet pint.

Maybe it should mess with Crabb's head, if she looks at the situation objectively. Having what was originally a tame evening turned into a dramatic affair should bother someone, surely, even if both memories exist side by side—but the fact of the matter is the memory of that evening has long been poisoned. Cragen did that all on his own.

So when Crabb comes and finds Watson sat at the Drunken Sailor, the first thing out of her mouth isn't frustration or questioning what he was thinking, it's: "Y'know I dunno if I should be asking to shake your hand or apologising for punching you, first off."

Watson lifts his eyebrows. "If those are your options, it takes a good deal of worry off of my mind. I wasn't sure if I owed you an apology for overstepping. I may have made rather a mess of things."

He gestures to the seat beside him. "Please, sit down."

"Christ, no," she pulls the chair out and sits down, snorting softly. "Sure, yeah, that was a bloody mess, but I don't exactly remember that evening fondly now anyway, y'know? And the me there in that memory might'a had a bad evening but I've already done the whole discovery experience, but I never once got to punch the bloke about it before a cave fell on his head."

"Well," Watson says, "in that case, I'm glad to have done it, and I'd do it again. The bastard deserved at least that much. Still, I did lose my temper."

He takes a long sip of his beer. "I suppose it's best if I am coy about your involvement in my new black eye. It might end up being more explanation than you care to give."

"I dunno, I was a scrappy thing back home, might not be as hard to explain away as y'think." By the lopsided sort of smile on her face, she's mostly joking. Mostly. It's not wrong. "You coulda defended yourself, y'know, I wouldn't'a held that against you. Been punched by worse people. The man himself, even. Weren't the first time he hit me like that—or, well, I s'pose it would be, now, memories wise. He only got me once I confronted him during his big finale..."

She scoffs and rolls her eyes at that. Ugh. The music metaphors.

"Anyway, believe me, that weren't half as bad as what he'd be dealing with if I had the chance to face him without that metal helmet of his."

"I may have fractured his jaw with that second punch," Watson says, thoughtfully. "At least I dislocated it. I regret that not at all. I think that's the very minimum of what a man like that deserves."

He looks at her sideways. "I could have defended myself, yes. I didn't want to. The consequences for running into someone else's memories and laying a man out on the floor should fall on me, not on you for responding to what must have seemed like a madman."

Crabb huffs a faint laugh. "Yeah, you sure did look a little bleedin' nuts to the me back then, but if there's anything worth looking like a nutcase for a bit... God, he deserved that. Bleedin' slimy bastard. Everything he did to me and Johnny and he got away with just— going out in a cave-in of his own creation. Only saving grace was he went out knowing he'd failed."

It's at this point she finally gets herself a pint too. Most conversations about Cragen lead to alcohol in her hand, but it's a little different.

"...you're a good man, Watson. Really respect how little you bleedin' hesitated once he said who he was, honestly."

He laughs a little. "I do try, Crabb. I really do. Sometimes I try to put the world back together, and sometimes I try to excise the nastier bits. And from everything I've heard, he does seem like a very rotten individual, and I've seen my share of nasty fellows."

"He was that kinda person who had the world tear them down to pieces and decided that what he needed to do about that was tear everyone else down, too. He'd made up his mind about how to 'fix' Gallery and God help anyone who tried to get in his way. He'd've killed me the very same night he told me he wished he'd met me sooner, if Bastrop hadn't got there in time."

She does think about that, sometimes. Less so now than she did in the immediate aftermath, but sometimes. If Bastrop had been delayed, if Cragen had felt even a little less twisted affection for her... would she even be here?

"But he's dead, now. And a whole universe away besides. And the look on his mug when you got him is gonna carry me through for a while."

"I'd do it for you again, if I could," Watson says.

He lifts his glass in a sort of toast. "Good riddance, I suppose, and may all our ghosts be dealt with a suitable level of poetic justice. If he shows up here in the flesh, I will take another swing, and then obligingly hold him down so that you may have a turn."

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pointofhonoria - 2023-03-29 18:32 (UTC) - Expand

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And I'm tryin' my best to believe in the best left in me [OPEN]

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cw: sort of intimate partner violence??

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