All right, you provide the kitchen and the booze, and I'll bring the food.
Absolutely. Let me know when you're free, and I'll go shopping for the best steak you've ever eaten. [She can't resist going in for a last kiss.]
[Angela Darmody was dead, her blood still congealing into the floorboards in a black stain, the heady odor of it mingling with ocean salt and sweet taffy in the stale air. Yes, it's a terrible, terrible thing to have happened to her son, to her grandson, even with the bitter revelation that the late Mrs. Darmody had had the gall to cheat on her loving husband. She understands grieving is a natural process, but really, now—it's beginning to feel a touch overdone. Exactly because this is such a vulnerable time, it is of utmost importance that he remain strong.
All her son needs, she insists, is the love of his mother. She handles the bumbling police officer, smooths over any probing questions they have, and comes to visit her darling Jimmy one day, when the clouds are gathering in a gray storm, sure to break out in downpour that evening. She brings him imported cigars to lift his spirits, and a basket of flowers, to bring a feminine touch to the place which it so sorely needs. She leaves the basket of daisies on the kitchen counter, smiling thinly at her son, his eyes rimmed with red.]
I really don't mean to sound cold, but—I think you've carried on like this for long enough, dear.
All her son needs, she insists, is the love of his mother. She handles the bumbling police officer, smooths over any probing questions they have, and comes to visit her darling Jimmy one day, when the clouds are gathering in a gray storm, sure to break out in downpour that evening. She brings him imported cigars to lift his spirits, and a basket of flowers, to bring a feminine touch to the place which it so sorely needs. She leaves the basket of daisies on the kitchen counter, smiling thinly at her son, his eyes rimmed with red.]
I really don't mean to sound cold, but—I think you've carried on like this for long enough, dear.
[Her lips tighten imperceptibly, irritation rising like the stifling pressure of summer heat, but just as quickly smothered with another maternal gesture, her hand laying delicately on his shoulder. There is an understated firmness there, when she leans into him with the sway of her skirt, her weight resting against his solid build.]
I think, [A light stress on the word, her head dipping slightly, curls of red hair splayed across the white of his shirt.] you should think about the future. Tommy needs his father to set a good example, and you have friends that are looking to you.
It'll be just you and me, again. [Beloved son and caring mother, a whole, happy family. As it should be, as it should have always been. There is no one who knows him as well as she, who dotes after him with as much tender care, and who nurses him back to his full glory when he is laid so low.]
That wouldn't be so bad, would it?
I think, [A light stress on the word, her head dipping slightly, curls of red hair splayed across the white of his shirt.] you should think about the future. Tommy needs his father to set a good example, and you have friends that are looking to you.
It'll be just you and me, again. [Beloved son and caring mother, a whole, happy family. As it should be, as it should have always been. There is no one who knows him as well as she, who dotes after him with as much tender care, and who nurses him back to his full glory when he is laid so low.]
That wouldn't be so bad, would it?
I know this must be a hard time for you.
[She still speaks in honeyed tones, squeezing a little tighter on his arm, her nails pressing raw crescents into his skin. Grief makes people do awful things, say things they don't mean, and lash out in vicious ways, she knows full well. If he had only been thinking a little clearer, he would have hesitated twice before speaking. His muscles tense and strain beneath the gentle curl of her fingers, muttering bitterly, wrecked and ravaged by the death of his—well, truthfully, very unfaithful wife. For all they know, she could have been a tart, her body found splayed on top on another woman like that.]
But in time, you'll have other things to think about. Other people. [His one-man pity party was beginning to feel less respectful towards the dead, and more cumbersome for the living. She is here to support him, and no matter how he may protest, she is rightfully going to give him the firm push required to get him back on his feet.
If he won't meet her gaze willingly, she will have to meet his. Sinking to her knees, her heels scrape against the floorboards as she bends low, now meeting his eyes directly.]
The people who care about you most are right here.
[She still speaks in honeyed tones, squeezing a little tighter on his arm, her nails pressing raw crescents into his skin. Grief makes people do awful things, say things they don't mean, and lash out in vicious ways, she knows full well. If he had only been thinking a little clearer, he would have hesitated twice before speaking. His muscles tense and strain beneath the gentle curl of her fingers, muttering bitterly, wrecked and ravaged by the death of his—well, truthfully, very unfaithful wife. For all they know, she could have been a tart, her body found splayed on top on another woman like that.]
But in time, you'll have other things to think about. Other people. [His one-man pity party was beginning to feel less respectful towards the dead, and more cumbersome for the living. She is here to support him, and no matter how he may protest, she is rightfully going to give him the firm push required to get him back on his feet.
If he won't meet her gaze willingly, she will have to meet his. Sinking to her knees, her heels scrape against the floorboards as she bends low, now meeting his eyes directly.]
The people who care about you most are right here.
[She never questioned the telephone calls her lover took at all hours, even if a dark look possessed his features upon being contacted by one of his faceless benefactors from a multitude of states, men who remained in shadow for her, whom she only knew by the vague tinny sound of disembodied voices. They seemed as if ghosts, whose only purpose was to steal their precious time, who beckoned her soldier away to discuss an unknown nature of business.
She never thinks to connect any of these persistent calls to the new guests at tonight's celebration, glimpsed only in passing: one wears a flesh-colored mask, as if for a masquerade, and another man in navy blue pinstripes, something which stands out like a bright flame amongst all the tuxedoed gentlemen.
When Gatsby leads her by the hand to his private garden, however, thoughts of interruption are furthest from her mind. The party is not without its signature grandiosity, a miniature microcosm all of its own in the heart of the city, but they have slipped away from the jubilant festivities and burst of fireworks for a rendezvous of their own. Resting in the cool greenery of an enormous tree, it seems they are both halfway to ecstasy before a butler intrudes, and his lips leave her throat, his hands leaving but an imprint of warmth on the curve of her hip.
"Sir, Atlantic City is here to see you."
Atlantic City is a place she only vaguely knows by the taste of seaside sweets and rock salt, where her husband had once purchased a pink diamond brooch for her, but who-ever his visitor is, it is enough for Gatsby to leave her in the shade of his garden, promising an immediate return with a fond farewell.
Neglected, Daisy waits for him with only the chirp of crickets and the warm summer night for company, her good time rather spoiled, seated on a stone bench.]
She never thinks to connect any of these persistent calls to the new guests at tonight's celebration, glimpsed only in passing: one wears a flesh-colored mask, as if for a masquerade, and another man in navy blue pinstripes, something which stands out like a bright flame amongst all the tuxedoed gentlemen.
When Gatsby leads her by the hand to his private garden, however, thoughts of interruption are furthest from her mind. The party is not without its signature grandiosity, a miniature microcosm all of its own in the heart of the city, but they have slipped away from the jubilant festivities and burst of fireworks for a rendezvous of their own. Resting in the cool greenery of an enormous tree, it seems they are both halfway to ecstasy before a butler intrudes, and his lips leave her throat, his hands leaving but an imprint of warmth on the curve of her hip.
"Sir, Atlantic City is here to see you."
Atlantic City is a place she only vaguely knows by the taste of seaside sweets and rock salt, where her husband had once purchased a pink diamond brooch for her, but who-ever his visitor is, it is enough for Gatsby to leave her in the shade of his garden, promising an immediate return with a fond farewell.
Neglected, Daisy waits for him with only the chirp of crickets and the warm summer night for company, her good time rather spoiled, seated on a stone bench.]
[Perhaps, if only she listened to idle chatter or read the paper more often, she might have recognized him: the ambitious protégé of a Mr. Thompson, rumored to have struck out on his own, a promising young war veteran whose innocent face hid all the makings of a bloodthirsty gangster—or so the gossip claimed. But as it is, she is ignorant of scandalous whispers, knowing only that the man wears blue rather than traditional black, his walk is skewed, and that he has found her alone during a vulnerable moment.]
Hello, there. [Her fingers curl around the hem of her skirt, craving for a cigarette of her own at the sight of his, a flare of smoldering tobacco so unlike the comforts champagne and wine had to offer, offering a polite smile and a low dip of her head. She rises to her feet, evening dew seeping into her heels, shivering lightly despite the heat. She gives him another glance, his attire and his reserved greeting making him a peculiarity already.]
You aren't enjoying the party?
[She asks, with cool manners, not wanting the silence to stretch on for terribly long. How could anyone not enjoy one of these legendary parties is beyond her, not when every entertainment under the sun is served in crystal glasses and golden trays, in a veritable buffet of forbidden pleasures and secret delights. And all of it offered without asking for anything in return, except for the invitation to come again.]
Hello, there. [Her fingers curl around the hem of her skirt, craving for a cigarette of her own at the sight of his, a flare of smoldering tobacco so unlike the comforts champagne and wine had to offer, offering a polite smile and a low dip of her head. She rises to her feet, evening dew seeping into her heels, shivering lightly despite the heat. She gives him another glance, his attire and his reserved greeting making him a peculiarity already.]
You aren't enjoying the party?
[She asks, with cool manners, not wanting the silence to stretch on for terribly long. How could anyone not enjoy one of these legendary parties is beyond her, not when every entertainment under the sun is served in crystal glasses and golden trays, in a veritable buffet of forbidden pleasures and secret delights. And all of it offered without asking for anything in return, except for the invitation to come again.]
Thank you. [Her eyes linger as he offers her a smoke of her own, grass rustling with every step as she closes the distance between them, advancing close enough to reach one arm forward, her fingers brushing over his to withdraw a cigarette.
In the ensuing silence, she places her cigarette to the smoldering end of his, watching the tobacco begin to burn, setting hers aflame. She closes her eyes for just a fleeting moment, inhaling deeply, and casts another glance to the farthest corner of the garden—but no one comes. In this moment, they're all alone.]
Business, at a party?
[It sounds like a terrible combination. What work, besides, could be conducted at a celebration? Not that it is any business of hers—sinister phone calls, voices without faces to place them to, all of which made her shudder at the mere thought. Ignorance as bliss, and as such, she chooses not to inquire further.]
I don't believe we've been introduced. [She offers her unoccupied hand to him, heavy with the weight of the diamond on her ring. Shadows of tree branches stretch across the white of her skin, darkness against pale tones, but there is a more distinct discoloration: a healing bruise on her finger, beneath the silver wedding band.]
Daisy Buchanan.
In the ensuing silence, she places her cigarette to the smoldering end of his, watching the tobacco begin to burn, setting hers aflame. She closes her eyes for just a fleeting moment, inhaling deeply, and casts another glance to the farthest corner of the garden—but no one comes. In this moment, they're all alone.]
Business, at a party?
[It sounds like a terrible combination. What work, besides, could be conducted at a celebration? Not that it is any business of hers—sinister phone calls, voices without faces to place them to, all of which made her shudder at the mere thought. Ignorance as bliss, and as such, she chooses not to inquire further.]
I don't believe we've been introduced. [She offers her unoccupied hand to him, heavy with the weight of the diamond on her ring. Shadows of tree branches stretch across the white of her skin, darkness against pale tones, but there is a more distinct discoloration: a healing bruise on her finger, beneath the silver wedding band.]
Daisy Buchanan.
Oh, yes. I think it's just grand.
[She takes her hand back, feeling slightly warmer from his touch, but still speaking with a polite, slightly dispassionate tone—after all, she hardly knows him well enough to speak intimately with him, even if his silly gesture does flatter her.
No one for the wicked: those words, though, catch her attention more than his lukewarm inquiry. What a way to describe oneself—almost foreboding, the thought strikes her, and she finds herself almost morbidly curious. It is not as if she feels unsafe, not while still the protective shade of the garden, and hundreds of others are just a short stroll away. But the dark sky, the moonlight, and the thick abundance of flowering plants are just enough to give the illusion of privacy.]
Do you think of yourself as wicked, Mr. Darmody?
[She asks, but there is no coy or flirtatious tone in the question, but rather, a pure innocence to it. She is curious, but not the sort of terrible curiosity which belies a hunger for new lovers.]
[She takes her hand back, feeling slightly warmer from his touch, but still speaking with a polite, slightly dispassionate tone—after all, she hardly knows him well enough to speak intimately with him, even if his silly gesture does flatter her.
No one for the wicked: those words, though, catch her attention more than his lukewarm inquiry. What a way to describe oneself—almost foreboding, the thought strikes her, and she finds herself almost morbidly curious. It is not as if she feels unsafe, not while still the protective shade of the garden, and hundreds of others are just a short stroll away. But the dark sky, the moonlight, and the thick abundance of flowering plants are just enough to give the illusion of privacy.]
Do you think of yourself as wicked, Mr. Darmody?
[She asks, but there is no coy or flirtatious tone in the question, but rather, a pure innocence to it. She is curious, but not the sort of terrible curiosity which belies a hunger for new lovers.]
[That gives her pause, the deliberate vagueness to his answer is just slightly unsettling, a tremble of unease in her slender shoulders—but after a fleeting instant, the darkness that passes over her is replaced by a fluttering giggle, as if sharing some private joke. Yes, surely, he must be joking—she chooses to believe that he must just be having a laugh with her.
But how she thinks of herself... Again, he gives her reason to hesitate. This mysterious, dark stranger is just full of surprises (not all of them pleasant, perhaps), and she is at a temporary loss for words. Her opinion is asked very rarely, and her opinion of herself rarest of all. Men have always smothered her with their own terms for her, both endearing and otherwise. The golden girl, the Louisville sweetheart, the dreamy, ditzy darling of the Buchanan lineage.]
I don't really know.
[She confesses, and written across her face is helpless honesty. The brilliance of her smile appears to have faded: far too somber a face to be making, at such a lavish party. And then, in a moment of mischievousness, she adds,]
It depends on who you ask.
But how she thinks of herself... Again, he gives her reason to hesitate. This mysterious, dark stranger is just full of surprises (not all of them pleasant, perhaps), and she is at a temporary loss for words. Her opinion is asked very rarely, and her opinion of herself rarest of all. Men have always smothered her with their own terms for her, both endearing and otherwise. The golden girl, the Louisville sweetheart, the dreamy, ditzy darling of the Buchanan lineage.]
I don't really know.
[She confesses, and written across her face is helpless honesty. The brilliance of her smile appears to have faded: far too somber a face to be making, at such a lavish party. And then, in a moment of mischievousness, she adds,]
It depends on who you ask.
[Now, the flicker in her expression is longer than a moment, and she takes an anxious series of puffs from her own cigarette, breathing out smoke in a sigh.]
It doesn't matter terribly, does it? [She can hear her voice falter, but she has a feeling that this Mr. Darmody is not the type to be distracted by laughter and flattery. His persistence in knowing her mind alone strikes a sour note, but at the same time, it's so unusual to be asked at all.]
I think... [Who would care what a woman thinks? Not many of the guests here would care for the word of a woman, even one married into a wealthy empire, when there is liquor to taste and fireworks to admire. But he wants to know, and at his unsubtle prompting, she folds beneath the pressure, struggling for the right words. Her voice trails off, before finally picking up again.]
I think I'm just a fool. There's nothing to me at all.
It doesn't matter terribly, does it? [She can hear her voice falter, but she has a feeling that this Mr. Darmody is not the type to be distracted by laughter and flattery. His persistence in knowing her mind alone strikes a sour note, but at the same time, it's so unusual to be asked at all.]
I think... [Who would care what a woman thinks? Not many of the guests here would care for the word of a woman, even one married into a wealthy empire, when there is liquor to taste and fireworks to admire. But he wants to know, and at his unsubtle prompting, she folds beneath the pressure, struggling for the right words. Her voice trails off, before finally picking up again.]
I think I'm just a fool. There's nothing to me at all.
Must we talk about morbid things?
[There is just a tinge of desperation in her tone, betraying the tension she has kept tightly bound within her. He is full of contradictions: he is interested in her, and generous, and willing to listen—but then, he is also ominous, and mysterious, and speaks of such unhappy things, pushing her into uncomfortable territories of conversation. He intrudes upon her world of light and lace and luxuries, and his brand of reality and cynicism is too bitter a medicine for her to swallow, tonight.
His question is deliberately ignored, neatly and quietly set aside. He can ask such questions, deeply intimate and far too private to divulge to a stranger, because he possesses an air of utter confidence, as if entitled to know her every secret. But she cannot, and chooses not to, even if she had been given the option. She is just "Darling Daisy"—but a daisy wouldn't be so darling if it asked questions, anymore.
She averts her attention to her cigarette, pulling in deep breaths, watching him through the smoke and the heat of the summer night, as if he is just a mirage she has conjured. Just what city, she wonders, has brought up such a man?]
[There is just a tinge of desperation in her tone, betraying the tension she has kept tightly bound within her. He is full of contradictions: he is interested in her, and generous, and willing to listen—but then, he is also ominous, and mysterious, and speaks of such unhappy things, pushing her into uncomfortable territories of conversation. He intrudes upon her world of light and lace and luxuries, and his brand of reality and cynicism is too bitter a medicine for her to swallow, tonight.
His question is deliberately ignored, neatly and quietly set aside. He can ask such questions, deeply intimate and far too private to divulge to a stranger, because he possesses an air of utter confidence, as if entitled to know her every secret. But she cannot, and chooses not to, even if she had been given the option. She is just "Darling Daisy"—but a daisy wouldn't be so darling if it asked questions, anymore.
She averts her attention to her cigarette, pulling in deep breaths, watching him through the smoke and the heat of the summer night, as if he is just a mirage she has conjured. Just what city, she wonders, has brought up such a man?]
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