what ( didn't ) kill us // ( luna/cesare/lazarus )

He dragged a hand through his hair, effectively giving it a more frenzied, dishevelled look. He paired it with an expression he'd mastered throughout the years. The same expression worn on the face by those he'd marked for death. Their eyes widened, hands outstretched, every bit of hope filtering out into every pore of their being. He'd ignored that desperate look many a time, and simply snuffed out the life. They were tugging on the wrong strings. The kind of soft heart that could feel guilt, that could be touched by the uninhibited gaze of despair, that flicker of humanity - that heart had been branded black a long time ago. Or perhaps it never existed. But Lazarus didn't think that was quite a fair assumption to make. He did have a cause, a mission, a motto, and that reason for being simply boiled down to the Crocetti clan.

It was cold a day, a miserable day, but the incessant sleeting, coupled with the dreary covered sky was only working in his favour. A bit of sleet even landed on his face and it pooled just beneath his eye, drawing a line down his face that could easily be interpreted as the tear-streaked face of a lesser person. Pathetic. But it would have to do. The girl who opened the door was petite, dark haired; she opened the door with merely a blanket for covering. She hadn't even glanced through a glass pane before throwing the rickety panelling open. Silly girl. Luckily for Lazarus, his drenched shirt, soaked hair and wind-bitten face made him look like the kind of man who had spent ages outside and who had come upon that one last threadbare piece of hope.

"There was an accident."

He managed to stumble over the last syllable, for the word to tumble out all broken and jumbled. A man at the very brink of despondency. And from what Lazarus had heard from Cesare, just the type of man that Luna would react to without question. This girl was one of those who catered to the ill and broken, to vagabonds of despair. While he restricted himself from the sort of naive thinking that came from underestimating someone for their general temperament, or worse yet, their gender, Lazarus knew that this was also the sort of person to react first and think later. And so, he only had to do very little for her to follow. He didn't want to waste any more words, nor give the girl any time to think and so he turned on his heel, head bowed between his shoulders and struck out towards the shack they had assumed temporary ownership of.

Lazarus walked quickly and made several sharp turns into narrow alleyways, sidestepping the muck and filth that became more and more apparent the closer they got to the more rundown areas of the district. A rat darted out from between two houses, but he ignored it, still maintaining his bent-head status. He wanted to appear every bit the downtrodden man whose plight would stir something in the heart of the girl. Finally they made it to the ramshackle house; here at the very fringe of the district. Lazarus stepped idly to the side, like a gentleman, to allow Luna to step into the main room. When she had, he lifted his head and straightened his back and pulled the door shut behind them. He stationed himself between the girl and the door, barring her only pathway for escape and issued a subtle nod towards Cesare. He smiled only slightly and kept his arms crossed, allowing Cesare to play games with the girl.

He'd talk only when necessary.