A/N: The following is a collection of scenes, each ranging in different lengths. This is more or less a test on Roman Sionis' character and to see if I can actually write him before beginning a drawn out oneshot or short story. This is based on the Arkham Asylum and Arkham City games, not the Arkham Origins Sionis. I am also referencing the comics Arkham Unhinged (which is based on Arkham City). Please enjoy. I know I did.
S.C.
I do not own any of the characters, environments, or ideas that belong to DC Comics. I only own my character.
Nimble fingers work fast. Lithe and small as they work the pins swiftly into the cuff of a trouser leg.
In this business you have to be fast due to clients coming in left and right. Especially with a high profile event approaching swiftly, one has to get every tux and dress in tip-top shape. Nothing short of perfection is a necessity in this line of work. A tailor is like a stylist or a barber – you must have a full sense of trust in them before allowing the first snip to be made. With the wrong person everything could go downhill so quickly, landing someone with a bad name and no money. In this town, it is so easy to fall if you screw over the wrong person.
She just prefers to keep her mouth shut and her hands employed while in the company of one of Gotham's elite. Every once in a while she spares a glance upwards to observe the muscular edifice of the man who towers above her. At one point his brown eyes catch her glance, and they narrow at her in a cold way.
"Keep your eyes on your work, Kid. Don't want you sticking me. I'd have to stick you back"
She does not even give a "yes sir" but merely ducks her head down in an unruffled way. She neglects to tell him that she has never stuck a client in her six years of operation.
Roman Sionis does not look like the type that enjoys being corrected.
Instead, she just resumes her practice of avoiding the client as she stitches a perfect suit.
Every time an event takes place she always receives an invite from a client or said client's office as a sign of gratitude. It is normally from the ones whom avoide having their clothing tailored until the last minute. There is always one the night before or on the day of that calls upon her services in a tizzy. In return an invitation is given verbally, or in the form of a handwritten card that ordinarily begins in "You are cordially invited to . . ."
At times she would have to decline, especially the ones that are on such short notice, but on nights like this she finds herself bumping elbows with the socialites.
Some would be uncomfortable when pushed into her position, while she has been raised in such conditions as these. A family as famous as the Lancaster's needs to be well versed in the ways of the beautiful people if their name is to remain on the playbills. Her family of stage actors and theatre techs provide the greatest entertainment to the city of Gotham itself every time a show is to be seen. As long as they remain talented, sociable, and beautiful their names will stay on the marquees.
Irma chose the path of costume design, while keeping her side job as the local, high society tailor.
She loves these times where she can show just exactly how graceful and gregarious her blood can be when not cavorting with the showbiz.
Irma felt a hand on her bare lower back, a soft touch, nonthreatening and welcoming. With a spin of her heels she comes face to face with the very man who sent her an invitation today.
Bruce Wayne.
She smiles wide, thanking him with her chocolate eyes and welcoming him in her presence. Bruce Wayne, a young, built man, handsome in every way possible. A regular of hers.
"Mr. Wayne, I was beginning to wonder if you didn't bother to show."
An award winning smile graces his face. "Well, after bothering you last night I figured it would have been rude of me to not show up."
"Ah, yes. I was wondering where you had gotten such a wonderfully, fitted suit", she states before offering a cheeky grin and sipping on her flute of champagne.
"From the best tailor shop in the city of Gotham where a lovely woman works her fingers to the bone to make sure I stay in with the fashionable side if society."
With a raise of her brow she says, "Mmm, I'll have to meet this woman. She has good tastes."
After that they both burst into a fit of well-mannered laughter at an appropriate volume for their environment. No need to draw any more attention than necessary in this case. Eyes always seem to follow the billionaire, playboy at these occasions. Be it from interested guests or tantalizing women who weasel their way to the top of the towers. They always leave with someone at the end of the night.
But tonight, she feels watched. Not uncomfortably so, though enough to make her look over her shoulder discreetly as Bruce and she converses. Even while they twirl across the dancefloor later in the evening. Any time Bruce looks away she finds herself gazing around the event hall, surveying the edges of various circles for the pair of eyes that she knows are on her.
When she finally found the source she could not really see them for they strategically hide in the shadows of the pillars in the event hall. Irma makes eye contact, or so she assumes. Brown meeting a darker brown. The latter pair gazing coldly.
The person's stance is off-putting. Physically saying "stay away".
Irma then wonders if he is actually looking at her or at the man she is waltzing with.
After that evening things became peculiar.
For Roman Sionis life had been a series of disappointments. One right after another, stacking up like dominos, end over end. Being born into a cruel and uncaring world, he learned to deal with the pain accordingly. How a young child could go so unnoticed by parents that took the time to conceive him had been beyond Roman. He now looks at the world through jaded eyes of brown as everything tumbles down around him, unnoticed by anyone and everyone. Living in the shadows of his parents and the Wayne's.
Even his warnings of imminent corporate collapse to his father went unnoted, brushed aside for more demanding matters such as the latest show or Wayne party. They loved the theatre so much, almost as much as impressing the Wayne family. Leeches sucking at the veins of the blue bloods of Gotham. Babes searching for a fruitful teat to root.
Sordid. Disgraceful.
The family name is the only thing they share, beyond that, nothing.
It is no surprise that just by association the Wayne's became a part of the long list of annoyances in Roman's life. Their name, the word itself, acrid in his mouth anytime it came from his lips. Their prestigious name is what caused him pain growing up. He remembered watching from their mansion windows as his parents drove away to attend a party that was "adults only". Funny how the Wayne's son Bruce would be seen in the pictures in papers the very next day. "Adults only" his ass.
He grew to hate Bruce with a fury that rivaled the hate of his parents. The boy had everything he ever wanted. Even after his parents died, the Wayne boy had more than he would ever have. At least he has the love of his lost parents to mourn. The love of his parents to cherish as they cherished him.
While Roman's parents were very much alive they might as well have been dead and/or nonexistent.
And now, as his family business teeters on the edge of a cliff, there is talk of Bruce becoming involved. Talk of a buyout. Talk of Roman's father removing him from the trust fund. From the will. In short, the family. . .
However, he still has to attend these dreadful parties. He is not removed from the family just yet. Part of him wishes it were done with.
Roman currently watched as pretty boy Bruce Wayne twirled a woman across the floor. Her brunette hair done up in a tight bun, no loose tendrils to be seen. No layers to hang free. The woman's body is covered almost conservatively, if not for the way the sleeves of her dress avoided her upper arms, showing the expanse of her neck, collar bones, and shoulders. A healthy, beauty with a body that said I have no need to starve myself. Roman found himself following her curves as some point during his observation.
At one point their eyes met. He then realized who she is. His eyes narrowed.
He wanted everything Bruce had.
Everything.
For a week, Irma did not want to leave her flat. She refused to go for her late night walk. Refused to leave the building without having a ride prearranged. If she didn't have a long list of dresses and suits to attend to for the upcoming prom season she would have closed up shop until her feeling of paranoia had passed.
Ever since the party she could not shake the feeling of being followed. Being watched. Even in the sanctity of her home, in places where no widows could be found. She did not feel not safe, but she more or less felt open. There is a difference from being seen on stage and being seen off stage.
Irma felt her privacy quickly becoming ill-treated.
Hopefully, the feeling would resolve soon, for she could not take the breathing at her neck for much longer.
Stress such as this does not sit well with her. Her calm and collected persona can be cracked as easily as glass. In one swift blow her composure can be shattered completely, leaving her in a confused, quivering mess. Yes, Irma does not deal with stress well, and this is stressful.
The option to stay with one of her many siblings or parents did cross her mind, but she knew she would only be met with jests if nothing came of her paranoia. The only option in her mind is to wait it out. If something happened it happened. If something is inevitable and unavoidable then it will happen regardless of the changing circumstances.
That, still, did not mean that she didn't sprint from the back of a cab to her flat every night after paying the cabbie his toll.
It was not until the tinkling of the bell above her shop door reached her ears one day that the feeling had resolved itself.
Irma looked up from a flashy, heavily bejeweled, prom gown, peeking slightly over a pair of slender spectacles. The sight that came to her immediately caused bells to ring and sirens to wail in her head. And then they were gone. A regular of hers Roman Sionis stood in the threshold, gray suit contrasting against the mahogany structure of her shop around him with a clothing bag in his hand. He occupied himself with looking about, as if he had not seen the place before. Looking anywhere but her own eyes that peered at him curiously.
The woman took a quick glance to her agenda journal.
He indeed had an appointment.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Sionis. It's good to see you again."
Roman addressed her with a mere nod as he approached her front desk in the far right of her shop. She quickly removed the garish dress from atop her workbench tucked into the far left and set it gently upon an extra chair. Soon she met him at the large desk.
"Are we doing the regular fitting today, Sir", she questioned with an air of professional distance. Not too familiar.
He gave a simple "yes" and she then motioned from him to go through the normal routine of changing in one of her dressing rooms.
A few minutes later found Roman standing upon a small platform as the smaller woman walked about him taking measurements. He had thought that she would remember his measurements by now but he figured that she liked to be careful. He be careful around him too if he was her.
Roman knows what an impending form he has. While he might be a tad shorter than a few men his stacked musculature created a dominating presence that would cause anyone to shrivel when he walked in a room. He recognized the darkness in his own eyes, the coldness, and the dead and used that to his own advantage. No one would mess with a man whose eyes revealed nothing. Eyes that were meticulous in what they gathered. Eyes that observed and absorbed carefully.
Irma felt watched the whole time. The same feeling that she had been accosted by all week. Again, she did not feel scared, just open. She did not like to be open. Not to anyone.
As she worked she kept her eyes down, avoiding the inevitable contact till the last minute. Only after she made her last measurements and pinned her last pin did she finally look up.
Hands freezing. Eyes locking with her client. She is met with only cold, dead orbs.
She broke her vow of silence when working.
"You've been watching me."
It is not a question. Why would it be? They both know.
Irma watched the news footage. It is not current. It is from earlier this morning. She had been at work because Roman had told her it would be better if she did not go. He wanted her out of the line of the cameras. She did not need that kind of publicity. No need to tarnish her name anymore. It had already been shown in every tabloid: LANCASTER DAUGHTER WITH DISOWNED SIONIS SON
That had went over well with her family.
While her business stayed steady she still felt the judgement from her clients as they came and went. Still, she kept that composure that she acquired from her mother.
Only in the sanctity of her own home did she let a small grimace of displeasure corrupt her façade as she watched the footage. Irma did not hate Bruce. She doesn't think she can ever truly could like Roman does. He is a faithful client and a good acquaintance. He always left her a large tip despite the fact that she does not need it.
In this moment though, as she watches Roman Sionis stiffly shake Bruce Wayne's hand on the stage in front of the Sionis Steel Mill, she cannot help but feel a stab of contempt for Bruce and a pang of heartache for Roman. Roman had officially lost everything with the shake of a hand.
Bruce Wayne had bought Sionis Steel Mill and avoided utter ruin for the Sionis family. What is the point? Roman no longer had anything to do with the company on paper. His parents were dead after a tragic and mysterious fire that burnt his entire home to the ground. Had it not been for his built up savings and Irma he would surely be asleep below a freeway and alone.
He merely shook the Wayne's hand for a common decency and to put on a face. Putting on faces. . . Just like his parents.
Irma did not even jump when the door to her flat opened with a whoosh and shut with a loud slam!
She had gotten use to that within the first couple of days of him staying. Roman presented himself as a generally angry and cynical person. A calm glower always hiding the ever swirling anger that welled deep within him. Anger that only Irma could see. Her empathy that had been honed during her days of acting allows her to sense the negativity and other such shifts in a room. She can sense the rage that spews forth from his persona. And only she could take that rage and help to fuel his machinations.
A few moments later found Roman sitting down next to her on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees and hands clasped. His looming figure is closed off from the world. His body is curled in on itself much like a predator coiling for attack. Not a word is said as she discreetly shuts off the television, hiding the news report from his view.
He knew what she had been watching, though.
It made him angry to know that she saw everything that had happened that day. Roman did not want her to see his fall.
Irma knew better than to try to say or do anything at this moment. She just wanted to see him happy. He deserves so much, in her eyes, and, yet, he has so little.
She took a moment to bite her lip in consideration before settling on moving one of her - no - their large pillows to her lap, her feet folded neatly under it. Surprisingly, it only to the mere pull of her hand on his shoulder to get him to lay his head in her lap.
Irma watched carefully, moving about him cautiously, so as not to set him off. They have only been together for a few months and she has already felt his temper with a harsh grab to her arm. That had been a wonderful event. So, she watches silently as his eyes, those empty eyes, slide closed, his head comfortably in her lap. Her nimble fingers, those same fingers that earn her pay, slip into his brown locks, massaging gently. Rubbing away his hate. If only temporary.
Long, sweet moments go by before either of them say a word. But they both know something must be said. She finally breaks the tranquility. Bringing Roman back to earth.
In a voice, soft, and appropriate for that moment, she speaks, "What is your plan?"
His gruff voice bashed through the atmosphere, his eyes still closed, "I am going to take back what it rightfully mine. I will not let that bastard take from me."
Irma kept on with her ministrations, moving lower to his neck and shoulders, massaging the stress and knots away with understanding hands. She listened.
"Take from me and be prepared to lose something in return. He always had everything I ever wanted, everything I should have been promised.
"All my life I've had to live in the shadow of the Wayne family. In every happenstance they were always a constant. Even after their death their son still brings me to hate. I want to kill him. I want everything to be taken from him. I want him broken."
Roman's voice grows deeper with his every word, soon culminating to a deadly growl. A promise of demise. The power and sureness he exudes does nothing but make Irma believe in his every word. A small smile soon finds its way to her face amidst all the bad that is happening.
"What will you do to make this happen, Love?"
Her hands move to his chest, rubbing softly, and feeling as his muscles rumble beneath her touch. She loves his body. So hard, so dominating, so big.
A hand lightly, lovingly brushes the area where she knows his pacemaker is located. Feeling no difference at all but acknowledging its company. The thing that is keeping his heart from beating sporadically in his anger. Long QT syndrome, he told her. She does not really understand the syndrome and its mechanics, but she does understand the fact that he is alive and with her. He says it can be triggered by stress. He's always stressed. Had it not been for his father having it and the doctors checking, Roman would have died a long time ago.
She really does not like to think like that, so instead she continued listening and kneading.
"I'm going to take Gotham for all it's worth."
Roman opens his eyes to see his woman looking down over him with a peaceful look. Her long brunette hair hangs around her face in straight curtains, in turn falling around his head also. He takes a moment to take in all that he is seeing, hearing, and feeling. Her calm, beautiful features. Her long, even breaths. Her hands on his chest and the rest of his torso. She is so good to him. She is the only thing of value he has left. And that struck a chord with him.
"I am not going down a nice path", he warns.
Irma never wavers. "I know", she responds.
"It will be dangerous", he said again.
A small smile quirks at her lips, "I'll protect you." She punctuates that by placing her hands over his heart. Organic and inorganic.
"I will be doing bad things."
For a second she thought, as if trying to convince herself to run, but she shoos those thoughts away. Instead she leans forward, her body almost doubling in on itself as she levels his lips with hers, barely touching. He is fully aware of her hands and their traveling. Their slow, tortuous travel downwards makes him hyper-aware of everything around him. The smell of her perfume. The tickle of her hair on his cheeks. The smell of wine on her breath. And, of course, the teasing touches against him lower abdomen as her deft fingers sneak further downward. He is aware of the words on her lips as he listens and feels them move against his.
"I will support you."