An Angel in the Night

Finishing the last of her drink, Jezebel left adequate money for the drink and a nice tip on the counter for Lirssa and pushed away from her seat. Raking her fingers through her hair once more, she slipped back through the crowd out onto the porch.

Her eyes pulled from the sky by the creak of the door. The sight, brought a slight smile and thrust of her chin. "It's you."

"It is," agreed the woman, her voice a warm hum in the evening air. She approached the railing, and there was something about the way the moon caught eyes like firelight, seeming to bring the color forward. "And how are you tonight, lovely?"

Roach admired the woman's presence, her glowing, thriving aura, the way the night honed her gaze like something molten but never cruel. "Been better, yo." Bringing her cigarette aside. "You" What's your name?"

"Jezebel," she answered the second question first, her head inclining with interest at the note of sadness in the other woman's voice. "I am..." her gaze turned for the moon, lingering there a moment as she searched for the word. "...here to help, perhaps. What's your trouble?"

"Nothing sex and weed won't fix, yo." Her raspy voice curled in on itself with something bitter. An upward nod to Luc and his girl but her eyes did not linger there but moved back instead to the radiant redhead against the rail. "You got weed?" Teasingly.

Jezebel's attention drifted to the man who spoke French as he gave them a nod. The smile on her face spread by degrees, her eyes flickering with a catlike interest before they returned to Roach. Hands spread before her, empty. "I can't help you with the weed," came the reply, her voice like a purr, plush velvet as she took a lean against the railing, one hip cocked against it just so.

That made Roach grin widely.

And, then, pat the empty space beside her on the middle step. "You smoke?" The American Spirit was nearly done, tucked between the middle and forefinger of her right hand, held delicately.

Resisting the urge to make a joke, the humor nonetheless flared in her eyes - a sudden burst of flame as the candle caught the wind. She lifted herself away from the railing, descending the steps on silent, graceful feet. She moved like a jungle cat, confident but curious, and took the offered seat with a quick sweep of one hand over the back of her skirt to keep herself decent. "Why thank you. What's your name, pretty?"

There's a purse on the next stair down and she's reaching into it to pull out a pack. She seems to be out of Spirits but she's got a full pack from Sergei of Rhy'Din Specials. Pale fingers, accentuated in their fairness by the pitch of her nails, shuffle out one for the redhead which she takes the liberty of lighting for her - and staining with a mulberry kiss - she hands it over. "Roach."

Her lips were red like rubies, like the deepest heat of a glowing coal, like blood. A smile notched those deep red lips - what better color for Babylon"— as the cigarette was accepted. She rolled it between two fingers thoughtfully, examining the deep wine kiss stain left like a promise on its filter. "Interesting name, Roach. And thank you." She put the cigarette to her own lips, fitting into that same pattern as she inhaled. "Mm," intoned a moment later. "...definitely improves the taste."

The blonde laughed a bit at that. "Flirt." A beat. "I uh...I like your vibe, Jezebel." An approving look. "I hope to inherit the earth." A sly look, in response to the woman's take on her moniker. "Don't hear your name none." She flicked her cigarette away; it darted into the air like a suicidal firefly and hit the stone ground in a hiss, floating in a rain puddle.

"So's, what brought you out here tonight?" Lifting an ashen brow side-long, being that the woman was right by her side, though not uncomfortably so. She hunched foward on her open knees, ratty jeans wide-legged and half covering her sneakers, elbows jutted over her thighs as she regarded her.

Her smile was suffused with its own radiant heat, the kind that warmed without burning. The kind that caught the cold and weary by the fingertips, drawing them closer with the gentlest of suggested tugs. "Isn't it nice to flirt?" She asked on the exhale, those candleflame eyes moving slowly over the other woman's face. "Brings a smile to the lips, blood to the cheeks. It just feels nice." Ashing the cigarette carefully, Jezebel studied its gently burning cherry a moment before her gaze lifted anew. Grinning, she tossed her head lightly, sending a plume of molten lava locks flowing over her shoulder and down her back. "See, now you are flirting, Miss Roach," she teased gently. "But fear not. I might be a nice girl but I'm not that nice."

"Might be that I am." Eyes shuttering a little at the way the woman described things so palpably, giving her cause to turn her intrusive stare towards her some more, wonderingly. She lit up a Special with a baby blue lighter and tossed it aside, taking a long drag before turning her eyes to the street. "Don't take you for nice. That's not what I'd call you ats all." Nails toyed at one of the spikes in the collar at her throat.

Her laugh was rich, low throated, the pleasant burn of a well aged whiskey. "...No' And what would you call me, then?" Brows arching curiously, she took another drag from the cigarette, staining her own lips with the barest blush of plum from the transferred lipstick.

Roach sat back; the edge of her midriff tee riding up her spine where where ink crawled its curious verses. She lifted her eyes to the sky again. "Luminous" Lucent. Yeahs, that one. My grandma had all these ...huge books, and she'd force feed em to me when she was still 'round. And that word, always ...sounded exactly like what it did." A smile, her lone dimple popping. "You're kind likes the walking, talking embodiment of it. Lucent. Neat word, eh?" There was a pause as she studied the woman's crimson mouth and the mulberry stain upon it. A flick of hazel to the woman's eyes and then, then she looks aside. "Didn't say whys you was here." Her voice gone a touch lower.

"Surely you got better things to do then talk the dictionary with a rat." Waving her cigarette at the woman, only half-teasing. Pale face distant a moment as if in eclipse by some private turmoil and then she took another long, hard drag on the nail.

A solar flare, a camp fire. The word fit, nestling into her chest for safe keeping. "You flatter me," she said after a moment, carefully ashing the cigarette again with a precise tap of her index finger. "In the grand scheme of things, I am looking for someone who isn't here. I know that he isn't, but I'm looking anyway. What can I say' I dig windmills."

Amusement like Fourth of July sparklers in her eyes, she rolled the cigarette between two fingers before putting it back to her lips. "But in the meantime, like I said. I'm here to help." Jezebel, like fire, was ultimately a formless think, catching alight wherever the conditions were best, fitting herself to whatever shape suited best. "And you? What do you seek tonight?"

The thin and the thick ropes of her hair swayed and joined and broke like a beaded curtain as she shook her head. "Don't knows. Think I'm beyond help. Maybe even yours. No offence." She breathed those roses into the air, that ghostly bouquet of smoke. Her eyes heavenwards again. "I'm just....I'm just here." A shrug of shoulders. "But, this, hanging, this is neat." A hint of teeth in her night orchid smile.

"Got a broken heart. Only time got the balm for that shiz."

Some regret, the shadows of it spreading like infatuation up her face and then dying out. Receding. Dissolving. "Only time got the goods for that."

Jezebel was one of those people who looked at you with every inch of her being, her gaze riveted, captivated. Her attention was a hungry thing, devouring every word like the speaker was the only person in the world. She nodded, her expression sympathetic. "Time heals most everything....eventually." Exhaling into the sky, she tipped her head back, heavy red falling like rivers of fire to the porch step behind her, pooling there, collecting, waiting to burn through. Only time would tell. "But little things can numb the hurt long enough to let you breathe: A shared cigarette, good conversation, a little flirtation with a pretty stranger." Her smile was sidelong, catlike and coy. Daring the woman beside her not to smile back.

But air compelled the fire"her mind raced with streaks of flame, achingly beautiful and wretched. But she nodded, she understood, she understood. A hard swallow and she did smile; wide. On her face it's awkward at first until it blossoms true. It don't last long; in it, is the coastal surf that never gets to happen, the autumn leaves on a car bonnet and sand breaking between toes. But she lets it go, and she does indeed breathe - in the night and out the smoke, the pain.

Dreads touch to Jezebel's shoulder, cheek to the woman's arm; her skin over-warm and that close, fragrant with magnolia, jasmine and that hint of patchouli. Soft, her voice thick with emotion, she spoke. "Thanks..."

She closed her eyes and fought the tears that were what burned most of all, at the sides of her gaze.

It was second nature, automatic and natural as breathing the way she slipped one arm around the other, her fingers snaking sinuously through serpentine locks to grace the shoulder opposite. "Hey," she crooned, a private lullaby, soothing as a marshmallow toasted to just the perfect caramelized confection. To be wrapped in Jezebel's arms was to be engulfed, she smelled of cinnamon and honey, distantly of molten rock and volcanic ash. Breathing deeply of summer's hothouse flowers on the back of the neck bent before her, she held Roach close. There was nothing unseemly in it, nothing lecherous or sleazy. It was her nature to provide comfort when and how she could. "It's alright. Or it's not, but it will be."

The comfort and the sensation of it, and the stranger, was enveloping. She allowed herself to float inside it, reaching around to wrap her arms about Jezebel as, finally, she cried. Silently, but the tears were there. And when they had made their way she cracked open her eyes and leaned back a touch; white dreads buried under molten red river, and she sniffled a smile. "You're right...just...uh...." she nodded a touch and exhaled. "Thank you, lady."

Time stood still. It could have been a minute, it could have been a decade. Jezebel held her, long fingers tracing soothing circles over the back of that skinny shoulder, weaving in an out of platinum locks like tesla coils. Only when the storm inside seemed to have subsided, when the woman lifted away and leaned back did she release her. The smile that was waiting for her was free of judgment, reassuring in its enduring warmth. "Feel better?"

"Yeahs." Rubbing the silvery trails from her cheek. "Needed that, evidently." Some embarrassment in the way she put that curtly, but it wasn't without a moon-touched grin. "I'm sorry to likes, cry all over your damn shoulder. I....been holding it in, last few days." Hand raked through that river of hair in a caress, a thanks divined by her fingertips as she leaned back further again, and nodded a few times. "Uh, I owes you a drink." She laughed a bit more, more of a croak than a caw and brought the cigarette to her tear-stained mouth.

"You a good sort; inside n' out, yo." Murmured with a shaken breath. "Where you staying anyway?"

"I'll take you up on that another time," she said softly, and the words were a promise. Her head tipped into those fingers as they breached the fiery depths of her mane. "Sometimes everyone just...needs to be held, no' To have someone stroke your hair and tell you that it's going to be okay." Her smile was warm and inviting, a crackling fire in the hearth on Christmas morning after all the presents have been opened and indolence overtakes full bellies. "I have a little space not far from here."

Yeah, she was going to hit the waterworks again. She shut her eyes tightly and laughed weakly. "Yeah, I....I gots to get some shut eye, too. You got a phone?" She glanced back up at the Dragon's door, already plotting ahead on where she was going to crash tonight. Not the safe house; feck that. Then she's leaning down to her bag to dig around for her cell. "I'd like to thank you....for uh...your kindness. Don'ts deserve it....but you're..." she struggled to make any sense as a thumb hit a few buttons.

"Not so good on the hugging thing; but you ....you helped."

Jezebel seemed to understand, though. She gave a nod, a hint of knowing in the warmth of her smile. "Everyone deserves kindness, Miss Roach," her reply like honey warmed in the sunshine, she reached for the phone when the moment presented itself. Gaze falling over its display, she entered her name and the requisite numbers before handing it back, her fingers folding over the back of the other woman's hand for a gentle squeeze before the contact slipped away.

"Be gentle with yourself," she said, and it was more of a plea than a command, a gentle urging, earnest. "Everyone is worth saving." Rising, Jezebel bent at the waist, leaning in to press a warm kiss to the other woman's cheek. The contact would tingle with its own residual heat for some time afterwards, the after impression of lips that could scorch as easy as they soothed. "Sleep well. I will see you again."

Fetching her bag, Roach slid the phone down the back pocket of her jeans and rose to her feet beside the woman. A hand rises to her cheek, where the shadow of a kiss flared and crackled and words fell through her mind; they hurt, but only because they mattered, only because Jezebel was right. Slipping to her tippy toes, she kisses the woman's cheek in turn and smiles. The real one, lacking all affectations. "I'd like that." And flicking her smoke into the evening she lowered her eyes and stepped up to the porch to drift in the door. Across the room and up the stairs for room 10-4. She knocks on the door and when it opens, she gives a nod to whomever is behind it and disappears inside.

Waiting until the woman had disappeared back inside, Jezebel smiled to herself, tipping her head back to take in the sky as she walked up the path, her hands outstretched to either side of her as though to embrace the world.

(with thanks to Roach Lee!)

Yes...and No

On a breath of warm, late summer air, Jezebel entered. An easy smile was spread over her mouth, molten amber eyes roving over the inn's patrons in no great rush, alight with curious interest. After a moment's observation, she wove her way through the crowd, a golden ribbon of movement, on her way to the bar.

A moth to flame, a woman she passed couldn't help the openly appreciative look she gave to the incoming ember. One of the fuller shot glasses was raised then down it went empty a moment later.

Sinon had been here for some time; there was a skill in going unnoticed, especially the way he looked, the way he dressed, the way he enjoyed smoke. A booth in the back — yes, there, that was him. The faint smell of clove, the black satin shirt, the glances of starless eyes. The Lagos prince was reading, pouring over papers, and drinking ouzo. If his attention drifted onto someone, it was only because they were molten and worth his time.

A strange man's gaze travelled to the door for a moment, taking the time to give a long, lingering look over the redhead coming in through it, eyes following her along her way to the bar, though soon enough they left her to resume his conversation. "So, like...does drinking actually do anything for you?"

For a moment, she locked eyes with a gorgeous blonde, and the smile on her face grew by degrees, the heat of her interest increasing. She inclined her head in a greeting. As she approached a free seat, she glanced aside, noticed that one of the booths in the back was occupied. Her brows rose seamlessly as she took a moment to look him over, then turned her attention to the liquor.

There was a chirping sound from the strange man who had been admiring her's pocket and he groaned softly. "This had better be an emergency..." And with the same Ka-RACK! of suddenly displaced air, he vanished.

"Auf Wiederseheeeeeeen," called the woman who had first admired her, offering a few parting words for someone leaving, dragged another look over fire given life, and then through the throng of drinkers there at the bar and nearby tables. A lil more tequila wouldn't hurt.

It was safe to say she'd noticed the cutie with the dark hair, too, but alas, he was there one moment and gone the next. Easing into her seat, she caught the right corner of a full lower lip in her teeth, svelte legs crossing at the thigh. One elbow planted on the bar, she propped her chin in outstretched fingers, cradling it there as she studied her...choices.

Smoke; in a snarl, in a twist, lazy and lion-like. Maps had a way of absorbing him , and it'd been some time since he'd lifted his head from study. Items littered the table. A jacket occupied the space next to him. His phone played a song, a snippet of a song, on repeat. 144. Ephemeral. A tap of long fingers stopped it, then pocketed it as he stood and excised himself from the booth. The excuse was, I need coffee, but he knew the reasoning was flimsy, and he disliked filmsy. No. I need company. And so he sought it. An empty bottle of liquor and glass in each hand, he was already saying, "Hello," to the woman with the red hair, eyeing her sidewise with a smile just as slanted.

"Good evening," came the response, her face tipping aside to take in his profile. Her voice had a musical lilt to it. It was the inflection more than the accent that spoke of somewhere else, somewhere long distant from here. The accent blended well enough, but the words, the words were music. She took in his clothes, the fact that he'd brought his own supplies from elsewhere, and finally she turned an intrigued smile on him. There was no shame in the way she looked him over, the bold flicker of eyes like candleflame as they rejoined oil slick depths. Her chin tipped towards the empty bottle. "What's your pleasure?"

Where others might turn from the attention, despite claims otherwise, Sinon only smirked and crossed behind her as he rounded the bar. The night was young and there was still plenty of time to drink. Somewhere between selecting another bottle and a new, clean glass, he returned the look with the same level of naked interest she'd given him. This is how people are meant to look at each other. It was how he looked at Millicent. It was honest. And only when he was pouring a drink did he tell her, "I am distracting myself. What is yours?"

"I am pleased by a wide variety of things," she replied, a catlike smile coiling over her lips. Fingers flared away from her chin and settled again, one shoulder lifting almost imperceptibly higher than the other. "Company. Interesting conversation. An excellent glass of rum." Her gaze strayed rather pointedly to the glass in his hand.

Oh, that was a request without being a request. Sinon felt certain no one missed that one. Lips curved into the shape of a laugh without sound, and his head shook with them. Yes, he understood. Another glass, and a different bottle, this one rum, and he poured her a drink slowly, watching her with one brow raised. Say when. A dare. The game of it all amused him terribly.

She watched the amber liquor spill from the mouth of the bottle, ever so slowly filling the glass he'd set out for her. Her lips twitched, amusement flaring like heat lightning in the unnatural brilliance of her eyes. When the liquor kissed at the glass' rim, trembling on the precipice of being too much, too far, Jezebel said, "when." She paused. "And thank you."

"Mm. Usually I prefer people tell me what they want." The bottle vanished, Sinon making quick work of capping the bottle and returning it to beneath the counter. Not once did he take starless eyes off her. Details were not meant to be lost, and he was unafraid. "Sinon," he intoned. "And pleasure to meet you." Glass lifted in salute and downed, before being refilled carelessly.

"Si...non," she tasted each syllable individually, dragging out the space between them. "Yes....no." She smiled, raking her fingers through gossamer hair that tumbled about her body in every shade of fire and flame. "Few people know exactly what they want. It's refreshing to encounter the exception." Freeing her fingers from silky red strands, they wrapped lovingly, carefully around the overfull glass. Jezebel touched everything carefully, tenderly, like a lover. Her thumb smoothed over its convex rim in a casual caress. "I am Jezebel." Name, title. It made no difference.

This was all for show, he recognized. Her, the way she held herself, the way she held things. A package meant for the unwrapping, and the paper gorgeous, rare, luxurious. Or maybe, he thought, this is just her. A creature of true expression. No game to her; only honest depth. Well shaped lips pursed, wet and bruised in the half-light of the Inn. Black eyes ticked and followed the cascade of her hair down her spine and imagined how it must look against bare skin. Which was the point, he imagined. Shoulders and throat consumed by red and orange. "I have a booth. Join me." Simply, and then he was walking around the bar again, and around her again, and returning to where he'd started. All without looking back. A cigarette was already tucked into his mouth and lit before he turned to see if she'd follow.

The bare skin in question was gilt- she was the color of fresh bread just barely begun to toast, a golden honey. Her laughter sounded low in her throat, a rich and velvety sound. Ah, now this one was interesting. For a moment, her ambrosial gaze was downcast, reading the surface tension of her rum like she could divine an answer there, like there was an answer to divine in the first place. Her movements were unhurried grace as she eased out of her seat, smoothing the skirt of her dress down against the backs of her thighs. She swept the glass from the bar's surface, dragging it closer and then off, pulling it in against her chest, and then turned to follow him at last. Her gaze met his once more as she approached, brows rippling in a sort of delighted intrigue. He'd answered her tacit demand, now she'd answered his overt request. What next' The twitching at the corners of her smile was like the swishing of a cat's tail.

From one game and into another, but the truth was Sinon didn't imagine she needed games. That was the truth she was meant to divine; when two people were empires of themselves, owned themselves, knew themselves — then endless games were unnecessary, except when the enjoyment was the game itself. When Sinon looked at her, it was on the crest of a smile that was meant for sculpting, for capture by paints or film, handsome and sharp and just feminine enough to be gorgeous, even pretty, but still masculine. And oh how he blew smoke from the corner of his mouth, still entirely amused. He let himself imagine other parts of her, the skin of light sunwork, of early dawn. Wondered at the shape of bones beneath muscles. Of the taste of salt. "Jezebel," he said, exactly as she meant him to say it. Exactly, with longing, need, hurt, want, and yet — they both knew he found it funny, just a touch. Like even her name was a game, one he enjoyed. "What is it you want' We both know what I want."

Drawing close to him, she came to a stop when there was less than a foot of space left between them. Lifting the glass to her mouth, she let it weigh heavily against her lower lip for a moment before she took a sip from its rim. Even then, she didn't swallow — not immediately. Holding the fire liquid on her tongue, she savored its warmth, fans of golden lash fluttering in appreciation. "Mm," the muscles of her throat worked, and she smiled. "Excellent choice, Sinon." Shorter this time, but still longer than it strictly had to be, she savored his name the way she savored her drink. "I," she went on, answering his question thoughtfully, "...am someone who is good at fulfilling needs. We know what you want, yes, but what do you need?" The curve of her grin was almost but not quite feline, knowingly intimate. Like they were sharing a joke whose punchline was a secret buried deep between them.

There are times when people laugh and yet they don't, like it's just held inside them and only manifests in the eyes, the lips, perhaps the shoulders. Sinon is doing that, and rolling his eyes just a touch, head canting — oh, yes, he understands. An exhale of smoke before the laugh actually arrives, and he's sitting down into the booth, not so much as evading her space as simply finding a more comfortable spot. This put her above him, but still close. Without asking or without caring if she cares, he extends a hand and touches her dress, pinching it between two fingers. Testing the material. Knowing. Finally, "I need Millicent Grim, but she is not here. Cannot be here. Anything else is a substitute, however deep or gorgeous it is. However pretty you are. I imagine this dress in a pile, and my heart aches some for it. But you did not answer my question." Still he looks at her, seeking eye contact. "I know what you are now, but what do you want?"

The material was a light, flimsy cotton, what current trends would call bohemian. The sundress reflected the weather, breezy and insubstantial. The skirt fell to a scant handful of inches above the knee, short without being scandalously so. Spaghetti straps clung to golden shoulders that were otherwise bare but for the mantle of silky hair made of fire. She let him touch, and if his knuckles should chance to graze the thigh that it draped, he would find the skin inordinately warm. Not feverish, not precisely, but certainly flush. "What do I want' Same as you. I want to be ...satiated. I want...to possess some piece of you, to claim a corner of your memory as my own." She slipped from his grasp, sliding into the booth opposite him. "But I am not Millicent, and yet here we are." She sipped slowly from her glass again, taking a moment to breathe in its heady scent, her lashes lowering. Breathing fire, she lifted her gaze back to his face, sunlight meeting midnight sky. "So there must be something else." I could teach you not to know the difference.

If his hand grazed her thigh, and upwards still, the moment was between them, a shameless momentary possession of body, touch laden with intent. This, here, is where you will remember me tomorrow. As far up as too far to touch a stranger, in such public a place. This memory I claim for myself. Sinon understood what she wanted now, and in some sense it was almost a negotiation. That dress, so light and flimsy it reminded him of bed sheets, of dreams, and everything beneath it — and how he imagined what was beneath it, soft and supple and warm, yielding to flame, to fire — for a memory in him, just as he left memories in her. To occupy a place in the internal mapwork. North Star. Summer Moon. Jezebel.

Sinon smiled at the thought, and though it was bent and crooked, it was genuine. Cigarette tucked between fingers, he took a drink and then smoothed out the soft fabric of a black dress shirt missing a tie and half unbuttoned to the chest, then rain fingers over skin, as though he was considering, thinking, debating. Without pause, "You are not her. You are too warm. There is too much color. You could not contain her. But that does not mean I am not taking you home. Some memory for a night. Could you wear me out?" The way he said it; I am almost entirely impossible to wear out.

Jezebel smiled, drew a fingertip across the rim of her glass. It was a thoughtful caress, special care afforded even the most mundane, inanimate of things. Her gaze lifted to his face, the memory of his fingerprints still warm on her thigh. "I can," she said it steadily, and there wasn't a drop of bravado in the casual confidence of her lyrical tone. "But I won't."

The smile, how it brightened as she revealed herself. She could. She truly could. And yet she wouldn't. Sinon was not clueless to the distinction. "A mercy?" When he runs the back of his knuckles against his jaw, his cheek, they are the exact same fingers that had just touched her. For a moment they settle on his lips, then vanish into his drink to collect liquor. He sucks the drops off distractedly, watching her.

"Yes." A mercy to whom, however, she did not specify. "Some memories are all the richer for the ...speculation," continued Jezebel, and she lifted the glass to her lips, drinking liberally this time. Her chest rose and her lashes fluttered as she swallowed its fire, taking it into her body, assimilating its heat. Setting the glass down, she lifted her thumb, catching the outer edge of her bottom lip near the left corner, dabbing at a stray drop of rum that beaded, crystalline, begging to fall.

She caught it and wiped it between her fingers, and the look on her face as she glanced over his frame once more was almost, but not quite, regret. "It's a shame, though. You could have been most entertaining." Planting both hands on the table, Jezebel lifted herself back to a standing, her glass unfinished, but left aside. "Your name is fitting, it seems. Yes...but also no." She smiled, and there was a warmth in it that was as forgiving as it was final. "Have a lovely evening, Sinon."

Fingerpads still held traces of liquor, and he was determined to removed them with tongue, one by one, while he looked at her, and she at him. The prints were mazes, labyrinths. Only when he finished did he smile at her leaving, the shape as soft as it was bent, a sad slant that held no ill will. He mused, openly, "Your imagination does not do me justice. We are perhaps both lesser for the loss. Jezebel," he toasted, resisting the urge to stand and tell her, no, my answer to you is now, and I will find a way, because the answer really was no, and he was not the man he once was.

Still, he didn't hide the way he felt, because the best things were all true. Again he touched the fabric of her dress, this time only with the back of a hand, from hip to knee. "But I am no liar, and no trickster. The magic is in truth. Good night, Jezebel. May you find what you want." He smelled, for a moment, the back of his hand. You smell like fire.

"Nor yours, me. Even so." You would not have said her name if she did not matter. "Perhaps we will find ourselves sharing a drink another time." There was no commitment in it, only the warm flame of promise that said it would be pleasant should it turn out to be so. "I am not a liar, but I'm also not a substitute," she said by way of explanation, more than she owed but less, perhaps, than she specifically wanted to give. She did smell like fire. Like honey and cinnamon and the barest traces of brimstone and sulfur. His hand brushed her hip and it rolled in response, towards him and not away. Mm.

She took the necessary steps to separate them: two and then two more. A final glance was afforded in his direction, an easy smile cresting full lips as she gave him that parting glance. Then she slipped the door open, twisting like a flame in a sudden wind, and stepped through it into the night beyond. To search the shadows, perhaps.

"We will." Oh, how easy the statements came, but how deeply he meant them. Rather; how true he believed them. They would share a drink again, and more beyond that. She could carry around a memory of him until then; fingers across thigh, knuckles across hip bone, and the way they both knew how that skirt could be lifted in the very same shadows she vanished into. Not once did he look away from her, not in all that retreat, because she, too, would occupy something in him.

It was as she said; sometimes it was the lack of completion that stuck out so much. Only when she was gone, truly gone, did he return to his maps, smiling occasionally at the new place she'd marked in him.

——

modified from room log. With thanks to Sinon Lagos!