(( rped scene with Jezebel Calient. Thanks for the play!))
When they stepped outside of the inn together, he had a moment that his eyes went down the alley. To measure, to predict, to believe that something was there. Then his gaze went to Jezebel, to whom he smiled, "I was thinking of ordering Chinese." There wasn't much open at that hour, but the evening was late and perhaps it might dawn on either of them that they would want to consume. or they might overindulge, anyway. There something delicious about eating beyond being full and taking more than what was required.
Stopping outside the passenger door of his car, he loosened his arm from hers to grab to door handle and pop it open. There was a rich, satisfying pop as it opened, the metal of the door otherwise a silent whisper over the evening. He left him palm speared at its center by the corner of the door as he waited for her to climb in.
"So, this darts game I'm to lose so spectacularly, it's at your place then?" The crescent shape of one golden brow lifted, and her smile was its inverse, a sharp curve that spoke of amusement but not surprise. "I do enjoy...Chinese," she went on, and out here in the cool night air, away from the press and hum of a busy bar, the subtle lilt in her voice became more apparent. There was a musical rhythm to it, her words like the verse of some ancient song.
Whether it was food or games or badly betted stakes, the redhead had no doubt that they would find ways to overindulge with one another. She glanced over the car when it came into view, and smiled when he opened the door for her. So gallant. The way she inclined her head in a nod of thanks sent a cascade of red ripples tumbling over her shoulder. She lifted one hand to the door jamb for balance, and her fingers were warm where they crossed over his. The touch wasn't accidental, or incidental. There was heat in her amber gaze when it lifted. "Thank you, Slane," she said, drawing out the single syllable as though tasting it on her lips.
Extending one foot into the car, she transferred herself into it fluidly, with preternatural grace.
"The house I'm renting has one," he confirmed with a small,tight smile, the sort that said she'd caught him when he put it out there to be caught. There was a brief moment that his eyes checked with hers, to see if there was resisting or a desire to reroute. She fluidly confirmed what she liked and he thought at the corners of her lips was something that said you don't surprise me. He didn't know why, but he liked that.
Slane was gallant by modern standards, not by the ones he knew. He didn't engage in polite conversation, he was direct enough that he bordered upon being rude. A man could get scorn and appreciation for door-holding, these days. Most just opted out of the situation entirely. You couldn't do harm if you were, in fact, doing nothing. On some set of standards he was being rude to her, ordering take out chinese instead of a proper meal. not courting her appropriately before showing her where he lived. Those were more ponderous times. Lately' All you had to do was swipe left. Or right.
"You're welcome," his head tilted to the side to look at her better when he felt the heat of her hand. The sensation was interesting. The only way to describe it was to say he wanted to be burned alive. She slipped into the passenger seat, but both of them knew who was driving. Sucking in a breath, he shut her door and walked around, joining her in his car. It started up without a key. It was one of those that you twisted a knob for.
"For this darts game, you want to make wagers or just play for fun?" The question was asking more than what the question was asking. She likely already knew that, except he was waiting to know what she would say.
If her words were the verse, her laugh was its chorus. Rich and vibrating low in her throat, Jezebel's expression of mirth was infectious, coaxing you to join in even if you weren't entirely sure what she found funny. In the cool dark of the car's interior, her eyes were so much like twin flames that they seemed almost to give off their own glow, carrying the weight of her smile in their depths.
"Is there a difference for you?" She wanted to know, inclining her head thoughtfully as she regarded him there in the driver's seat.
"Absolutely." Slane smiled and buckled in before he started to drive. He had the polish of a finished man, the ring of someone who knew who he was and only put his time into situations that worked for it.
Her lips pursed, curiosity alive in her expression. "Tell me" what kind of wager are you thinking of making?"
"When you play for fun it's just' what happens, happens. There's no pressure, life goes about its way. Maybe even the act starts to lose importance. But," he held up one finger, his eyes darting to hers and then back to the road, "If there is something to lose, it becomes a bit more interesting. You and I are different, it's hard to make a wager which could make us squirm. So, then, what are your lose conditions?" He cut a left turn, he tried not to let his eyes notice her flames. That was the place men died.
There was a drop of expectation in her smile as he explained. She didn't interrupt, her legs crossed towards him as she perched in the seat at an angle. She lounged in the seat like it was made for her, one arm draped carelessly over the armrest at her left, her elbow pressed into the ledge where the window begins on the right. In such confined quarters, it was likely that the ambient temperature of the car's interior would begin to rise subtly.
"I know there is a difference," the words came playfully, in that siren song lilt. "I just don't think there is a difference for you. The just for fun, the lack of pressure, significance...." Her fingers twirled there by the glass as the streets of Rhydin streaked by just beyond it. "You find that boring, don't you?" Her gaze moved intently over his face. "But you also hate to lose?" Full lips pursing, she regarded him with catlike interest. "So tell me. What is it you want to win?"
"Something you don't want to lose." He admitted to her. The rest of what she said was truth, but he didn't have to say it. Jezebel was just rolling facts off her tongue like she enjoyed the way they tasted. There wasn't anything to argue. Placing bets, perhaps poorly, might have explained his lack of wings. He'd taken a wrong turn, he had made a wrong choice. His life had fewer feathers in it, these days.
"It isn't money or power so' what do you wager?" That was more interesting. Slane could be compelled by the need to secure all the saltines of a bar for himself. Jezebel, though, still had her unique angle.
Slane was right about one thing — Jezebel had no particular need of money or power. She considered his words, her campfire gaze easing away from him as she thought about it, watching the world streak past in the windshield. There had been a time that a car like this would have shocked and amazed her; now, she smiled for the simple girl she'd once been, a figure so remote and foreign she could scarcely remember what she'd been like.
"There's not much I have left to lose that can actually be taken from me," she said it lightly, her tone almost apologetic. Her eyes flashed with sudden inspiration, and she glanced at him sidelong, her smile knowing, intimate. "Except maybe my hair, but I'm not betting that. So let's try this another way. What do I get if you lose?"
"No, not your hair," he shook his head, his nose wrinkling to emphasize how on board he was with that not being considered. She couldn't think of anything and so he tilted his head to the side, "Your ear rings." There was a look to her, where he was checking whether or not she was wearing any or if he was making an assumption.
"If I lose" In the remote possibility of that, I will give you one feather." He made a turn down the driveway of his rental home. The stone cottage was charming, a small white fence overgrown by some foliage in a rather picturesque way. Whether or not cottages were to his liking wasn't clear, just that he hadn't selected quarters that were cheap or ratty. Parking the car down the drive, her door was on the side of walkway leading to the front of the house. The air of the home was relaxed, indicative of the sort of places someone rented for a Summer retreat.
"It isn't your color, anyway," her sidelong smile was playful, her fingers threading into the silken tresses in question. She looped a tendril around and around her index finger, pulling it tight so that it bit into the skin like golden red rope. "My earrings?"
Releasing the captured strands, her fingers drifted up to the lobe of her ear as though to remind herself which ones she was wearing. They were spirals of thin golden wire, simple but elegant. They had, of course, been a gift. "Mm?" She tapped the wire corkscrew and then released it. "Alright," she looked him over thoughtfully, and her smile came more slowly, more smoothly, than before. "My earrings, then."
Her gaze slipped away from him, her attention bending to the windshield, taking in the sight of the cottage beyond it. Small, but tasteful, and just a touch surprising. Tilting her head to look at him again, she considered his offer. "A feather?"
"My feather," he countered with a smile. He looked at her pointedly before he opened his door. She might have opened her own, or she might have waited for him to open it. Once it had and they were on the path towards the door, he paused at the front of it, working over the keys in his hand before he opened it. His head tilted to her, the head level light in a lantern-like case, putting light over his face and the salted, half-humored smile. He opened the door, swiped his hand against the wall so that a floor lamp illuminated the living room, but he didn't step in. He waited for her.
The home was quaint. There were rural decorations, but overall, it had a low key and slightly masculine quality to it. The couch was leather, the coffee table looked as though it would need two people to move it. Beneath it, a red and black turkish rug. Slane hadn't been speaking metaphorically when he said there was a dartboard. It was on the wall, the wood case closed with the same solemnity of a collector's prized item. His steps came behind her, his hand brushed the door shut.
"So how about it' My feather against your ear rings?" His half smile knew how to state a challenge.
When they stepped outside of the inn together, he had a moment that his eyes went down the alley. To measure, to predict, to believe that something was there. Then his gaze went to Jezebel, to whom he smiled, "I was thinking of ordering Chinese." There wasn't much open at that hour, but the evening was late and perhaps it might dawn on either of them that they would want to consume. or they might overindulge, anyway. There something delicious about eating beyond being full and taking more than what was required.
Stopping outside the passenger door of his car, he loosened his arm from hers to grab to door handle and pop it open. There was a rich, satisfying pop as it opened, the metal of the door otherwise a silent whisper over the evening. He left him palm speared at its center by the corner of the door as he waited for her to climb in.
"So, this darts game I'm to lose so spectacularly, it's at your place then?" The crescent shape of one golden brow lifted, and her smile was its inverse, a sharp curve that spoke of amusement but not surprise. "I do enjoy...Chinese," she went on, and out here in the cool night air, away from the press and hum of a busy bar, the subtle lilt in her voice became more apparent. There was a musical rhythm to it, her words like the verse of some ancient song.
Whether it was food or games or badly betted stakes, the redhead had no doubt that they would find ways to overindulge with one another. She glanced over the car when it came into view, and smiled when he opened the door for her. So gallant. The way she inclined her head in a nod of thanks sent a cascade of red ripples tumbling over her shoulder. She lifted one hand to the door jamb for balance, and her fingers were warm where they crossed over his. The touch wasn't accidental, or incidental. There was heat in her amber gaze when it lifted. "Thank you, Slane," she said, drawing out the single syllable as though tasting it on her lips.
Extending one foot into the car, she transferred herself into it fluidly, with preternatural grace.
"The house I'm renting has one," he confirmed with a small,tight smile, the sort that said she'd caught him when he put it out there to be caught. There was a brief moment that his eyes checked with hers, to see if there was resisting or a desire to reroute. She fluidly confirmed what she liked and he thought at the corners of her lips was something that said you don't surprise me. He didn't know why, but he liked that.
Slane was gallant by modern standards, not by the ones he knew. He didn't engage in polite conversation, he was direct enough that he bordered upon being rude. A man could get scorn and appreciation for door-holding, these days. Most just opted out of the situation entirely. You couldn't do harm if you were, in fact, doing nothing. On some set of standards he was being rude to her, ordering take out chinese instead of a proper meal. not courting her appropriately before showing her where he lived. Those were more ponderous times. Lately' All you had to do was swipe left. Or right.
"You're welcome," his head tilted to the side to look at her better when he felt the heat of her hand. The sensation was interesting. The only way to describe it was to say he wanted to be burned alive. She slipped into the passenger seat, but both of them knew who was driving. Sucking in a breath, he shut her door and walked around, joining her in his car. It started up without a key. It was one of those that you twisted a knob for.
"For this darts game, you want to make wagers or just play for fun?" The question was asking more than what the question was asking. She likely already knew that, except he was waiting to know what she would say.
If her words were the verse, her laugh was its chorus. Rich and vibrating low in her throat, Jezebel's expression of mirth was infectious, coaxing you to join in even if you weren't entirely sure what she found funny. In the cool dark of the car's interior, her eyes were so much like twin flames that they seemed almost to give off their own glow, carrying the weight of her smile in their depths.
"Is there a difference for you?" She wanted to know, inclining her head thoughtfully as she regarded him there in the driver's seat.
"Absolutely." Slane smiled and buckled in before he started to drive. He had the polish of a finished man, the ring of someone who knew who he was and only put his time into situations that worked for it.
Her lips pursed, curiosity alive in her expression. "Tell me" what kind of wager are you thinking of making?"
"When you play for fun it's just' what happens, happens. There's no pressure, life goes about its way. Maybe even the act starts to lose importance. But," he held up one finger, his eyes darting to hers and then back to the road, "If there is something to lose, it becomes a bit more interesting. You and I are different, it's hard to make a wager which could make us squirm. So, then, what are your lose conditions?" He cut a left turn, he tried not to let his eyes notice her flames. That was the place men died.
There was a drop of expectation in her smile as he explained. She didn't interrupt, her legs crossed towards him as she perched in the seat at an angle. She lounged in the seat like it was made for her, one arm draped carelessly over the armrest at her left, her elbow pressed into the ledge where the window begins on the right. In such confined quarters, it was likely that the ambient temperature of the car's interior would begin to rise subtly.
"I know there is a difference," the words came playfully, in that siren song lilt. "I just don't think there is a difference for you. The just for fun, the lack of pressure, significance...." Her fingers twirled there by the glass as the streets of Rhydin streaked by just beyond it. "You find that boring, don't you?" Her gaze moved intently over his face. "But you also hate to lose?" Full lips pursing, she regarded him with catlike interest. "So tell me. What is it you want to win?"
"Something you don't want to lose." He admitted to her. The rest of what she said was truth, but he didn't have to say it. Jezebel was just rolling facts off her tongue like she enjoyed the way they tasted. There wasn't anything to argue. Placing bets, perhaps poorly, might have explained his lack of wings. He'd taken a wrong turn, he had made a wrong choice. His life had fewer feathers in it, these days.
"It isn't money or power so' what do you wager?" That was more interesting. Slane could be compelled by the need to secure all the saltines of a bar for himself. Jezebel, though, still had her unique angle.
Slane was right about one thing — Jezebel had no particular need of money or power. She considered his words, her campfire gaze easing away from him as she thought about it, watching the world streak past in the windshield. There had been a time that a car like this would have shocked and amazed her; now, she smiled for the simple girl she'd once been, a figure so remote and foreign she could scarcely remember what she'd been like.
"There's not much I have left to lose that can actually be taken from me," she said it lightly, her tone almost apologetic. Her eyes flashed with sudden inspiration, and she glanced at him sidelong, her smile knowing, intimate. "Except maybe my hair, but I'm not betting that. So let's try this another way. What do I get if you lose?"
"No, not your hair," he shook his head, his nose wrinkling to emphasize how on board he was with that not being considered. She couldn't think of anything and so he tilted his head to the side, "Your ear rings." There was a look to her, where he was checking whether or not she was wearing any or if he was making an assumption.
"If I lose" In the remote possibility of that, I will give you one feather." He made a turn down the driveway of his rental home. The stone cottage was charming, a small white fence overgrown by some foliage in a rather picturesque way. Whether or not cottages were to his liking wasn't clear, just that he hadn't selected quarters that were cheap or ratty. Parking the car down the drive, her door was on the side of walkway leading to the front of the house. The air of the home was relaxed, indicative of the sort of places someone rented for a Summer retreat.
"It isn't your color, anyway," her sidelong smile was playful, her fingers threading into the silken tresses in question. She looped a tendril around and around her index finger, pulling it tight so that it bit into the skin like golden red rope. "My earrings?"
Releasing the captured strands, her fingers drifted up to the lobe of her ear as though to remind herself which ones she was wearing. They were spirals of thin golden wire, simple but elegant. They had, of course, been a gift. "Mm?" She tapped the wire corkscrew and then released it. "Alright," she looked him over thoughtfully, and her smile came more slowly, more smoothly, than before. "My earrings, then."
Her gaze slipped away from him, her attention bending to the windshield, taking in the sight of the cottage beyond it. Small, but tasteful, and just a touch surprising. Tilting her head to look at him again, she considered his offer. "A feather?"
"My feather," he countered with a smile. He looked at her pointedly before he opened his door. She might have opened her own, or she might have waited for him to open it. Once it had and they were on the path towards the door, he paused at the front of it, working over the keys in his hand before he opened it. His head tilted to her, the head level light in a lantern-like case, putting light over his face and the salted, half-humored smile. He opened the door, swiped his hand against the wall so that a floor lamp illuminated the living room, but he didn't step in. He waited for her.
The home was quaint. There were rural decorations, but overall, it had a low key and slightly masculine quality to it. The couch was leather, the coffee table looked as though it would need two people to move it. Beneath it, a red and black turkish rug. Slane hadn't been speaking metaphorically when he said there was a dartboard. It was on the wall, the wood case closed with the same solemnity of a collector's prized item. His steps came behind her, his hand brushed the door shut.
"So how about it' My feather against your ear rings?" His half smile knew how to state a challenge.