(( rped live with Helena! Thanks for the play!))

The black hatchback had only three years to its name when he purchased it. This was a low, slightly more modern vehicle meant to replace the truck. It wasn't as masculine and was arguably the car a man selected when he had kids or a family. What Robert liked about it was that it could haul things like a truck in addition to the truck space being covered. It didn't have the gas mileage or the annoying profile of an SUV.

It was better this way, to linger on longer and further at the museum than at the inn. Room 105 still haunted him and he would meet some better conclusion with it. Just not tonight. Tonight he sank on the front porch, whiskey in his coffee and the third smoke weaving in his mouth. Yes. Better to avoid the inn these days.

Helena made her way towards the museum. Her hair was swept over her head and tied in a neat, small bun at the base of her skull. She wore a dress with a high neck and long hem, ending just below her knees. It was a blue the color of the dusky sky, gorgeous and rich against her pale flesh. On her feet, a pair of nude pumps though the footsteps were silent.

Stormy eyes shifted from the vehicle to the porch where there sat a Robert. Drinking coffee. His favorite. In the yard, obediently so, was Troy. His head raised when he saw Helena and his tail wagged - though he did not get up to greet her. This is by design. She made her way towards him, hips cutting sharply and confidently. Hands loose at her side. She stopped before him, eyes downcast at him with a subtle curl to her lips. "Robert Brohkun."

She was expected. These days his undertones are more cinnamon than normal. The demon was fairly worn, fairly exhausted, as if carrying an enormous weight around all day. Still, he stood on ceremony, the polite way to greet a woman hello when she appeared in the 'room' of the porch he occupied. With the tip of his head black wires of hair fall to his brow. He sank back into his seat, "I've been restored, it seems."

His cigarette is like a wand, using to indicate all around him. Robert was back, the way she intended and sans any terse discussions with Osvaldo. The man's plastic smile had been waiting for him and lapped up the phone call.

When he sat, her pale hand came forward. A finger traced a line down his jaw and tipped his chin upwards that she can look into his eyes. "Restored. Or beaten. You are bedraggled. Why?" It was a militarism that Helena lapsed in to when it was that her friends were troubled.

"I've put myself into a corner with some things. None of the solutions are ones I want to make so... I carry the weight of it. Either I'll have to pick a choice offered or a new one will come along." He wasn't meaning to be evasive, only to avoid becoming long winded about the situation. Lately, he had felt like he was explaining himself all the time. The sensation wasn't entirely unlike making excuses. The hand not laden with a cigarette jumped up to catch her's, freeing it from his face with a squeeze before he let go.

"Then let me help you." Her hand returned to her side and she took a seat beside him. Troy gave her a look as though he wanted nothing more than to come and say, 'Hello!' to The Witch. But he maintained his distance.

"I've not reached that stage, yet." His posture folded into a slouch in his chair. Elbows of his tweed coat caught the corers of his chair's armrests, "Any help I've enlisted has come to be something of a thorn. I'm not entirely certain that I can be helped." The heel of his hand holding the cigarette rubbed at one eye, "I returned to Rhy?Din homeless, broke and randy. At least two of the three have been settled."

An eyebrow raised. "Is that so?" There was no tinge of amusement. "Is this via the nature of your contract or the nature of your human vessel?" Needs of the flesh were a common human problem.

"Contract. This is my vessel, as human as it may seem." A motion down to his body. There was little deception, there. Robert wasn't born looking strange and this had a lot to do with being born after Earth and humans were created. Demons had patterned themselves like lions had-- in a camouflage that made nearness and pursuit of their pray easier. Robert would have made a fantastic undertaker.

He redirects the blood flow of the conversation "And you are well?"

"Always." Her chin raised and she regarded him with suspicion for the subject change. "My life has been an even keel for some time. I do not require abundant stimulation. One as old as I can recede into her mind and travel those roads without ever setting foot in the same place twice." An existential answer, but one all of the same.

It seemed he appreciated it, nonetheless. Rising, he crossed to the thick, green glass ash tray that rested upon the porch railing. His back was to her, but only momentarily, "I still have an exhibit and everything else to organize. It's good, though. I feel like... what is that silly comic strip?" He turned to her, lower body leaned to the railing as he continued, "Like superman? Where his human version finds a reprieve in worrying about whether or not something is stapled correctly instead of whether or not someone has died."

"Superman." She repeated, amused by the analogy. "How often does the lust overtake you?" If it was something that required hourly, or six-hourly pauses to release, that can be quite disturbing to manage on such a schedule. She regarded him standing there, and imagined for a moment what it must be like for him to lose himself in an orgasm. Freeing? Or constricting?

There was a small digital image of it, floating somewhere in her mind of the aftermath. A picture Disa had turned to her, an image of him sprawled out after the conclusion of intercourse as though it was some badge or evidence of something. For some, it was difficult to imagine Robert as being an intimate creature. He wasn't particularly flirtatious, even in that contrary 'bad boy' way some men liked to project. He looked as if he would sooner get enveloped in a dictionary or just spend the evening, soaking in a tub with cigarette smoke curling out of his mouth.

"Overtake?" That implied loss. If that had been the case, he imagined his current situation would be otherwise. Helena meant, no doubt, how often he felt it nag, to which he said, "Persistently." There is a shrug as if it is nothing. Perhaps it embarrassed him, even if he wasn't wearing a blush about it.

She looked out over the lawn, silent for a moment. "I do understand how that feels." Helena often felt that need to release. Her mind wandered to the brutish, dominant lovers of her past. To the gentle, sweet ones who worshiped every breath. To the sinister, quiet ones who revealed in themselves such levels of passion that became quite addicting. Her eyes were distant as each of their faces and several sensations journeyed in and out of her mind - and then she returned. "Is 'Roach' the one who sates you?" Her inflection in her voice even betrayed the quotation marks around her name.

"She... entices me but does not sate. I don't want..." it was hard to say it, exactly. He did not think of her as undesirable, or as beneath him in some perverse way. What he wanted to say was that it wasn't what he wanted from her, but because of the contract he found his mind entertaining those thoughts. There had been a moment, brief and genuine, that he had interest. It faded into a ghost with her infidelity and insistence on 'open relationships.' Robert was far from being a prude, he just... wanted to feel like more than glorified masturbation. Not to a friend, anyway. Lately he was thinking an escort was a perfectly reasonable solution to his short-term problem.

Eyes shifted to him, taking in his body language as he spoke. The tone of his voice. The way his legs shifted, his arms, his torso. His expressive eyes. "A contract involving sex. There is more." The statement was an invitation for him to flesh out the details.

"It's a contract involving power and the rule of human belief and magic in New Orleans and Voodoo. The sex is secondary, really, but part of manifesting the husband and wife connection of Persephone and Hades. That we both have the contract means it wants to be fulfilled. It wants us to take office and... encourages us on that path." A twitch at the corner of his lips. He wanted another cigarette but had been chain smoking, heavily. The air at his lips and hands needed space.

"What stops you from giving in to this contract?" She noticed the twitch and understood the terms of the contract - even from that lackluster and Cliff Notes explanation.

"I don't want her." Flatly and then a side step, sitting just barely at the edge of the railing as he looked at her, "I don't love her. She doesn't love me. I don't know that I want this damn contract to even be a thing."

"You do not know?" That was interesting.

"It's hard to know if you want something you've never had. If you want whiskey the first time you've never had a drink." There was a small rise and fall of his shoulders.

She blinked at him, slowly. "Be careful. That can be spun in a dangerous way. Now, it seems you are back where you started, Robert Brohkun. As you friend, I find this to be concerning. You've made plain that you wish me to not involve myself. Thus far, it has been respected. But for how long must I watch you suffer before I intervene?" The porch seemed to shudder as the gravitas of her intervention settled around them. Even Troy offered a soft whimper, a foreboding sound that was almost a plea.

(( rped live with Helena. Thanks for the play!))

She moved up the stairs with all of the grace as though she were ascending to Heaven. Perfect movements, her hips cutting up the stairs. Never once did she look back to ensure that he followed. She knew. Once upon the top of the stairs, she turned left to double doors. Her quarters. The door was slightly ajar. It opened as she approached. The floors were wooden, beautifully maintained. A large rug was in the center of the room. A four-poster, king-sized bed was in the center of the room. That was all the furniture. One wall contained two doors. One that was her extensive closet. The other, a very elegant bathroom. Another wall hosted French doors which opened out onto a balcony. It was closed, and sheers allowed natural light into the space. Another wall hosted a fireplace with two armchairs facing towards it. Handsomely appointed; natural tones; nothing garish or overworked.

It was austere, but not unwelcoming.

Beyond knowing, there was the sound of his hard-heeled dress shoes hitting the steps when he moved. Helena's figure moved into directions that he followed, though he found her motions sometimes strained as if she had wanted to do something differently and then simply decided that she hadn't.

Her room was like an exhibit. Maintained with the touches of something outdated via the four posts of her bed and the patterning she allowed on the cloth of the areas. The home felt much like a display of where someone lived, but not that it was lived in. There were no half-opened books or randomly scattered pens or taken notes. It was visitor-ready.

"How long have you lived here?"

"Three years." Helena looked around the room as if taking in details. A strange gesture for one who owned the space. "This would be more useful if one requires sleep. Instead." She gestured to the bed. "It is a place for pleasure." She moved fluidly to the window and drew back the sheers to allow more light into the space. Visitor ready.

"It goes without saying. The guest room is at your disposal should you require it, Robert." A glance over her shoulder to him before her body followed and she went to him.

"I don't sleep much, either," but his bed had more purpose than that. Robert found it to be a comfortable place to lounge, more so than a couch might have been. He had not expected her to admit to 'pleasures' because the most it had been mentioned between them was in joking and, indirectly, at that game of poker where Disa turned a picture of him on her camera to her.

"I wouldn't want to put you out," he managed the sentence right before she was at him, "One should know how to fend for themself."

"One should know when to call for aid." Her hand slid between his body and arm, taking his arm and tugging him gently - not comically - to where the guest room was prepared. It matched her suite in simplicity, but it looked slightly more inviting. The room was smaller, which made it look cozier. It was also furnished with an afghan upon the bed and photographs on the wall of pastoral countryside. "Your room. Should you require it." She continued to hold his arm.

Her hand found its place in the crook of his arm. Like actors in a scene, they progressed to the next point, staring into the open room meant for guests. More specifically, him if he needed it. Part of him liked the idea, of giving himself a place and identity away from the museum. The other part of him thought of the awkward moment of evenings where the bed was used for pleasure and how would-be and present lovers would find their situation strange.

Were he to voice those concerns, she would advise him not to dwell. "Where to?" It was obvious that his mind was racing. But Helena was there to rescue him from getting lost in thought.

"The sitting room is appropriate. We're sitting and talking," he said with a slow rise and fall of his shoulders. Seemed that the appropriate thing to do was to use the room for what it was meant for.

With another tug, he was taken to a room down a hallway. This room was full of windows and - wouldn't you know? - more books. Here was a section sofa, leather, black. Here also was a Steinway - only the best - and a substantial library of Urtext editions. She did not need them, but they looked grand. Helena released Robert and took a seat on the sectional, her eyes moving from him to look out the window. For all intents and purposes, she was content.

There was the sense that he wasn't sure where he belonged. If he should stand at the bookshelf or move to take a seat at the sectional she was in. He observed her lounge, that it was nearly catlike, and moved towards the bookshelf to snag one book but the top and draw it towards him, letting it pivot on a corner just before he took it in his hands. His scan of its pages was offhand, his gaze not intently fixed on it as the pages turned. He looked up from it to her to see if she still had that sated look about her.

Their eyes met. In the interim, she had become amused. It showed in her eyes. "What are you doing?" She knew the answer. "Robert Brohkun, sit down." She indicated a section on the sofa, not near to her. "You must relax. You are acting a statue, wandering around doing things you perhaps think you are supposed to be doing. Enough. Sit." Another indication to the seat.

He kept a grip on the book. It felt like the sort of anchor that he needed. He sank into the sectional nearby her, a few polite inches of space between them. She was correct, though. There was a twitch at the corner of his lips before the admission, "I haven't been a guest in someone's home in... a very long time." He didn't think of Remmy's community living situation or hotel... or inn rooms... as homes. Places that become wholly of one person.

Helena blinked slowly. "You act as though you are expecting the worst." She was merely teasing. "And being with me, perhaps that is not all bad." A waggle of her eyebrows before she nodded gently. "What have you selected?" To the book, of course, in his hands.

"I don't exactly know where I belong. Sitting, standing..." He meant in her home, but the answer was broader than that. Was it the museum, this guest bedroom, or room number 104 at the inn? Going back to the museum did have the feeling of doing what was comfortable and not what was bold. A tapping of nails and scurrying announced Troy before he poked his head in the doorway. His lips parted in a panting motion, one that made him look as though he was happy to have found them again.

Robert hadn't examined the book closely, but turned it over in his hand, "Choucas." It was a Polish novel, like many others she had, and Robert knew only a handful of Polish words. Just enough to identify the language and ask the most basic questions. His language growing up and for many years had been Italian, which was separated from exposure to Poland by other countries like Austria and Germany. Perhaps in his youth he would have known or recalled more, been able to translate some of the sanatorium's story, which was the book's focus.

(( rped live with Helena. Thanks for the play!))

It would be no surprise given her rigidity that her lips were strong. And perhaps 'strong' was an inappropriate word. They were capable. At the soft touch of his, her mouth responded, adjusting such that his mouth fit upon her own. A kiss that was comfortable and natural, encouraging some longevity. Her chin raised some and her eyes closed as her lips parted further, opening a gate he was welcome to pass.

Had he expected that? A no or yes could have been expected. He could have easily thought there would be her cheek as much as there would be her lips. It was a warmer response than the demon had hoped for. They had so much rigid formality between them. Her lips peeled open further. The weight of his body leaned in. There was the sensation of his form being near hers. His outer leg to hers, the arm on the backrest of the couch slipping down over her shoulder.

The Witch allowed him to relax into her, to lean into her, to slide his arm around her. Pale hand slid along the thigh that she had seen flex while seated upon a porch swing in another lifetime. Fingers pressed into it, though not strong enough to warrant concern. The kiss continued, her lips working with his lips, welcoming him closer still should he want to be closer. She offered no resistance and, in fact, seemed to be making it quite easy for him to lose himself. If only for a moment.

There was his tongue and hers. The squeeze of her hand on his thigh and the squeeze of his hand on her shoulder as if to curl her into him. Everything felt incredibly silent, like the stillness crawled between them and held its breath. Slowly, his grip eased and his weight leaned away from her as if wanting to give her fresh air to breathe again. His mouth, however, remained close. A few inches away, near enough that he could still comfortably make a study of her face before he said, "You should stay with me at the museum sometime, soon."

She did not hold him near. While accommodating, she left him in control. When the kiss was released, she stayed where she was. Near to him. "I should?" A smirk offered, eyes fixed upon his. Fingers moved again on his thigh, curling and relaxing like a cat flexing her claws. Content.

"Yes." This was said solidly, slowly. His smile appeared briefly, least it give the sign that he was, well, happy. Helena did not recoil from him and the squeeze of his thigh caused his head to turn, his lips pressing against the magic flash of her neck. It seemed cold to him at first and the taste of her was not unlike the dust of doors, of the wind and the coffee they had had together. He wondered how much of that was her and how much of that was what he thought of her. His kiss was not that of a passionate lover, but of a scientist. He dissected her with his teeth, inch by inch from the clavicle to beneath her jaw, going to the corner of it.

Her head tilted in an idle motion to open her neck for his exploring mouth. Her mouth was relaxing, still absorbing the surprising softness of his lips, his smile, and the scrape of his teeth. From her came a soft sound, a happy sound, and fingers pressed into his leg.

For some reason he didn't expect a happy sound, or any sound at all. The air felt like it was waiting, he pressed his lips at her throat one more time in a tame kiss before he withdrew, settling into his place at the couch as before. His hand spread over the face of the book on his lap, the muscles of his jaw jumping as he worked the moment over.

She withdrew with him. A symbiotic gesture. Her eyes were fixed on him, taking in the working jaw and opening fingers. She said nothing. The first words were for him.

"I don't want to ruin something new because I still have ties to what is old." He meant, of course, contracts. It was all incredibly forward thinking, but that's how Robert was. He knew there was a contract whose nature was, irrefutably, to draw him to Roach. This was the same woman who told him she loved Grey. The same person he was trying to gently snip the holdings of without either of them needing to die. They both wanted their own lives and were still beholden to the contract.

Robert was already thinking of Helena in faithful terms. It wasn't that he was particularly monogamous-- when he was born it was expected that any man of standing had more than one woman entertaining him. Lately people were more and more consenting of polyamorous situations, which he supposed were fine. The issue was that he was antisocial and he was, currently, abhorring situations that smacked of being used. Robert was inclined every day more and more to define himself as a player and not a doormat or some fixture in the background. People were starting to get that.

He didn't need Helena because finding sex was difficult. He needed her because finding someone that appealed to him was intrinsically difficult and nearly always ill fated. Remmy was a situation that had finally crumbled. Roach was a tangled situation of rejection upon unresolved lust which kept itself in the back of his mind as if being haunted. Helena already knew that, though, so it was either of no consequence to her or she did not have Robert's penchant for looking ahead.

"Your consideration of me is most welcome, albeit expected. It is not wanted that you should feel the need to rise to non-existent expectations. Here you are." She opened her hand, the one on his thigh, and gestured around. "The very same place that is, for me, hallowed ground. A sanctuary from the inane and asinine." Her hand relaxed into her lap. "Let it be the same for you, and know that your company is always welcome, friend." She spoke in measured tempo. Easy and beautiful. She knew of Robert's past and his present and his future. To know the future with Robert was, at times, easy. He was a man of practiced traditions that Helena had never forgotten. A relic of a museum come to life. But above all, he was a dear friend.

She called him friend, almost making a point of it. His eyebrows lowered and there was the admission, partly laced with a weight of uncertainty, "Did I impose on you?" His words were in reference to the kiss. If he had leaned in and on an offhand chance she had thought 'why not' and then emphasized his status of friend. Something about that left his skin feeling hot. His left hand wriggled down into the sleeve to grip the outer edge and hold it.