transgressings | inbox for duplicity;

[Wow, he can actually hear her voice in the text. Funny.

A series of texts. He's not really good at this]

Just
checking in
see how you're holding up

As well as can be expected, considering the circumstances.

I trust you made it back unscathed? Relatively speaking.

Yeah, relatively.
Though it's not really right to say I'm glad we're back, is it?

I understand the conflict.

[ if only because her emotions are similarly mixed. ]

Things feel different here, now. Irretrievably.

[ and perhaps a small part of her is referring to what transpired between them, too. ]

Yeah.
Looks that way.
About that.
Think we should talk it over?

If you think that would be wise.

Would you prefer to meet in person?

Drinks on me if you could.

I could. How soon?

I'm getting off work in an hour?

[Wow. He actually has to do a double-take at those words before he presses send. Fixed work hours. Who would've thought.]

Edited 2019-03-11 14:31 (UTC)

I can meet you wherever you'd prefer.

[ she doesn't quite have the same limitations she did before, now that she's contracted, able to move through the Up with relative ease, but her mark has already been restored to its darker hue against her skin. ]

Here, then.

[Ping! Goes a location in the Down.]

It’s a warehouse the people I work with own. I stashed the drinks there. Ring the doorbell and I’ll get you.

I shouldn't be long.

[ and she won't, as familiar with the Down as she is from her brief tenure there, only pausing to throw a long coat on over the gown she's already wearing and comb her hair before departing. here, her designation receives even less notice than it would in the Up, and she makes no attempts to hide her mark, perhaps correctly deducing that it will allow her to blend in rather than stand out if she assumed to be a dominant.

in the end, she finds herself ringing the doorbell outside the location he's indicated with a mixture of curiosity and intrigue; there's no predicting what the specifics of their conversation will entail, but she suspects it will have something to do with what transpired between them in the woods. ]

[Waiting had been actually easy. He'd finished up his job of, well, pretending to take a nap, then went down to the Down to get to the warehouse and check on a stash of Jack he had gotten a while back.

He's already poured himself two fingers of the whiskey as he fiddles with the gadget idly as he waits, the only thing worth looking at with the severe lack of interesting magazines laying around in this place.

He's not entirely sure what he's going to talk about, though. Hell, he'd been careful all those years, his own set of family issues and demonic binds and bonds going through him giving him a generally good array of reasons why he should keep it in his pants.

But history seems to want to repeat itself and finishing it on silence sounded wrong to his mind and ears.

That and he had a gut feeling that Vanessa was not worth that kind of treatment.

So he gets up when the bell rings, buzzes her in.] Hey, first floor. Stairs at your left.

[ In the past, some small part of her would have made attempts to diminish what happened, to apologize; she still intends on doing some of that in the moment, not always motivated by propriety for propriety's sake but desiring to make amends somehow for her actions, impulsive and reckless as they'd been. Those are the pieces of herself she has continuously strived to keep under lock and key, but the injection they'd given her had rendered those mental restraints all but useless in the face of succumbing to those darker urges.

She won't shrink away from discussing what's happened, but she would also be lying if she tried to admit that she hadn't enjoyed herself.

Ultimately, perhaps it's good that they'll reach some sort of understanding; she loathes awkward conversation but she hates leaving threads ungathered even more. So she makes her way inside with all of that in mind, carefully gathering her skirts in one hand to ascend the stairs per his instructions until she reaches the top and rounds the corner.

This is what she'd been dreading, but the smile that graces her lips and even reaches her gaze is genuine, when she finally lays eyes on him. ] This is where you work?

[He's still focusing on the swirl of the drink in the glass, actually having looked at two types of whiskey enough to know that there's a difference in color in the liquids that are served in the Down and the Up. He's actually not a huge fan of either, but the bite is similar and the taste is the same.

He's looking at the drink but Dante is frowning, hearing cast towards her footsteps, and the air he's breathing is slightly insufficient for him to feed his lungs on. He takes a deep breath, sends her a smile back when he sees her. Blames that on the memories of her in the forest, on the look she gave him before a hungry kiss clouded his judgment. ] It's where they keep their stuff. The place I work at is in the Up, but I like it here a little better.

[He waves at the small counter and the fridge in the corner of the room.] Wanna pick your poison?

[ In many ways, the woman standing before him is very much at odds from the version he last encountered — more composed, more reticent to encroach on his space — but there are signs of change too, most notably in the state of her hair, worn down in a long tumble of raven waves combed to one side and settled over her shoulder. The mark at her throat is visible too, rather than hidden behind the high collar of a dress or a coat. There may be no forgetting their time at the fort but it's more than evident that those events have impacted her, even subconsciously. ]

It's very quiet. No one else comes here at this hour?

[ Which may be why he suggested it, she considers, silently following his instruction to serve herself as she steps across the room on quiet feet, no lack of elegance in her movements. She selects a brandy instead, pours herself a few fingers into a glass, lifts the contents to her nose to breathe in the familiar woodsy smell, the hints of warmth that will soon be spreading through her limbs with so much as a sip or two.

But, before she lifts the glass to her lips, she pivots back to him. ] What shall we drink to?

[A shrug, and he sits up a little straighter on the couch, suddenly kind of uncomfortable that he's been basically sprawling on the small couch with his feet propped on the coffee table in front of it. ] Busiest time here is the morning. By this hour the guys who aren't working go to their place or off to do their thing.

[He does manage to bite the thought about how her voice seemed to fill the quiet easy enough. Bite it down by the scruff and into submission. But her walk across the room makes him take in the scent of the room in the expectation of capturing her scent before he can even think of stopping it.

He does a double-take at her back, then shakes his head when he finds his gaze lingering on the narrowing of her waist, at the pale neck exposed by those dark sideswept strands.

Must be one of those secondary effects of the drug he heard about.

When she turns he's also taking his cup to his lips but stops at the question. He gives his own glass a thoughtful look.] To uh,

[messed up hunting grounds,
weird introductions,
breaking the ice with a flamethrower,
the possibilities are endless there.

He tilts his glass towards her and a bit to the side, where a cushy chair is.]

Peace of mind?

Mmm.

[ It's a musing hum, one that doesn't offer any differing opinion or alternate suggestion — and, of course, such a concept is likely relative considering where they are and what they've all now witnessed, but it is a nice thought nonetheless and Vanessa finds herself smiling faintly, that subtle tugging at the edges of her mouth preceding her shift into the seat he indicates to her.

The drink she cradles between her fingers a little longer before finally, slowly guiding it to her mouth. ]

To peace of mind. And to finding that peace however we can.

[ Her eyes shift over to his face, and even if the memories of the past between replay themselves in her mind's eye now her expression doesn't indicate it beyond a slight peering, a brief narrowing of her gaze. ]

[He’s almost out, he realizes as he drinks most of the content in the glass. He’s almost out and it does very little for him. Dante already has a very high tolerance, but for some reason he feels like he needs something to dull the edge of what he’s going to tell her.

Whatever the whiskey is lacking, however, her proximity comes to catch up. Her voice, usually husky, seems to pick up on notes that lap at spots in his head that shouldn’t be even regarded. The warmth that the drink sometimes brings if he had enough isn’t present, but the form sitting on the chair next to him is causing his breath to come out just a little heavy.

He smiles at the addendum, risks a glance at her when he feels her eyes on him. And it would have been easier, a lot more so, if the memories from before were the only thing running on the back of his eyes. It would have been easier to just look at her head on and ask “so, what do you know about demons?”

The fact that he’s now picturing himself tearing her clothes with his teeth is enough to not do that, to take a deep breath instead, lean back to create some distance and frown at the now empty glass - don’t tell him it’s poisoned or something.

He clears his throat.] First things first. [Another, voice first coming out rough.] I’m going to be honest - I don’t dislike at all what... happened between us there.

But, I really don’t like that it did happen. I tend to avoid [a wave of his hand] you know. I’ve got my reasons for it.

[ Even once the brandy touches her lips, Vanessa doesn't elect to drain her glass outright, instead choosing to savor it with small and intermittent sips, occasionally letting the effects of the alcohol blossom on her tongue. She doesn't need to be looking in his direction in order to tell that he's wavering on how best to proceed, whether to bring up the subject that still hovers between them or to abandon it, at least for the moment.

She shifts her weight in the chair, relaxing her posture so that she's resting against its back, the hand that still cradles her glass bracing a forearm against her thigh, and beneath her skirts she idly hooks her ankles together with a small tilt of her hips. ]

An unforeseen side effect of whatever injections they gave us, I suspect. [ And while she had tried to resist it at first, he's among the proof that her efforts had been ultimately futile. ] I don't regret it, either, but — like you, I've dealt with severe consequences for choosing to engage in... well, those sorts of acts, because it leaves me more susceptible to —

[ There may be no other way to address it; she briefly considers a steadying sip of her brandy before choosing to speak the truth. ] There are evil forces that seek to possess me, to wield me to serve their purpose, for the power that resides within me. And they often attempt it when I am at my most vulnerable.

[Leaning fully back to drape an ankle over a knee, he shifts on his seat too, making sure that the pressure of the fabric on his legs is conveniently shielded. He’s really trying to act casual about it, and when she sits so demurely as she reveals what definitely sounds like something that she doesn’t share much, Dante knows that something is wrong and it’s not a secondary effect of the drug, some sort of delayed symptom. This was real and now and

He takes a deep breath to focus on the words that sound off her lips, instead of remembering the taste of them. And he is intrigued and concerned, after all. ] Did anything happen, after... ? I was told there was little to no activity in this place.

No. [ She's quick to assure him of that, the word leaving her shortly after his question — and she's intrigued, nonetheless, by his mention that there may in fact be no presence here to snare its hooks in her. That doesn't mean she's in any way inclined to let down her guard, now that she feels more like herself again, but she files that statement away to reference it later.

She turns the glass in her hand, its base shifting against her leg, and when she speaks again it is not quite so insistent, but promises him what she knows to be true. ] I don't yet know if it was because of the effects we all experienced at the fort, where my abilities were dampened, or if it is as you say and they have no influence here. But no, nothing like that happened after our... encounter.

[That's interesting, a little disappointing and a little reassuring, all at once. If their tryst had ended with opening a portal inside her to some sort of force from the underworld, it would mean a whole different thing for him. The first, that maybe the guy who told him that there was very little need for a demon hunter in that place could be wrong. But, since it didn't, he does settle in the relief that he did not cause her any harm, conscious or unconscious, and that the only demonic power around that he knows of resides merely in himself.]

Good. Wouldn't wish that on anyone. [He gets up a little abruptly - lest his own arousal be noticeable in the dark room - walks over to the counter to fix himself another drink.]

I met this guy at a bar here. [One rock, two rocks, and you know what, he's just going to grab the bottle and take it back with him.] Said that he had tried doing some summonings - think he missed home or something. But that they didn't work. That and well [he sits again on the couch with a groan, focusing on the drink instead of her, her scent, her mere presence that seems to be getting under his skin so efficiently.

He's thankful, really, for the seriousness of the conversation. He can think something even if his blood flow is headed the other way around.] I haven't felt anything around here, either. Some folk, like you, I can sniff something out of. But... demons, that kind of thing. Nothing yet.

Nor would I. [ Her memories of those instances are jagged, interrupted, those pieces she can remember all too fully as things she would rather forget — but no, in the case of what had transpired between them in the woods all she can recall is the complete absence of a threat, no dark tendrils finding their way into her consciousness before she can even perceive their effects. Instead, she thinks back to being laid bare, sun-dappled patterns cast upon her skin from the warm rays that had emerged through the canopy of trees above them, and him moving within her, firm and certain.

She does drain her glass then, quickly and all at once. ]

Yes, you'd said as much before. [ That he could scent something on her, perhaps an energy that made her different than others he had met; similarly, she feels a power emanating from him even if she hasn't yet learned its source, and it wouldn't be a stretch to consider the possibility that part of why she is drawn to him is because of what his soul emits. ]

I have laid down some wards. Peace of mind, and all that. [ She smiles briefly at him, that slow quirk of her mouth fading to be replaced with a thoughtfulness when he returns to his own seat. ] One can never be too careful. [ Even if that remark seems to contradict their past actions, the caution she'd thrown to the wind when drawing him down to her under the open sky. ]

[The way he drains this one is actually a lot faster than the previous one. He's almost ready to pour himself another, a frustrated frown to the weight on his shoulders as he leans an elbow on his knees, set a little too apart to adjust.

But he stops when she mentions wards. Usually a ward is set to repel, not attract. But with all the memories of her teeth scraped against his skin, the tightness of her fingers finding purchase in his hair--

He clears his throat. Once, twice. It could be that he had been entirely fooled by her and this is a very convenient ploy to get him to suffer, somehow.] What kind of wards?

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