[Closed, Mature] Once More to See You

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Singing Badger, the Stacks
Bethas 15, 2720 - (Definitely Not) Happy Hour

Whatever Lionel McAllister had said to Emiel--about her, it seemed--was a secondary concern. She didn't really care what he'd done to earn whatever it was that had set this off. There was no doubt in her mind that he'd earned it, and more besides. She heard, oh she heard, and there was fury there. Cerise had plenty of fury for McAllister, even without this knowledge.

That she set aside, tangled up as it was with a rush of some softer feeling that Emiel should sound so angry on her behalf. Over Lionel clocking McAllister, saying something about her she had, in fact, heard before. He didn't need to know that; there was nothing to be gained by her saying so. Cerise couldn't even keep her eyes on that freckled face, so she looked at the idiot in front of her instead.

She should have seen it coming. Should have judged McAllister better--should have turned right around when she knew where it was their merry band was headed. Maybe she was just more of a monster than she thought, and she walked through that door hoping Emiel would be here after all. For some excuse to see his face, when she could claim it wasn't entirely her fault.

Well, look how well that went.

Cerise shouted as the bottle exploded, throwing an arm up. A small part of the back of her mind knew she'd said his name; she wondered if anyone else heard. There was plenty of other noise just then, and it seemed to swallow up her voice entirely. Like the sound of Sish screeching and launching herself painfully off of Cerise's shoulders to circle in flight above her, a chorus of angry noises.

Cerise had closed her eyes, some instinct telling her that to both look in Emiel's direction and keep them open was asking for blindness. When she opened them again, he was flinging himself over the bar, bottle in hand. Some of the other patrons backed away; Cerise remained where she was.

Where would she go, when she could see something like that? That green bottle, that hateful beer in it, connected swiftly and solidly into the side of Lionel McAllister's smug clocking face with an arc of Emiel's arm. Cerise was torn between pleasure at watching Emiel do it, and disappointment that she didn't get to. In the silence that fell over the bar, she had to resist the urge to cheer. As it was, her face split in a bright grin, the truest and sharpest she'd given all night. Lionel was doubled over, clutching at his face. Langley stood stunned for a moment, and then ran to McAllister's side. Cerise looked at him with a cool sneer. Sniveling coward; she had been right about that part at least.

It was that "get out of my bar" that made Cerise turn from her satisfied evaluation of the extent of McAllister's injuries. He wasn't looking at her, now; she wondered, a heavy feeling sinking through her and tinting the wash of her field, how much of that tone was meant for her. Not all of it. And not none of it, either. She deserved that much. None of this would have happened if she hadn't been here.

A heartbeat passed; she looked at the fury on Emiel's face, turned away from her, and she thought to apologize. For what? For Lionel--no, he'd dug that grave himself. For coming here, maybe. For putting Emiel in this position even unintentionally. For not stopping this idiot before he'd gotten so out of hand. For not being able to say any of this at all, because there were too many witnesses. She didn't care about the witnesses, she didn't care about McAllister's likely broken nose. She didn't even care about the look of shock on Raquelle's pretty, gentle face. Anything she might have cared about here she wasn't allowed to. Cerise's hands curled to useless fists at her side.

"You heard him, McAllister. Get up, and--"

"You won't get away with this," came the nasal growl from McAllister, doubled over still. "This is assault." McAllister straightened, glaring first at Cerise and then, longer, darker at Emiel. Cerise rolled her eyes, but she knew--she remembered, and she'd only known more since--that this could end very, very poorly.

"You brought this on yourself, McAllister. And don't think," she said, stepping in closer to him, "I didn't hear what you apparently said. I advise you to let this go."

"Get an officer in here, Langley," McAllister wheezed. Langley, the whelk, hovered there for a moment. His eyes darted rapidly between Cerise, thunderous and threatening, and McAllister, who was still holding his nose. Then he scrambled for the door, apparently incorrectly assuming that of the two of them, McAllister was the more dangerous. He looked at her with something close to triumph.

She had meant to leave. She would leave, but if there was something, anything, she could do now... Cerise knew she had to do it. Even if Emiel wouldn't look at her, even if he never spoke to her again. Because she didn't deserve it, and brought only trouble into his life. She owed him that much.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the singing badger

evening of the 15th of Bethas

Oout of the corner of his eye, he saw it. He saw that grin on her face, that satisfied sort 'f look that would've warmed his veins and stirred somethin' less than innocent in his chest had he not already been so clockin' pissed off. He felt the frayed anger in McAllister's field, still so close to the doubled-over toffin just in case he needed to get another swing as the young man stood up, squared his shoulders. He felt Cerise's field, too, and it was far too familiar to him for him to mistake everything he could read filtering through it—not well 'cause he weren't a golly but not poorly 'cause he were more n' just casually familiar with all her forms of emotional expression.

Emiel hadn't expected her to speak up. His eyes widened, something in her admonishing tone not encouraging him so much as twisting his gut further. It hurt a little, even if somewhere inside he knew she wasn't tryin' to be patronizin'. Did she still feel that personally about him? He couldn't dwell on that. He couldn't think about it.

"Assault? Shut your head—assault m'erse. What 'bout my customers? What 'bout th' kids at the bar you could've hurt with all that glass, ersehole? What 'bout how there weren't any need to be usin' magic in here over a clockin' drink 'cause you're old enough to read the damn rules." The purple-haired wick growled, fully aware of what he'd just called the galdor to his face, waving a hand in the direction of those very folks huddled just out of range of the dangerous mix of furious auras, lookin' on at the scene now, "This be my business an' you crossed a line. I clockin' stopped you, s'all. Oes—go on, sir, get some Collies. Can't even settle this spitch like a real man, can you? Gotta let Seventen do it for you instead."

Em spit after Langley's back, burning-bright gaze fixed on Lioinel McAllister with the heat of challenge, daring him to do something stupid while blood dribbled between his slim golly fingers and down his aquiline golly chin. It was when the chroveshit had the nerve to glance at Cerise with that expression of broken-faced victory that he couldn't help it. He looked, too. Finally. Standing closer than they'd been in—a year? More than. Much more than, it felt like. There wasn't any fear in his face, 'f course, an' n'any hint of apology.

He weren't sorry. She knew it, right?

He would've done it for anyone—right?

Ne. Not quite in the same way, that's for sure.

He tried not to stare, meetin' those grey eyes for just barely a heartbeat, wishin' it were a better moment to look some more, but it wasn't. He'd just wanted to be kind, to make a lil' joke for ol' times' sake, to save someone from terrible first date drinks, an' look what happened! With a hiss and a wince, Emiel snapped his attention back to the gloating jent who apparently only knew one word for wicks, drawing himself up to his fully unimpressive height and squaring his shoulders despite how his ears still rang and his neck stung somethin' fierce. He ran his hands over his vest, straightening his clothes, tentatively attempting to make himself more presentable for the green-uniformed officers he knew he'd be facing.

Slowly raking fingers through his bright purple hair, he risked letting his palm brush over the back of his head, nails digging into his scalp to loosen a few shards of glass. He felt the wet of alcohol and gods only knew what else, unsure of what the damage actually was back there, "I think you should step outside an' wait for the collies yourself, sir. You've already upset my customers enough, an'—"

Paolo burst through the kitchen doors, apron still on, eyes wide. Strangely enough, as the old man took in what was unfolding in his family's establishment, his pale-eyed attention lingered not on Emiel or Lionel, but Cerise. He knew her. He recognized her. His lip curled in anger but the expression that dominated his face was pure, unadulterated fear. Miss Vauquelin's father'd threatened their entire livelihood for Em's spendin' too much illicit time with her an' here she was, back again, with a bloodied young man next to her and his godsbedamned laoso dumb kenser of a son in the middle of it.

"Emiel!" Shouted his da, approaching the section of the counter that lifted up as if he was ready to charge at his son, to throttle the boy for causin' such trouble.

[b"Don't blame him, Mister Emmerson." [/b]That old professor spoke suddenly, quiet-like, his dark eyes on McAllister like he was about to hand out demerits.

Paolo stopped in his tracks, white-knuckled grip on the counter door, confused. He stood there, looking at the professor who'd been his customer for as long as he could remember. The galdor shook his head, set his money on the counter, and gave Cerise's shitty date the most judgmental of glares, "Mister Lionel McAllister, is it? I never forget a name."

Em preened, though no one would ever know it, seethin' mad as he was, ready for another round or two 'f breakin' faces instead of playin' responsible business owner. Gods, he jus' wanted to smash that conceited sneer, to really make sure this privileged ersehole who actually had permission to spend any time with Miss Vauquelin ate every syllable of his gross statements in blood and broken teeth.

His Da sighed, turning to dig out all the writs and papers from under the bar instead of exiting from behind it, cursing and grumbling. He knew what was comin', and he knew Em'd have to choose between postin' bail and payin' rent. Again.

It wasn't a long pause, not really, between the time Langley slithered from the doors of the Badger out into the busy streets of the Stacks before he strut back in with two uniformed officers of Anaxi law behind him. Emiel knew their patrols, he knew everyone in the neighborhood, really, and while he didn't have much of a problem with the Seventen (they kept his plumb guttered customers safe on their way home, after all), he knew there were a few of them who had a problem with him, on account of him bein' a flashy wick with calloused knuckles he weren't afraid to use.

Constable Clements weren't his friend, even if his subordinate, Ensign Harden'd fudged paperwork once or twice for some free drinks on the thirds. Both men strode in with their high collars and starched sashes, taking in the sights with calculating glances. The constable was a short, broad-shouldered man in his forties, dark hair beginning to grey at his temples and a little rounder than he'd been ten years ago. He had a static-laden field that crushed intentions, bright like his three snaps. His ensign was just a whippet of a ginger, more freckles than anything else, and a gap between his front teeth that probably made his time at Brunnhold full of strange jokes, Em reckoned.

As if he was invisible, of course, neither officer looked at the purple-haired wick right away. No one wanted his opinion. Nor did anyone even address Paolo Emmerson, owner of the establishment.

Instead, Constable Clements looked at the bleeding chroveshit excuse for a man and cleared his throat,

"What seems to be the problem here, young sir?"

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Singing Badger, the Stacks
Bethas 15, 2720 - Too Late

Should she have kept her mouth shut? She knew full well none of this required her intervention; she had done quite enough damage. Intentional or otherwise, she had "helped" more than enough for one day. The tide of her emotions just had so few channels open to them, and anger at this prick standing in front of her clutching his bloodied nose was the easiest and safest of them all.

They were standing close enough that she could feel the irritation in the sparks of static mona that made up McAllister's field; close enough to feel Emiel's glamour too, underneath of it all. Such a delicate thing, it should have been drowned out by the galdori around them. It wasn't. It could never be, not to her. Standing in it, that brush of a bird's wing, made her hurt in places she had tried so hard to close off. Evidently she hadn't done a very good job of it.

That bitter feeling, grey and aching, bled out from wounds badly stitched together and she couldn't find the energy to stopper it back up. Cerise wanted to laugh; her father had wanted to know why she liked books about monsters. Well, here was his answer: just look around! Fire and sharp edges of glass, because she had a moment of weakness.

McAllister choked at the word "ersehole" being thrown in his direction. Cerise could think of worse things to call him. And she would, somewhere else, another time. Now, she held it behind her teeth. Mostly-- "Lousy bastard son of a prick," was muttered under her breath. Too quiet for anyone besides the three of them to hear.

Cerise was dimly aware of Sish making lazy circles in the air above her, waiting for her chance to land again. Langley scrambled away, and she was left standing there torn between wanting to feed her anger to McAllister through the end of her fist and knowing that she wouldn't help anything if she did so. She looked, briefly, to Emiel, not sure what she expected to find on his face.

Not apology, and she didn't think he owed one. Or fear, which was good. Anger of course, and she understood that. If there was anything else, layered under that face that had once been so familiar to her with more intimacy than she ever should have had, Cerise couldn't find it. That she understood too. She looked away, her jaw set tight. What did he see in hers? She didn't know, and she was afraid to.

Though it was hard to look away, all that blood and glass and alcohol at her eye level. There wasn't much tenderness in her, she'd have said, but it was still hard to keep her hands at her side and her eyes in front of her. At least it wasn't your face, she might have joked. It would be hard to make as many tips if it had been. Cerise kept that to herself too, winding everything she could have said wanted to say wanted to do tighter tighter tighter. A coiled spring with no release.

When Emiel's father burst through the kitchen doors, drawn out by all the chaos, Cerise straightened her shoulders against a flinch. He had never liked her, Paolo Emmerson; nobody had to tell her that much. Not from the first moment he'd set eyes on her. At the time it had irritated her, thinking it was foolishness. She had never meant to hurt anyone, hadn't thought about what consequences really meant. She still didn't know, would probably never know, what it was her father had done that had worked in the end. For a long time she had told herself that maybe it had been money--that her affection had a price on it, and that it had been one her father had been willing to pay and Em willing to take. That was easier to believe, though it hurt more, because she could be angry at it. Looking at Paolo's face now, she knew it hadn't been the carrot, it had been the stick.

Once, the Emmerson patriarch's dislike had galled her. Now? Now, she rather thought she agreed. Cerise always was the first to admit when she was wrong. Don't worry, Incumbent Vauquelin reassures me he doesn't care anymore--he doesn't even remember who you are. Cerise bit her cheek hard enough to taste the copper tang of blood in her mouth.

It was the censure of the old man at the bar--a professor, Cerise realized, though not one of hers--that made McAllister blanche at last. Only for a moment, and then he covered it with an imperious sneer. She could see it written on his face--the old man was only a professor. He was a McAllister; he could buy his way out of all the demerits in the world, if he needed to. Her field churned.

She felt so godsdamn useless! Couldn't stay away, couldn't not cause trouble, couldn't fix it once it arrived. As if on cue, two green-uniformed officers strode in through the front door, Langley trailing behind. She had thought--hoped--she didn't know what. For some kind of miracle, for her to know what to do. But she was just as powerless now as she had been then, for all the superiority her position in society supposedly gave her.

"I'm sorry," she offered quietly, unable to choke on it any longer. Two useless words, but they were what she had to give him now. Anything else she might have wanted to say she wrestled back; she only looked at Emiel for a moment. A moment too long, a glance too soft--McAllister's face hardened as he looked between the two of them.

"You really are some mongrel's bitch, aren't you, Vauquelin? What a waste." McAllister hissed it under his breath, just loud enough for Cerise to hear. Her eyes widened and her field tensed red-shifted as the officers approached. The clocking bastard, the absolute piece of-- Loudly he turned, angling slightly away from Cerise and Emiel and focusing instead on the constable. "McAllister. Lionel McAllister. And thank the Lady you're here, officers. This--" his mouth twitched "--wick assaulted me in cold blood. Ask anyone in here, they all saw it--smashed my hand, and as if that weren't enough..." He gestured to his nose, to the blood streaming down his haughty face.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the singing badger

evening of the 15th of Bethas

Emiel 'd been through all of this before, many times, though only one of those 'd been at the Badger. Most of his arrests 'd been drinkin' elsewhere, on his nights off, with friends. Collies 'd come to his bar, of course, for rowdy customers an' fights between Brunnhold bochi with too much posture an' not enough common sense. He'd paid fines for bein' too rough an' he'd paid fines for refusin' service. But he'd only personally been hauled off to spend a night in jail in front of his folks once before, an' it weren't really for somethin' all that different. It were when a few laoso ginger jent thought it a good time to tease his youngest sister, to ask her if she wanted to tumble for ging like that was all the Tek they knew.

Em'd gone and busted one of their lips, broken one of their pretty, straight teeth with the drink tray, blackened one of their eyes, and made sure each an' every one of 'em went home smellin' like beer while he were walked through town by a pair 'f collies like it were some godsbedamned Surwood Isle parade. Paolo didn't bail him out that time, ne, the ol' man let his boch sit in there for three whole days an' that were that. Maybe he deserved it then, for hittin' those gollies who insulted his fami, who treated some girl like she were an inferior object. He'd paid those fines for damages for almost an entire clockin' year, but thankfully, none of them chose to press charges.

Maybe he deserved it now, bright eyes widening at the few syllables he heard in McAllister's low, angry whisper. His amber gaze was more like the center of a flame, hot and dancing, flicking over Cerise's face, glancing to the officers as they approached to introduce themselves, and then he tensed, coiled like a rock viper ready to strike.

Emiel Emmerson did his best to hold it all in, glamour like a cupful of unfiltered fresh beer, agitated particles swirling and writhing beneath the weight of all these golly fields, tugged so willingly into the gravity of Cerise's red-hued familiarity. It was just another bit of dry kindling to the fire at this point, and the word assault again was strikin' flint to steel. It was the recognition of a much more personal level of concern that immolated something he'd thought dead in his chest, sparking feelin's he didn't want to feel. He knew Constable Clements didn't give a fuck 'bout takin' his statement or hearin' his side, even though this were his business establishment and protectin' his customers was his godsbedamned job. He weren't a golly, so his opinions were, always, secondary. He snarled, stepping closer than necessary, and interjected his truth with brazen defiance,

"Havakda! Y'bastard—first you sidle up to my bar to whine 'bout shitty beer, then ye bust open top shelf alcohol that y'ent gonna pay for, sendin' glass an' fire onto me an' my customers, an' then you got the nerve to insult the young lady you wanted to buy that shitty beer for so you could get under her skirts. Ne. It weren't assault—"

Lionel McAllister was right about one thing—they all saw it, the whole bar—even if he was wrong about everything else. They were all wrong, really, an' none of 'em even seemed to know it. Did Cerise remember how wrong everything 'd been? It hadn't felt so wrong at the time, but everyone else sure did make sure they knew. An' this ersehole thought he knew, too, but he didn't. No one did.

Em stopped caring who saw the rest, quite confident he was goin' to be cited anyway, and leapt forward, curlin' fingers into the fine, bloodied fabric of the jent's coat, pourin' himself into the chroveshit's personal space with all the smooth, graceful flair he reserved for pourin' drinks. If he was going to be arrested, he might as well make sure it was his entirely his fault—he didn't need the Singing Badger getting fined, he didn't need his da to come down to the station, and he didn't need anyone's writs questioned. If he was going to have something else on his record, he wanted to own it. Every last word of it.

Constable Clements was in motion, too, scrambling from tugging his notebook out of his coat and fumbling for his pen to begin writing down the situation, but he was a bit too slow, a bit too late.

Em smashed his forehead right into the poor golly's already bloodied face, gripping him tight and close, gruntin' through grit teeth,

"This be assault, y'tsuter lil' shit—"

He brought a knee up, but it weren't into the unfortunate galdor's gut. He brought that nice, hard, round joint forcefully into this special textbook-made kinda stupid's groin, quite aware of how much this was about to cost him—at least rent, probably that an' a half, ne to mention somethin' else on his record and the wrath of Paolo Emmerson later. He were always a disappointment in some way. Em never quite could be the son Rohan measured up to be in their da's eyes, no matter how much trouble Ro seemed to get himself into—at least, until he died.

Of course, the bar erupted once Emiel jumped Lionel McAllister into heady mixture of cheers and boos and gasps and laughter; Paolo shouting his name an' Gavin panicking. There were, of course, some customers who thought this was a great spectacle, given their various states of inebriation, and there were some who were horrified, drunk or not.

"—jus' so you know the difference—oi!"

"That's enough, Mister Emmerson."

The Constable had shouldered his way forward, snatching the purple-haired wick and tugging him off the unfortunate young galdor with a questionably unofficial amount of force. It wasn't a scuffle, but he wasn't gentle with the wick, either, stronger than his short, plump stature made him look after years of Seventen training and two decades of patrolling the Stacks.

Em didn't resist lest he end up smashed into a barstool or kneed to the floor, slumping into the Seventen's grasp and immediately holding his hands out to indicate he was done causing trouble, to indicate that he wasn't going to refuse what he deserved. What he'd rightfully earned. Amber eyes flashed toward Cerise while Constable Clements and Ensign Harden did their jobs, while his father grumbled and handed over writs and filed paperwork, while Gavin attempted to tame the bar. The Ensign immediately moved to assist Lionel as he groaned in pain and seethed all of his charges from bloodied lips.

It was somewhat of a blur, but somewhere in the chaos of it all Emiel managed to make eye contact with the dark-haired galdor who'd certainly not intended all of his mess,

"I'm sorry, too."

He offered, but it weren't about McAllister's face an' it weren't about the spectacle he'd made. Ne, not a bit.

That was really all he had a moment to say, though, for Constable Clements never did ask his statement on the matter. He didn't ask Cerise's either, assuming her no less a part of the problem according to McAllister but having no need to deal with the details once Emiel changed the legal subject entirely with his willful assault—Em wasn't sure what those consequences would be, especially since he was sober an' on the clock, but he also wasn't sure it mattered.

He fell quiet and compliant, forehead aching, scalp bloodied, but it wasn't because he was placated or satisfied. Anger churned uselessly in the cavity of his chest, a consuming helplessness at his lack of recourse for a situation that hadn't begun as his fault at all. Automatically assumed in the wrong as a wick was an injustice and a pain far deeper than he could put into words, and the injustice of knowing some clocking disgusting ersehole like Lionel would walk home tonight with only the most insignificant of fines that he could afford to pay fueled a frustration Emiel didn't have an outlet for.

The whole process was quick and efficient, even with an audience, and it was only a matter of very blurry moments before Lionel was handed his ticket and Emiel was being led from the bar to much mixed fanfare—he had a lot of fans, after all, and this would certainly not harm his reputation so much as skyrocket his popularity later. Hopefully. It didn't matter.

He didn't care what any of 'em thought anyway. He didn't look back to see what Cerise thought, either, the Ensign's grip on his bicep too tight as he led them both out onto the street.

Rolls

Headbutt:
Today at 9:07 PM
@Muse :game_die:
Result: 1d6 (3)
Total: 3

Knee to the bits:
Today at 9:07 PM
@Muse :game_die:
Result: 1d6 (6)
Total: 6

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Singing Badger, the Stacks
Bethas 15, 2720 - Evening

Every nerve in Cerise Vauquelin's body tensed at that hissed insult, the fists at her side tightening even as her field pulled hot and red-shifted. All of them, every last stitch of her, wanted to batter that smug, symmetrical face until he couldn't say anything anymore. Not to her, not to Emiel--not to anyone. For a long, long time. Like all the tension and rage in her could have found perfect release in the spilling of McAllister's blood, the splitting of his skin. And maybe she would have done it too, if she didn't know that she would never, ever make any kind of professional team if she got kicked out of Varsity for breaking open some rich prat's face.

And she was, after all, a reformed woman. Mostly.

There was something about the way his round, cultured drawl said "assault" again, the way it lingered on "wick"--she had a good idea of what he wanted to say instead, because he'd said some of it already--that peeled her lips back from her teeth. Witnesses or no witnesses; Cerise was furious, and she didn't care who knew anymore. She had tried, she really had, to bury all of that down. If this had been a normal evening, if all he'd done was make unwanted passes at her for an hour, she could have handled that. But it hadn't been a normal evening, and it hadn't been a normal month either. She could feel that once-familiar brush of the agitation of Emiel's glamour, too, underneath the weight of her own, the sparks of McAllister's. Not as expressive, but expressive enough.

The worst of it all? It didn't matter what she thought, and it didn't matter what Emiel had actually done or why. She knew that now with a keenness she hadn't had before her father had stepped in to end something she hadn't realized was quite so important to her until it was gone. Too little, too late. It frayed her every last nerve.

So she felt almost disappointed when the purple-haired bartender acted before she did. Throwing his reserve to the side, she supposed, because what did it matter now? Cerise didn't move to assist--not to stop him, and not to help beat McAllister down, either, no matter how much she wanted to. Distantly she thought she should be ashamed of the way some different kind of fire kindled in her chest, seeing the look on Emiel's well-cut face as he grabbed McAllister and slammed his head right into McAllister's already-bloody one.

It was, honestly, hard not to laugh. McAllister, to his credit, looked stunned for only a moment before he got his bearings--it was just a moment too long. An opening for Emiel to drive his knee, hard, right between the bastard's legs. Good, she thought fiercely; a stupid thing for the wick to have done, maybe, but for a moment Cerise was all fire and approval. (Not, really, that it mattered. But she appreciated the sight all the same.)

The moments after that were chaos--a swirling mix of jeers and laughter, horror and elation. The Constable pulled Emiel off of McAllister, and Cerise was a little sorry. Mostly, she had to admit, that he was none too gentle about it. For McAllister she had no pity. Somewhere in the middle of it all, Emiel's bright gold glance caught her grey one--and he apologized, too. She knew--at least, she thought she knew--he didn't mean for all of this. Cerise smiled at him, brittle and bittersweet. Then he was led out of the bar, and Cerise had to decide what to do.

First things first, she supposed. Cerise stepped to McAllister, clutching his ticket and his face both. She looked at him--they were of a height, she noticed suddenly--and she reached back and slapped him across the face, hard.

"Don't you ever," she said, drawing herself up, "speak to me, or any of these people again. I can make your life very, very unpleasant, Lionel McAllister." It was an empty threat--she had no weight of her own to throw, only that of her name, and she wouldn't use that. But he didn't know that, and she delivered it with confidence. He blanched again. Cerise didn't think this was the end of it--not at all--but she also knew it had to be done.

With that vital first task accomplished, she could move on to the rest of what needed doing. For a moment, she turned to Paolo, and genuine regret washed over her. Part of her knew that there was something she should say, but it didn't know what that something was. Maybe it showed in her face; she didn't know what he saw when he looked at her. Cerise frowned, and she looked away, head throbbing.

Sish had come to rest on a ceiling fan, bored of her circling. Cerise looked up at the golden creature and held up an arm with a sharp whistle. The miraan didn't hesitate, not like she had in the parlor, and landed heavily on the student's outstretched limb. There was a brief scramble of tiny claws and broad feathered wings, and then she was settled. That left only the final step before Cerise left the Badger for what she thought was, truly, the final time.

Confident steps took her past the dark, resentful face of McAllister and the stunned Langley to the table where her friends still sat. They looked at her, and Cerise didn't know how to read their faces. Maybe she would talk to them later, and try to explain. It all seemed too hard, just now, and she knew she had more to do. Her eyes lingered on Astrid and Mel before settling on Raquelle. That sweet rosy-cheeked face was streaked with tears--she looked afraid. Cerise frowned, but there was no anger in it.

"Thank you for inviting me. Even if-- I wanted-- I'm sorry." Her eyes flicked from Raquelle to her fiance. He looked distinctly green around the edges. "I advise you to get a better cousin." Cerise lingered, thinking to say more; in the end, she couldn't find the words, so she said nothing. Cerise left.

The next several hours passed in something of a blur. She walked back to her room, dry-eyed and straight-backed with Sish on her shoulders. It wasn't until she made it back to her dormitory with its borrowed bed that she collapsed into a pile of screaming and tears, muffled by her pillow and soothed by Sish's insistent affection. After some time, she drew a shuddering breath and pulled herself together. There would be more time for that later--for now, she could still help, and for that she needed to go out again. Cerise splashed her face with cool water from her bathroom sink, knowing that her eyes would still be red-rimmed by the time she got through all of this but feeling steadied by it anyway. And she changed, seeing a little bit of blood on the hem of her skirt. Whose, she didn't know. There was some on her hand, from where she'd slapped McAllister--she scrubbed that off too, viciously.

Then she was at the station, somehow, without quite remembering the walk over. She might have cried more, on streets where there was no one to see her. She couldn't recall. At some point, on a whim, she stopped for cigarettes; the first she bought in over a year. Somehow quitting didn't seem as important anymore.

The Seventen at the station didn't, of course, understand why Incumbent Vauquelin's oldest daughter was here paying bail for some wick delinquent. That was fine--they didn't have to. They let her in the end, even if it took nearly an hour of paperwork to accomplish the task.

Maybe she should have waited inside, or not waited at all. Cerise did neither. Instead, that inordinate sum they had the nerve to say was fair bail paid, she marched herself right back outside the door. In the cool light of a phosphor lamp, she leaned against the station wall, half in shadow. Her head came to rest against the brick. She lit a cigarette, took a drag. Watched the smoke curl away from her mouth, catching that light before it dissipated. She could not see the stars--the lights and clouds blotted them out. When the door opened again, Cerise turned. Her face caught in a smile, soft and weary.

"Hello, Just Emiel." She held out a cigarette, equal parts hopeful and apologetic and afraid.

[Emiel Emmerson]

seventen headquarters, the stacks

evening of the 15th of Bethas

The walk to the station was longer when he was sober, Emiel noted. Most of the time, he was some kinda guttered when arrested, so this was an entirely new experience in full control of all his faculties. Fillin' out paperwork went a lot more smoothly, but godsdamn if he didn't notice every eye on him, the purple-haired wick bloodied (still bleedin', mujo ma, an' covered in some golly ersehole's blood, too) but not as clockin' pissed off as he'd been when he smashed his face into Lionel McAllister's hard clockin' head.

He shouldn't 've done that—he knew. He'd had the whole trip from the Badger to the Seventen headquarters in the Stacks to think on this singular thing, to play back those moments over and over in a head not clouded by alcohol or blurred by other forms of recreation. He shouldn't 've sent the stout over. He should've let Cerise have that shitty beer and dealt with that shitty date herself. She could handle herself—he knew. He shouldn't 've still had feelings, either, but obviously, he did.

McAllister'd wanted to press charges. McAllister'd wanted to take him to court. There would be more fines. There would possibly be more jail time. He'd admitted to assault out loud, and even while his paperwork was filed and he was finally given a moment to rinse his face, to dunk his head in a basin full of water and whine into the cold liquid in pain, well, even then he wasn't sorry that he'd done it. It was for the best he'd not had a knife on him, a riff, or anything sharp. He couldn't stand tsuter bastards like that one, especially not the jent kind.

Wicks could be like that, too, lookin' for an easy tumble, takin' advantage, but, gollies seemed to really corner the market on such erseholery, especially considerin' how much power they had and how little they tasted the acrid flavor of consequences.

Consequences like havin' all his spitch taken—his wallet, his cigarette case, his lighter, his papers. Consequences like a few more rough tugs here and stern talkin's to there. Consequences like being shoved in the general holding cell with a bunch of drunks an' dirty poor folks dragged off the street.

It were packed tonight, too, an' it weren't even a nine, after all.

He'd ne had a night off in what felt like clockin' days.

Em could only do what he did best: make friends, and settle in. Time had little meaning when surrounded by incoherent folks, belligerent folks, an' sad folks. His face hurt, eyebrow swollen from that chroveshit's face, an' he was damn sure there was glass in his scalp or his neck an' he couldn't find it. He wanted to sit down, but stood for a few hours, leanin' on bars or against the wall, until some poor sod slid to the floor, asleep, in the corner. Quick to sidle into the tight space, by the time he heard his name on the lips of another Constable, hours later, he were holdin' some strangers hand on one side, the ol' drunk still sobbin' an' had a human twice his size curled up almost in his lap, snorin' loudly.

"Mister Emiel Emmerson!" Shouted the collie officer, tugging on his three-snapped high collar and approaching the cell with keys jangling in his hands. Smirking at the purple-haired wick who fully expected the man to say Lionel'd showed up and wanted his court session now at the Circle only knew what clockin' hour, the young blond brigkt only smiled almost coyly, purring through the bars, "Seems like you've got a secret admirer with deep pockets."

Ne—she didn't.

She did. Of course she did.

Damn it all.

He didn't have it in him to smile back, resisting the urge to sneer instead and slowly, carefully extracting himself from his new and very attached friends. There was some laughter in the packed cell, some taunts and whistles, for even with the bruise, Em still had a pretty face, after all.

Emiel let the officer guide him through the narrow hall full of wanted posters and spectographs of suspects for various, actually serious crimes, and made his way to sign his exit paperwork in triplicate. He would be mailed a court date, oes. He would be expected to pay his own court fees, oes. A lawyer could be provided if he didn't have one, oes oes oes. Finally, he was handed back his things on a tray and every officer in the room glanced at him. What for? Was the blood dried on the back of his neck with blistered skin all that bad?

Ne—his fucking cigarette case were empty. He could feel it.

Bastards.

Tucking his things away and muttering his thanks through grit teeth, he walked down the steps and out of the door into the chilled Bethas air alone.

He didn't have a coat, but there on the edge of the stonework sidewalk, leaning against the hand-hewn wall of the station, were just 'bout the warmest sight Emiel'd seen in a long damn time, curled in the heated cloud of her own breath and the pale tendrils of smoke, fragrant and more expensive than he usually bothered to spend on,

"Junta, Cer—Miss Vauquelin." He tried to frown. He did. His freckled, handsome face twisted for a moment, lips drawn tight with a glitter of gold in the yellow phosphor, amber eyes hard, but it were impossible. He choked on a chuckle, some half-laugh, half-sob sort of sound with a shake of his head, reaching for what were offered between them without bothering to avoid brushing her fingers with his palm,

"You've got real shitty taste in boyfriends. Some things ne'er change, eh?" He grinned at her, stupid and sad at the same time, aching and wicked, so much held inside with those words that perhaps they were said too sharp, but the blade weren't turned toward her, ne. He stuck that one between his own ribs, inhaling deeply, pretending not to notice how his ringed fingers shook, and exhaling a long, slow curl of smoke.

Does your da know how you've just spent his money? He could've asked, but why? Who the fuck cared?

His shoulders sagged and he looked at her in silence for too long, feeling his pulse in his ears, feeling his heart flutter against his chest like a caged bird. She'd never quite made him feel this weak in the knees before, not in this way, but now? Now he were more 'n jus' a lil' dizzy. His smile didn't fade, but it had to be said,

"Thank you. You shouldn't be doin' this, ye chen. I'm ne responsible for anythin' but breakin' that bastard's nose."

Did you ditch your friends for me? He might've been cruel with his questions, had he been able. Instead, he stepped a little closer, shoving his free hand into his pocket, cigarette stuck between his lips, he waved toward the street with a waggle of fingers, purposefully close to her head—so close, "Been a mant manna while, Cerise."

He wasn't about to tell her he missed her. Or how good it was to see her. Or how grateful he was she'd paid his bail instead of leavin' him in that place for a few days. Did she know already? He exhaled another puff of smoke, arching a dark, swollen eyebrow and ignoring that it hurt,

"You gonna walk a kov home?"

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Outside the Seventen Station, the Stacks
Bethas 15, 2720 - Evening

Cerise might have flinched at the "Miss Vauquelin", if she hadn't been expecting it. Just a little pricking reminder of what they weren't anymore, and should never have been. Her hand held steady, searching Emiel's face out of some half-remembered habit. Easier somehow in the street light than it had been in the brighter, more clear lighting of the bar. His palm brushed over her fingers, and she shivered.

"Boyfr--Lionel McAllister? There's no need to be insulting." Cerise laughed around an exhale, mock-offended. "He's not my boyfriend. He was barely my date. I was just there to fill out numbers." She hadn't meant to sound so defensive, like she thought she owed him an explanation. She knew she didn't. Why would he care? It was just annoying that he would walk away from all of this thinking that Cerise had changed so much that she would willingly go on a date with a worm like McAllister.

"But no, some things never do." She smiled, just for a moment, before the well-worn lines of a frown took their place. Emiel had spoken plenty back at the Badger, but somehow his voice sounded different out here in the dark without anyone else around. Maybe she was just letting herself pretend, just one more time, she was allowed to hear it.

Cerise stayed where she was, leaned against the wall. Unsure of what to do with the silence. Her heart lurched and stuttered, trying to find some semblance of a normal rhythm but not quite managing the trick of it. Bless the Circle, but she really never could tire of looking at his face. Even with that funny kind of smile twisting his handsome, gold-ringed mouth. More than a year and a half, and she thought it still felt familiar, even with some things changed. Stupid sentiment, but there it was.

"No, I shouldn't." She shrugged, dislodging Sish on her shoulders. The little drakelet protested, but didn't move. Her watchful eyes were turned to Emiel, glittering from the shadow Cerise stood in. Evaluating and alien. "But you're welcome. It was the least I..." Cerise paused, frowned. Then continued, correcting herself. "It's all I can really do."

She should leave. She shouldn't have waited out here for him at all, but she just wanted... She didn't know what she wanted. Nothing she could have. To see his face one more time, know that she'd done what she could. Half of her had expected Em not to want anything to do with her, to be angry that she'd paid his bail when she was the reason it needed paying.

Hadn't been so hard to walk away from her before, she thought, with some familiar aching. He'd always been popular--so it would have been easy enough, too, to replace her a thousand times over. But he stepped closer, not away, and when he said her name--her name, not Miss Vauquelin--she couldn't have left if she wanted to. Every god in the Circle forgive her, but she had missed him too much.

"It has been a fair bit." She pushed herself off from the wall, smiling with half her mouth. Stepped a little closer, too. Just a hair too close, maybe. "And only if he wants me to," she added. "These streets can be dangerous after all, in the dark. You never know what kind of hooligans are waiting for you." Cerise waited, and she followed after him.

She didn't say anything, not right away. There was a lot she wanted to--stupid things, like that she missed him, and she was sorry, and it was good to see his face. Stupider things too, questions about how and why and if. Stupidest of all, she wanted to reach out for that strange kind of caprise, a casual intimacy she had started and left behind long ago. She never did know exactly how well Em could read her field, though, and she was afraid of what would be in it.

"You should be more careful with your face, you know. You'll make your fans cry." She offered the joke instead, eyebrows raised. Only after an unsure second, it sounded too much like a concerned kind of scolding; she swallowed. "Lady I missed smoking," she carried on, brushing it off like she'd meant nothing by it. Because, of course, she hadn't.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, on the street

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

Emiel couldn't help it—he laughed at her defensiveness, watching the way she mocked offense at his totally sarcastic accusation. He knew. He did. No one who really wanted to get to know Cerise Vauquelin would ever have bought her a Three Hearts to drink on a first date, but that was probably just something Em told himself, bein' a barkeep an' all. He'd lit the offered cigarette with his own match, sparking it to life with his thumb and staring past it, watching the dark-haired young woman and the gold miraan curled around her shoulders.

Her smile was brief and it tugged at him, stealing his smoke-filled breath just as her pretty aquiline features settled into a more comfortable frown. He knew it was her default expression, but she did always seem to smile more around him. Em'd told himself that, anyway, an' maybe he still liked to believe it.

Even after all this time.

"Fillin' out the numbers? Is that what you kids 're callin' it these days? What a laoso ersehole." He sneered at the memory, not at her, watching Cerise shrug and unable to help but reach a hand out, offering fingers toward the teacup drake's snout, inviting a greeting, palm open. His amber gaze shifted for just a moment to meet it's little eyes, but then returned to find the galdor was frowning again, "I know you wouldn't 've—you weren't jus' playin' him instead. The things he said. I jus'—"

If the miraan would let him, unashamed at the proximity he was required to have here in front of Cerise, he'd gently reach to pet its neck, light and slow. Somewhere along the drift of his fingers, Cerise stepped closer instead of away, and he sighed, that heavy weight of her field so full of expression, so full of feelings he still remembered how to read. Imperfect but not ignorant.

"—it ent all you can do. You can tell your friends ne to any more godsawful dates." His grin faltered at her reminder of how long it'd really been, how long they'd been apart, how long he'd been a compliant coward because he valued his family business, because he'd known from the start there couldn't be anything as real as they'd wanted between them. Did she know? Did she ask her father to break them up? Did she have any idea 'bout the threat or did she just assume Em 'd made the choice for them both? He'd told himself that she'd thought it better, that she'd asked, but only to assuage the helplessness and anger he'd felt when he'd not even really been given much of a chance to say goodbye so much as jus' stop talkin'.

Somethin' about the way she looked at him under the phosphor light told Emiel she hadn't wanted things to end the way they did, either.

A weight slid from his chest that he didn't know 'd been crushing it, and he hummed some sound of agreement before saying anything,

"This kov does, oes."

He smirked, mischievousness unavoidable, not stepping away as quick as he could've. Instead, he let her comment about hooligans hang in the chilled Bethas air with another laugh, the flicker of his glamour curling out like the smoke he turned his head to exhale, reaching for her field with familiarity, without hesitation. Light in the way his petting of the miraan had been light, he still clearly wanted her to feel it, to feel him.

It were selfish. It weren't like she'd not just spent too much money on him he didn't deserve, not after all this time. He didn't need to feel everything that ebbed and flowed in the gravity of her monic signature, but he did. She didn't need him to dredge everything all up—

"I know exactly what kinda hooligans 're waitin', an' it's clockin' ridiculous most 've 'em are golly-shaped."

—maybe she hadn't put any of it down, neither.

One flash of bright curiosity, amber gaze lingering on her face before he looked away, turning to lead them down the street at a pace that implied he wasn't in a hurry to get home. Emiel didn't mind the quiet they walked in for a little while, monic particles mingled instead, too close to her while he left a trail of smoke behind them both. He didn't want to take the main roads, either, stepping them into a less-traveled side alley with a brush of his shoulder against hers,

"My face, eh?" The purple-haired wick was grinning again, aware of his swollen eyebrow and scabbed back of his neck, "I don't know, a few scars might be a lil' popular with the right crowd."

Em looked over at the cigarette she brought to her lips, hardly lookin' at the thing so much as her face, "Oes," He breathed, pausing for a moment. He weren't so sure he was just talkin' 'bout smoking, but he said it anyway, "I tried quittin', but I jus' can't seem to let 'em go."

With a flick of his fingers, he sent the last spark of his into a puddle clinging to the edge of the buildings they walked between, turning another corner before reaching up to toss hair from his face,

"I missed you, too, Cerise."

There was so much he thought he should say, he should explain, but Emiel looked away instead, slipping hands into his pockets, quite sure he'd made some other mistake but not sure this was it.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Walking Emiel Home, the Stacks
Bethas 15, 2720 - Late

Cerise hadn't been sure how Sish would take it when Emiel reached out. She almost warned him--most people didn't try to pet her, given as she was usually curled around Cerise's shoulders. But of course he, of all people, just reached straight for her. Letting her come the rest of the way, holding his hand out in invitation. There was a relatively low chance Sish would bite him--probably. At least Cerise didn't think the miraan was likely to do so, given how patient she had been being left alone with her father the week before.

"Oh yes, that's the fashionable new slang with the youth, 'filling out the numbers'. Do keep up, old man." She nearly smiled again; she had forgotten how easy it was, when Emiel was around. She had forgotten too how it felt to smile easily with much of anyone. What a funny thing to forget. What a funny thing to find here standing outside a Seventen station, too.

Sish had stared at those offered fingers, and she hadn't lashed out. A good sign, an encouraging sign. The golden creature preened for a few moments under Emiel's attention before turning to bury herself back in the sheltering thicket of Cerise's hair. She had left it wild and loose around her face after she had changed. Because it had been too much trouble to put it back up, of course.

"I think she likes you," Cerise commented mildly. The feathered tail was wrapped, as always, around her neck. Cerise ran her free hand along it once or twice, affection naked on her face. "She never was a very good judge of character. Weak to a pretty face, hmm?" The miraan chittered from underneath the safety of all those dark curls. Objected to having her weaknesses dragged out in front of a handsome witness, no doubt.

"I didn't know it would be awful. I didn't even know where we were going. I just--" Cerise cut herself off, embarrassed to have said so much. Nobody needed to hear that much from--whatever she was. An ex-girlfriend, a bad idea. Both in one convenient, grey-eyed package. Efficiency at its finest. "They needed one more girl, and I needed... something to do."

But at least she could walk him home. That time she did smile, both at the look on his face and because some dumb hopeful part of her liked that he hadn't stepped away. Not yet, anyway. Alioe, she did miss hearing him laugh. Her breath caught and her eyes widened in surprise for a moment when she felt that light and deliberate touch. Sense dictated that she do nothing, but not listening to sense was how she ended up here in the first place. So why start now? The heavy weight of all that physical mona reached back, an easy habit. Like she'd never stopped. Cerise sighed, a quiet exhalation of breath that carried smoke out with it.

Was it different now, she wondered? Her field was--more, she knew, than it had been. That was, of course, the idea. But she had a lot more free time in the last year and a half, it turned out. And she had to fill the time with something. Something had turned out to be a lot of practice. Stronger, but more of her, too, she thought. At this point, she didn't know if that was good or bad.

"I'm no hooligan, sir--please, the preferred term is 'juvenile delinquent'." She was, after all, the only golly here. And she had been waiting in the dark, with purposes unknown. Even to her. Maybe she shouldn't have agreed to walk him home, like he was some maiden who needed a strapping young thing to see him safely to his door. Certainly not when it was clear he was in no great rush, turning off the main road and down some secluded side alley.

Definitely, she shouldn't have felt her heart stop at just the touch of his shoulder. And she shouldn't have leaned in to nudge him with her arm. This was the problem with having such a contrarian reputation; it took a lot of couldn'ts and shouldn'ts to maintain.

Sish scrambled on Cerise's shoulder, making her raise one of her arms before launching off into the night sky to fly lazily around them overhead, investigating any perch she could for at least a moment as they kept up their ambling pace. She laughed, a quiet little sigh of a sound, thinking about his face with a few more scars on it. "You might be right," she agreed. I like your face the way it is, though--that thought she held curled against her tongue. Stoppered up her mouth with another drag of smoke before it could escape.

"I quit for a while, because it seemed like the best idea. For my health and all. I'm not sure I was right." Were they talking about smoking? Cerise didn't think so. Hoped they weren't, because as Em sent the cherry-bright end of his cigarette arcing to a puddle on the ground, Cerise found herself absurdly wondering if he had been as bad at letting all of this go as she had been. She followed the motion of his hand, throwing all that bright hair out of his face.

Oh.

He had?

She hadn't said--but she didn't need to, did she. That she, Cerise Vauquelin, had missed Emiel Emmerson terribly was probably clear as day the way she had been so happy to follow along down this dark side street. Taking the scenic route. Walking a grown man home. Cerise smiled, and she couldn't have kept that one off her face if her life had depended on it.

You could miss something and not want it back, of course. Sad because you let it go, but knowing it was best in the long run. And Cerise told herself that, if only to tamp down the wash of feeling that went through her field, trying to pull in closer and closer. But she'd been holding some kind of knife to her own heart for so long she didn't realize until he said it that those words were all it took to pull it out.

"I was talking about cigarettes. But I have. Missed you. Maybe. A little." There were questions she could have asked, or things she could have said. Important things, trivial things. She didn't want to say any of them, not right now. Choosing to believe that there was a possibility of a later in which to say them. Now, she reached a hand out in the dark, stopping just halfway. You could also miss something because you hadn't really wanted to let it go at all.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, on the street

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

"I'vebeen told I've got a certain charm, ye chen. Even with sharp objects." Emiel hummed, voice low, unable to avoid noticing how she struggled not to smile. It probably should've hurt, stung like burnt skin, but it didn't. He looked back to the miraan as the creature nestled herself back into Cerise's dark curls, and, in all honesty, he couldn't blame the thing. He understood, perhaps in an envious sort of way, and his gaze lingered a little too long on the glitter of gold pressed close to pale skin. Blinking, he brought his focus back to the young woman who was so easily taunting him, and his lips formed some mockery of a sneer, teasing back,

"She suits you then, eh? What's her name?" He couldn't help himself, really, even if the words made something in his stomach twist just a little more than expected, heavy.

Awful. Em snorted, tasting a bitterness behind the expensive sweetness of this particular tobacco, his lungs not aching because of the smoke he willingly held in for too long. Exhaling his response, the purple-haired wick looked away, looked up, looked into the poorly lit darkness ahead of them, feeling the unevenness of the cobblestones beneath his boots as though it were meant to be some kind of metaphor the thoughts he brazenly decided to say out loud, "To be fair, I used t' have a more predictable schedule, so you couldn't 've known. It weren't your fault, ye chen."

None of it was, he wanted to add, but he didn't.

"After Ro—di—" He couldn't finish, jaw clenched, lips tight, and then he said it anyway, "—after that hangin' in Vienda last Dentis, things ent been the same. But, it were jus' me, right? Jus' me who weren't allowed to see you—ne th' other way 'round."

It wasn't anger with which he spoke, ne really. He'd been angry already, so angry, and he'd tried to put it away as best he could th' same way his fami were forced to pretend to bury Rohan's body 'cause they weren't ever given it. They had mass graves for criminals in Vienda, they said, jus' like his heart didn't have a safe place to be broken over things that weren't even allowed. He'd be lyin' if he said Lionel McAllister's were the only face he wanted to smash with a bottle, with his fist. Once—oh, godsdamnit. Now? He didn't know. He jus' might 've risked it, had he ever seen her Incumbent father's face within reach, even now.

He wasn't an educated golly 'r nothin', jus' a tsat who'd spent a mant manna time 'round 'em, but he fancied he could read enough of their fields to get the gist of things, especially when that field belonged to Cerise Vauquelin. Stronger now, the gravity of it—she were a star gainin' mass, powerful and bright, but she didn't push him away, didn't overwhelm him either. It must've been some kind 'f balancing act for someone with that kind of weight to wield to be so gentle, cuppin' fireflies in your hands when you knew there was a risk of crushin' them.

"Juvenile, please. It's your last year, ent it?" Em couldn't help the grin, especially with that nudge of her arm. Amber eyes warmed in the sudden glow of phosphor from a back stairwell to somewhere as the pair meandered past, but he didn't ask—was she still dueling? Did she try out for the travel team? Would she go on with it all, after school, defyin' those Anaxi odds by bein' a professional duelist and a woman?

He thought of it, walkin' the slowest route home on purpose as if he half expected her to turn an' walk away at the next corner. And the next. He knew he'd heard her name in the gossip of fans, of the more avid followers on campus who frequented his bar.

He just—

For her health. Teeth found that ring through his lip and what he felt wasn't the heat of amusement burn through his chest, ne, it were that familiar old, smoldering anger that sparked back to life. He exhaled his last drag of smoke, trying to ease the tension in his shoulders that had coiled there just like her gold miraan before it leapt into the air, wings fluttering in some mockery of his pulse.

He'd held onto it all so long, he'd burned his fingers on the flames. Emiel 'd told himself how mung it all was an' tried to put it all away, but he'd never gotten to say anythin' else, he'd never had a chance to explain. So he stopped steppin' around things and said what mattered, blunt like the thick green glass bottom of a bottle of Three Hearts. Not knowin' what to expect, he looked toward her, takin' in all that glinted off her sharp face—hurt, confusion, an' somethin' else.

But, much like the way she swung her fists, she didn't hesitate to respond. Just as hard. Just as true. Em laughed again, but it was rougher, more bitter, pained. He felt the shift in her gait, leaning closer still, and glanced down to see her hand there, offered between them.

A scandalous, alluring thing, that.

An apology, maybe.

An admission, oes.

He didn't clockin' know how to feel—weren't it jus' another dead end? That'd never stopped him before. Fingers brushed hers anyway, calloused, ringed with gold, curling to tangle their hands together, and Emiel sighed some kind of broken sound. Touchin' might've rekindled a connection he'd never thought he'd feel again, her hands smaller, smoother, comfortable, but it didn't mend what'd been torn apart, not right away, not even a little. If anythin', the warmth of her palm made his hurts ache more, but it was the kind of pain he'd liked before and it wasn't that much of a surprise that he liked it still, even after all that time apart.

It were an excuse to tug her closer, pretendin' that were some way to hide the truth of things together when it 'd always been impossible, "He threatened my fami, ye chen. Your da. The Badger. Our jobs. Our writs. It weren't jus' 'bout me. I wouldn't 've—I clearly don't give a chrove's erse 'bout myself, Cerise, but, I couldn't let anythin' happen to what they've got on account 'f what I wanted—of what we had."