Enchanted

The words are optimistic enough, and just as much proof that it’s not a sport she can claim any real investment in. It’s almost funny, the kind of thing that might summon a laugh if he weren’t still sitting so on edge next to her. Which is humorous in its own right, because even with that leather coat around her frame she doesn’t come off as much of a threat. Different circumstances he might even appreciate the attention, but rampant paranoia was a hard thing to shed, that persistent thought that she’s here with a purpose.

One that assuredly had nothing to do with the game on the screen, and he doesn’t hesitate to call her on it. “You don’t know much about hockey, do you?“ Down by two might as well have been a death sentence. If there was always some, stray chance that the Devils could still pull it off, it wasn’t one he put any real faith in. There wasn’t much that fell under that category anyway. Himself. His power. Anything else was too unreliable.

He keeps his silence for a long moment, even after the question comes, even knowing there’s little point at drawing a line on it. His name isn’t the worst thing she could learn about him, but there’s that strange feeling like they’re playing a game, and he doesn’t want to lose this one too.

“Nero,” he finally settles on. Absent anything else, because last names just made people easier to track down again. As it was, he didn’t know if he wanted to be tracked down the first time. And the next words she offers solidifies that it’s something he absolutely should be concerned about. Maybe not a cop, but he’s not sure this is better. Or what she could be looking for, because there are already a thousand possibilities racing through his head.

He bites, more annoyed with himself for not tamping down that curiosity and telling her flat out that he doesn’t know anything about anything. It’s far from the truth, but it’s the truth he’d prefer to have out there. If it weren’t for that quiet suspicion that she won’t be the first to stand up and walk away from this conversation, he’d have said it already.

“What kind of information?”

Sports had never really drawn her attention, much preferring to spend her time either outside exploring her surroundings or inside using books to attempt to quench her curiosity, occasionally the two aligned themselves and those had always been her favourite days. Screens had never really been her focus although she doubted that she would have found anything to complain about should she had been able to watch a match of something live. There was some passing interest paid to the national team in some sports but hockey wasn’t something that she could even blag being a casual watcher of. 

A sheepish smile tugs at her lips, a rare break in her confidence even if it was a strategic one hoping that it might make him that little bit more sympathetic towards her. Still, the words she speaks are dry unable to stop herself from allowing a little bit of dry humour to tinge her tone. “That obvious, huh?” A loose strand of hair is tucked behind her ear, gaze lifting to the screen once more. “Still, keeping my fingers crossed can’t do much harm.”

Silence wasn’t something all that unusual to her when she was more than a little used to spending most of her days in her own company - she supposed that came with the territory of being both the girl with the obsession and the girl who sees things that don’t exist. But the silence that they sat in as she waited to see whether he would even answer her first question was an uncomfortable if only because she had a feeling that he could be more than a little useful.

But then he does speak and it’s more than enough, even with no surname given the brunette figures it to be distinctive enough that she might be able to track him down should she have any more questions for him than those he would be prepared to answer today. A pleased smile takes over her features and she does her best to make sure it’s not too triumphant. “A pleasure to meet you, Nero.”

Taking a breath she prepared her speech, careful not to sound too enthusiastic about it when her passion had been known to intimidate other at times. “There’s been a few disappearances downtown and somehow the MO just doesn’t quite match up with something that makes sense. The police seem to have given up trying to solve them but I just can’t help but feel as though there’s something more to them that everyone is missing.”

“Is that something you know anything about? Or rather if you did something you’d be prepared to talk to me about?”

“I’m good,” he tells her. But she either doesn’t catch the quick rejection, or she doesn’t care, and he’s left with lips pressed together as she settles in next to him. It leaves him momentarily torn between amusement and annoyance, though he’d find it easier to settle on one if he knew what she wanted. It was a strange lead-in if she was just trying to find herself a date, though he’s fully aware most men in his position wouldn’t argue with it. She’s cute, and that counts for something. But it’s his default to take the most defensive position, hiding behind that carefully constructed wall.

Still, it’s rude even for him to tell her to fuck off, nothing she’s done truly warranting it. At the most he’d just argue her stance on horoscopes, because he never discounts anything that might offer some kind of insight or knowledge. And there’s power in his veins that swears there’s more to the world than what most people see at a glance. He doubts that’s what she’s here for, but it’s happened before, someone sent his way with only the vague implication that he was the sort of man who could solve odd problems. It didn’t mean they knew magic was real, just that someone they were close with did. He can only wonder if that’s what’s happening here.

But whatever her purpose, she just makes herself comfortable and asks about the game on the screen. He casts a quick glance back at it, but his side hasn’t made any headway since he looked away, and he’s swiftly coming to terms with the thought that he’ll owe a guy when it’s all over. It’s just one more small disappointment in a list of them. “They’re losing. So I’m out twenty bucks.”

It’s frustrating to admit even that takes less of his attention now, a normal day broken up by her unexpected appearance. And it remains both endearing and irritating how easily she invites himself into his space, as though they weren’t just strangers. It’s not an illusion he’s ready to embrace.

“You didn’t ask,” he tells her dryly, before firing back a question of his own. “If you’re not a cop, then what do you want?”

Humming softly as he mentions being out twenty bucks from the match, she vaguely toys with the idea of offer him money for information just like she had with the bartender but something tells her that it would be taken as an insult rather than endear her towards him. So instead she turns her eyes back up to the match on the screen and tries to figure enough about what was going on.

“That’s a shame, maybe they’ll turn it around.” She can’t claim to know enough about the sport to be able to say for definite that they’d be able to make a comeback but she could only assume that anything was possible until the last whistle blew. It was something she’d always subscribed to, nothing was ever hopeless or beyond a change in direction if there was still time to do something about it. Even if time had seemingly run out, her stubborn streak still left her unable to give up on things.

It was how she’d found herself here despite being told so many times over the years to give up her literal witch hunt, losing count of the amount of times that people had sniggered at her theories or claimed that she couldn’t possibly have known that’s what she saw. Painted as delusional or naive, never quite knowing which was worse, she’d started keeping her mouth shut about the potential for the supernatural but hadn’t stopped her search for it. One day she’d make some headway, find that unequivocal proof and prove them all wrong.

“Well, I suppose I was hoping that you’d give it after I gave mine but then I should know better than to assume. Can I have your name?” The words are said so sweetly, as though she doesn’t have an ulterior motive that she’s about to get to in a few moments. She’s playing the sensible game, not quite giving him enough to push her away but equally playing it completely safe had never been her way.

“Information- I’m a journalist you see.” As always, Annaleigh braces herself for all the negative reactions she’s seen over the years, always surprised when someone gives her something alternative to them.

There’s a hockey game on just above the bar that has most of Nero’s attention, though it’s accompanied by a quiet frustration that his team’s down by two. He’s only got twenty bucks riding on it, gambling a dangerous endeavor when he’s not in control of the outcome, but he’s never been in the habit of throwing money away. Not when he grew up seeing little of it, passed around from foster home to foster home that usually had too many children within their walls to start with.

Just none with the same gifts he had.

For a long time he’d thought himself alone, learning quickly that the other children couldn’t pull a box of crayons across the table simply at will. Knowing that he was different, special, had served some small comfort to an abandoned child. And maybe it had led to his obsession with whatever power had been passed down to him, but it’s hard to think of it as anything like a curse when it’s kept him alive this long.

Not everyone can say the same. But he’d prefer not to dwell on dead bodies today, not interested in much more than the beer he’s got fingers curved around and the hockey match on the television. So he’s almost surprised when someone interrupts that, drawing his gaze upwards.

There’s a hand offered out to him, a politeness that has him lifting his brow, his own staying in place around his beer. “Unless it’s ‘what’s your sign?’ then yeah, I mind.”

If he doesn’t have any real idea what she might want from him, it doesn’t stop that raising of his hackles, an immediate defensiveness that comes with too many little sins on his hands. Maybe someone sent her here for a favor, maybe she’s here to condemn him, but the only way to know is to ask. “Are you a cop?” He doubts it even as the question leaves his mouth, if nothing else because she looks too young and too pretty to have a badge stashed in her wallet. But that doesn’t remove the possibility entirely and he knows enough not to rely on appearances.

Letting her hand fall away with a little amused smile at his comment, Annaleigh was unrattled. If he was hoping for some kind of reckon from her or his words to wound her then he’d be disappointed. It was far from the worse she’d had thrown her way. “It can be if you want it to be.” There’s a coy smile sent his way and while she’d never been above a little light flirting to get her answers in the past she’d be lying she she said that there was no interest on her part on this occasion. Certainly not her usual type and definitely someone who’d give her parents a heart attack. “Though I never have believed in the stars much so I’d much rather ask if I could get you another drink.”

“Not a cop, I promise.” Logically she knows that there’s little to no chance of him taking her word for it and it doesn’t surprise her - very little did these days after she’d spent years of digging her nose in where it wasn’t wanted. But still, Annaleigh also knew she’d be mildly offended should he doubt her ability to keep her word. Despite how much she wanted the truth she’d always favoured persistence and wearing people down over lying, something she prided herself in when some many who shared her profession gave them all a bad name.

Brown eyes flickered over him, trying to size him up in some attempt to find the best angle to work to get what she came for. There was practically nothing known about him to her, not even a name, just what she’d noticed so far. And other than the beer in his hand suggesting he was over 21 and the way that he’s asking her profession suggesting he’s had run ins with the law before, there’s not much she can take. 

So instead she tries to engage him some other way, following to where his gaze had been, trying to feign interest in the sport that’s on. “Your team winning or losing?” As the words are spoken she’s sliding into the seat next to him, regardless of whether she’s welcome or not.

With her elbow on the table and her chin resting lightly on top of it she tilts her head to the side slightly. “You never did give me your name.”

Except she knew it to be anything but.

There’d been a string of disappearances in a rather shady neighbourhood that seemed to fit the same MO of what she’d seen. It hadn’t taken much for her to decide on how her free time was to be spent and without hesitation she’d woken bright and early to start asking questions in the various cafes and bars in the area. The day has drawn on and it was dusk when she arrived at the bar that someone had pointed her in the direction of. It had surprised her really, that someone had actually told her something when most of the time she was shut down rudely. But she was determined and it took more than a couple of strangers snapping at her to make her retreat.

Straightening out her jacket, the leather of it still feeling foreign despite her having worn it all day, she entered the bar. Without any hesitation she went up to the bar and fired her usual questions at the man behind it with a sweet smile. With a little bit of persuasion, in the form of some crisp notes,  he gave her the answers she wanted and gestured to someone sat by themselves.

Her stride was confident as she made her way over, stopping just short of the table. With a little clearing of her throat she spoke clearly, announcing her presence as she held out her hand. “Annaleigh Carmichael.” There was a little smile on her face that was intended to be reassuring but she knew that her air of self certainty conflicted with the facade of innocence.  “I have a few questions I’m hoping you won’t mind answering.”