AMATEUR AT WAR.

"You would be rare to find a doctor that believes in fate, Ms Priestly." She tosses the words into the air, only to wave them all off. "Once you understand the chemistry of the human body, and the human mind — nothing happens by chance, or influenced by the universe's will."

Anaïs shakes her head. "I believe in each person crafting their own fate. That's what I believe in."

"I quite agree. The- well, I fear I've rather let the universe guide my hand for too long. What I've called the universe. Perhaps to- get out of something? The responsibility? I'm not sure."

A step closer, her hand travels to rest lightly on Anaïs' bicep. "I've been thinking about that more lately. Crafting my own fate."

Time slips away, and so does space. Wind blows Anaïs's hair in waves, her hand trying to catch it and trap the strands back behind her ear. "Yes." There's no point in lying about it. "I did."

Her eyes, then, say the rest: It doesn't matter now. They've set each other free.

"Then dive into that want," she tells Audra. "You've wasted enough time."

It's with this step that she listens to the most information she's ever been given about the woman in one go. "Rabid," she repeats, crisp, smiling. Hans Starke is not a name she expected to come up right now, and her lips quirk. Very nearly, she brings up that Adam was once - or almost once - Alistair's lawyer. But she finds no need to bring up her husband, for once. "Adam's lovely. Hans is- well. You know."

"Fate," Audra deliberates, the word taking on two syllables. "Do you believe in that?"

One of the first things you're made to — forced to — learn when becoming a psychiatrist, is of the dangers of relatability. You're made to listen, and assess, and help if there is help to be offered. What you're not to do, is trace any details back to your own life; the history that haunts your own personal narrative. If they were in the setting of her office, this wouldn't be a problem. But they are not.

"I was twenty-seven," she offers. "It doesn't sound so young, but it is, especially when he's so many years your senior. I felt mature. I was already working as a doctor — residency, but still — and I helped to save his life. Terrible crash. Monaco." And if Heath had wanted to marry her then, she would have. Probably. It's hard to tell. Many impressive men had happened to her throughout the years, the perfect husbands — and she always feels so brave walking up to the ledge until it's time to jump.

Audra doesn't drink, but Anaïs does. In her hand, another topic that must be addressed — she can't remember the last time she went an entire day without a glass of her cherished wine.

His date tonight looks very young. Audra had noticed it earlier. Isn't sure of whether to say it or not now, decides against.

The question is unexpected. Perhaps it shouldn't have been. The champagne would be handy to fill the moment it takes her to think about it, but she doesn't move. Feels little embarrassment about taking a second, not looking away to do so. "I don't know. Honestly, I don't. I'd never had romantic love properly before him, and I haven't since. I don't know if I'd know what it felt like." To be this old, and to be so unsure. A year ago, she'd feel dearly silly.

"Made for my needs?" A smile quirks. Almost bashful. "There's people I want. I know what it is now - I've felt it. Feel it." Her eyes glint with the memory of Halloween, of Anaïs' comment on chemistry. "But romance and want at the same time? I don't know."

I hope you're not hurting too much over it. "My feelings about the whole thing aren't very easy to put into words. Not words that fit into a sentence, that is. At least twenty years of my life would have to be explained first, before even brushing the surface of the last few weeks."

Through that pause, which the wind seems to aid in, Anaïs studies Audra's face as she looks away. To marry someone as unimpressive — from what she's heard — as Alistair, and then to stick by his failures as he spends a lifetime imprisoned. The girl who paints like Caravaggio; or Vermeer; or even Klimt. Anaïs wonders how that man had swindled her so far as to forget her worth — was it tactic, or was it luck?

"Really?" She asks, smooth as the bubbly they share. The key is not to sound taken aback, or like Audra's just said something jarring. All she does is, with the touch of two gentle fingers to her cheek only, will Audra to look back at her. They're having a conversation, after all. "Why is that?"

Alistair is not a man she ever felt very complex around. She felt very simple. Each emotion was named, tamed, boxed. Her hand fit into the crook of his arm very well. He's an appropriate foot taller. He thought her to be very clever - and so she was clever. He thought her to be beautiful - and she was beautiful. She wasn't ever afraid in his presence, not really, not because of anything he had ever done. She was never breathless. She tries to imagine him before her, now, where Anaïs stands, and can't.

He had touched her gently, she's sure of it, but her head tilts, pressing into the soft touch, and she's forgotten it all. "I was nineteen when we met. He was older. I knew I was young. I felt young." Audra's eyes catch hers, and she stays where she is. Keeps looking. "People always say they feel mature, older than they are. That they thought they knew what they wanted, when they marry young." Her head shakes of its own accord. "I only ever wanted somebody to tell me what to do."

Lips purse. Hand wants to move, wants to bring her champagne to her mouth, but she is caught. Movement is noise. Noise is being heard. "But I don't want him. I don't want Heath Morgan." The unsaid floats. She takes a half step closer.

"Hm," she pauses at the question. "In a way, I suppose I did." Even if not by way of words, but actions — or lack thereof. "I always do, even if I don't."

Then, a shrug. "You're about to be free woman, a widow. It wouldn't be the strangest thing to want to move on." Beat. "But, you're right. A revolutionary loyalist likely wouldn't make your friends very happy."

It's true, if a little too honest, and she turns back to let the bay wind bat her face. "Good. Not- sorry. Not good. I hope you're not hurting too much over it." Coughs. She'd been doing fairly well. Well, in for a penny.

Move on. A thought Audra still hasn't wrapped her head around. She's forgotten about him for so long, let him trail to the back of her mind in the company of others - one other. Now, he's such an active thought. "I think, if I were to move on, it might not-" A cough, a flush, eyes that don't meet Anaïs'. "-It probably, at this point, isn't going to be with-." A man. "A man."

For some reason, the champagne seems to work quicker. Perhaps she had grown a tolerance to the usual; perhaps the simplicity of change got her to the same destination, only smoother. Anaïs leans back against the rail then, bringing the flute up to her lips whenever she isn't the one talking. "I believe he is. Though, he isn't mine anymore. He's probably his secretary's, or some other ditzy thing's half his age." The news is all over Page Six by now — Instagram, and Twitter, and all. "Why? Did you want his number?"

Audra watches the elegant line of her body, resting against the rail. Mind struggles to come up with anything comparative, and so she stops trying. "Hm." It's only a small noise, said in the general direction of the bar. Her hair ruffles slightly in the breeze, and she resists the clinical urge to pin it back. "You ended things, yes?" It wouldn't have happened otherwise, she can't picture it. "Do you think I want his number?" Audra chuckles. "No- no, not at all. He is, I think, quite too fast for me."

"Oh, what fate! I had the foresight to order a bottle." So Anaïs takes Audra's glass from her, and switches it around for a fresh bubbly. "My house. You know where my house is! But I can always set up a green light, for the dramatics."

The glass is taken from her, and she can only smile. The champagne is sharper, crisper, delightful. "Oh, I'd appreciate the light. Atmosphere, yes?" She finishes half of the flute in one sip, laughs again. "Is your- racecar driver at the bar?"

For this occasion only, she'd switched up the usual red for champagne instead. "And I find it to be very true, what it says about parties and the intimacy that comes with them. Consider yourself very much invited to my next celebration."

Audra nods to her companion's glass. "Closer we get to midnight, more I feel I should be drinking that. But I poured the wine, so I don't want to waste it." Another small sip. "I'll be there. Just let me know when, where, etcetera."

Audra takes the cup with a thankful hum, putting it to her lips and pausing as he next speaks. "Where on earth did you get this?" With a tilt of her head, she starts to weave back through the shelves to the register. "We have instant coffee. It's not- a lovely dirt latte, but- you won't get anything from it." Then, something seems to occur to her, and her eyebrows furrow. Posture straightens. "Sorry- no, I meant thank you. This was really kind of you, Sam." She takes a sip, doesn't even wince a little bit. "What brings you here?"

It's a wild, but likely accurate guess. Audra radiates the atmosphere of one who hasn't always been satisfied.

Do it, Ava says, and Anaïs draws her attention to the lines of Audra's face — any enhancements, changes that may come with such a suggestion.

"Why would that be selfish?" She asks, true curiosity, the type that only the walls of her office usually hear. "He took your life, from what I can see from afar. It could be argued that it wouldn't be selfishness, but fairness, if you were to take his."

Then, at the intricacies of prison, Anaïs waves a hand. "I'm sure I have enough good will with Samar that he would pull some strings for the greater good. Where is he, Rikers?" Looking between them, Anaïs straightens her posture some. "But I will only ask if it will be done. I take my deals and my quid-pro-quos very seriously."

She's about to speak, to say that there's ways to infiltrate a prison, that she's still in contact with some medical staff in the system and might be able to get them in — but Anaïs beats her to the offer. So Ava blinks and looks between the two of them, quiet for a few seconds, before she addresses Anaïs again. "Why do you have good will with Sam?"

She thinks of chemistry, of the last time she shared a bed with her husband, and can't think of anybody between soft sheets but the woman in front of her. Looks deliberately away, hopes to blame the flush of her cheeks on the wine. She needs to get out more.

"Rikers, yes." And how long has it been since she went to see him? Too long, not long enough. Audra swallows hard. She can't promise she won't have changed her mind in the morning. "I'd need to talk to Lee about it," she murmurs. Thinks of Lee, thinks of Sam - wonders, too, how the two know each other, but doesn't think to voice it. Leans against the railing, blinking slowly.

More to herself than either of them, she wonders, "What would you want in return? To do this for me?"

Talking about someone as if they aren't there. Classic.

"Who's 'him'?" Anaïs asks then, curious. "The husband?"

There had been no expectation they'd dance around her meaning - but said outright, she looks away first. Stares out, over the room, away from the two women. Words are tight. "Feels selfish to do it myself. You wanted to do it first." Who is she to take anything away from Ava? Anything at all?

"There's no way to do it, anyway," she admits, and in it, is admitting she's thought about it all before. "Couldn't get in to do it. Would have to wait until he's out and then- well, then- the timing would be far too obvious."

"You two have great chemistry."

Back to murder, they go. "Well, Audra. If you were to — who would you choose?"

Back to murder indeed. "Your first has to be special," she reminds Audra, fingers tugging gently but surely at the strand of hair. "It has to be personal. Someone that really makes you..." Hm. "Crazy."

"Don't fret, Audra," she says, sipping the wine. "I happen to find painting to be much more enthralling than killing." Time to call a spade a spade — and murder, well, murder. "But why is it, that you've never done it? In your line of work, I would assume most have. For one reason, or another."

Maybe it wasn't that obvious what she meant all this time. When Audra speaks again, it becomes clear that this is the case.

"Yeah..." she trails off Anaïs' question. "Why haven't you?" Ava hums, heeled feet dragging her towards Audra. She stands in front of her and curls a strand of the woman's hair around her index finger. "Stanley would be so proud." Green mask or not.

She looks from Ava, so close, a breath away, to Anaïs. Eyebrows furrow, lips part in uncertainty. "I'm- well-" her laugh, short and awkward, cuts off her own words. "I think some people are- well- they're marvelous at it- but I've never-" been asked? Thought to? "Dabbled."

Audra coughs. "I'm not usually put in the path of it. Those around me have it handled."

"What doctor hasn't?" A non-answer, as Anaïs redirects back to her wine. She has her own guesses of what Audra's answer would be — but still allows space to hear it from the artist's mouth. "She strikes me as quite the Michelangelo herself."

Two non-answers. Ava rolls her eyes and finishes her drink. "Cowards," she hums, uncommitted, as she sets her empty glass away. Her gaze lingers on the patron for another second and she thinks she sees something. Curiosity maybe. Intrigue. "Audra is very talented," she agrees, slowly looking towards the other woman. "She uses her powers for good." Unfortunately.

"You make me sound awfully boring, love," she smiles at Ava, "but you're being nice, so I'll let it go." At Anaïs' similar non-answer, she begins to reconsider her own. "It wasn't until recently that I began to do it for myself. I find it far more rewarding."

"I know how to paint," she says. "As I know how to drive. Now, I don't find the need to do either of those things, if there are others that can do it for me." Beat. "I don't want a muse. But others can see me as it, if they wish to."

She eyes Anaïs, head tilted. "You don't want to be that kind of muse." The one that drives a painter mad, not against the canvas but against the inspiration itself. Then, looking between the two. "Have you ever?" Beat. "Painted?"

She tilts her head at the weight of Ava's words, saying nothing despite the open address.