Livvy’s eyes remain transfixed on the strange woman who she can somehow tell burns as well. There’s an otherworldliness to her that draws her closer, a moth to flame. But Liv is a practical child, and has enough sense to fear her just a little, somewhere past that searing curiosity.

Beyond that fear and that curiosity, there are little sparks of joy and hope; they’re the same, somehow. She’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing just yet, too caught up in the feeling of not being alone.

“Olivia.” she answers, head tilting in return. The woman in front of her reminds her so much of every fire she’s watched burn, the searing intensity and the beauty that had made her want to reach out and hold it all her life. But she wills her hands to stay at her side as she says, “everyone calls me Liv. What’s yours?”

“olivia.”  she says it thoughtfully,  carefully,  as if weighing each syllable.  “that’s a nice name.”  the thing in agnes that recognizes itself in olivia flares to life,  a rush of warm familiarity,  a call to home.  for a girl so young to burn so intensely that even she can feel it...  her smile remains faint and placid,  but something twinges in the center of her,  beneath the fire.  had she looked like this,  once upon a time?  wide-eyed and cautious and very,  very young?  she doesn’t think so. 

maybe that’s good.  maybe it’s something.

And she takes the bait, beautifully. Annabelle blushes a little, and smiles shyly, the epitome of a girl realizing that her savior is actually extraordinarily lovely. It’s not hard to pretend –Rosie is gorgeous. “Thank you so much,” she says, letting the emphasis bleed out through the words. “I’m from Hunstanton, actually. Only came in for an interview I thought was surefire, and it wasn’t.” A sheepish smile. Maybe she’s laying it on a bit thick, Annabelle thinks. She has to be careful. Elias Bouchard doesn’t have idiots working for him. Well, not outside the archives, anyway. “My name’s Annabelle, Annabelle Crew. What’s yours?” She’d had a dozen other fake names prepared, but picked this one for her sense of humor. She’s pretty sure Mike Crew would take a dirt nap before he’d be related to her. 

“I was serious about that coffee, though. Or anything else you like.” And now she adds just a touch of flirtiness to her shy smile, easy does it. “It’s really the least I could do for my savior.”

While she keeps her wide, pretty, human eyes focused on Rosie, Annabelle makes sure to keep plucking carefully at the threads around the human man she’d picked to be her ‘stalker’, making sure to keep him standing menacingly, looking over at her as though he’d like to take her home and didn’t much care whether she’s willing. (Annabelle’s gotten that look from a lot of men. It’s not difficult to replicate it on the malleable face of this one.) Once she’s done with her prop, she’ll send him off, but not quite yet.

rosie notes the flush that blooms in the cheeks of her new companion the way a person might note a sudden change in the weather or a piece of beautiful music playing in the distance  ——  she notices it,  stops to appreciate it for a moment as she is prone to do with pleasant surprises,  and carries on.  this is not new or unfamiliar,  really,  although she admits to the sensation of something quietly...  different.  noticing little things about people is something she is very,  very good at,  but the girl now seated across from her is perhaps something of a sensory overload.  like straining her eyes to make sense of a holographic image.  it is neither unpleasant nor unwelcome,  really.  if anything.  she likes the little taste of mystery.

“well,  i’m sorry to hear about the interview,  in that case.  i’ll bet you’ll find something else in no time,  though.”  she tilts her head slightly,  the corners of her mouth still upturned,  as annabelle crew properly introduces herself.  annabelle is a lovely name,  she thinks.  there is a certain musicality to it;  it suits her.  “rosie santos.”

she glances above annabelle’s head to the stranger who lingers,  seething,  like a hunter posed to strike the moment its prey gives it reason.  his looming presence does not falter her smile  ——  if anything,  when rosie turns her attention back to annabelle in full,  it is brighter than before.  they are old friends,  aren’t they?  at least as far as he needs to know.

this girl is not like the little lukases.

‘ i will light myself on fire. ’  ——  @mtchstck​.

peter blinks down at her for several moments of astounded silence,  his expression a perfectly neutral mask.  and then he smiles,  a dopey,  lopsided sort of smile,  but his casual nonchalance is betrayed by the way his eyes dart around the room.

plotted starter for @extremetus (rosie)

Elias’s little secretary is here, just on time. Annabelle smiles to herself; she’s always been fond of punctuality as a trait. But she can be proud of her lovely orchestration later. Now? Time for action. Annabelle makes sure to affect a nervous demeanor before walking over to the woman’s table with quick, anxious steps. Her mind, comfortably shrouded in cobweb, will give away nothing more than she wants anyone to know. She’s even made sure her hair covers the little hole in her skull.

She takes the seat across from the secretary (pretty thing, isn’t she?) and speaks in a hushed voice. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but that man by the front won’t stop hitting on me. He won’t take no for an answer, and –well, I’m new in the city, and a little scared, and this is just my long-winded way of asking if I could sit with you and pretend to be your friend until he leaves me alone.” Annabelle smiles sheepishly. She really could have acted in another life. What woman is going to resist another woman in danger, after all? “I’ll, um, buy your coffee for you. To make up for the inconvenience.”

rosie is not boring,  but she is predictable.  she finds comfort in structure,  in routines;  she likes what she likes  and appreciates simplicity.  which is why she eats lunch at the same little cafe every afternoon,  orders the same meal every time she comes,  and sits at the same table,  near the windows so she has the perfect vantage point to watch the people outside.  it’s a busy street and the foot traffic here is always interesting.  she likes to guess where everyone is going,  and even occasionally recognizes a familiar face or two  ——  people who,  like her,  walk this same path at the same time every day.

when a strange woman approaches and takes the seat across from her,  this surprises rosie.  it is not part of her routine.  people very rarely notice her,  but she doesn’t have time to dwell on that.  her unexpected companion is very clearly distressed.  and glancing up,  rosie finds that the man in question is not a patron she recognizes as a regular.  a stranger.  she gently closes the book in front of her,  marking her place with a receipt slipped between the pages, and pushes her glasses back up the bridge of her nose.