DANSE MACABRE

good thing the compliments keep coming, and his smile continues to widen at them. it's not often that he gets to indulge himself in such amusement. "you almost make it sound poetic with that accent of yours." a tilt of his head, and a rogue curl falls over his forehead, though he cares not about it. "I know the feeling. but at this point, it would take... so much more than a couple of drinks for that to happen. instead, it merely mixes with the meds, and makes me..." he shrugs as he gestures at himself, calm and pleasant, but with a hint of numbness. "sooo... how'd you like the place?"

In truth, he hadn't thought of Javi's sexuality until this very moment. There was an overlap — off his many years institutionalized, patterns were unavoidably drawn — but nothing which had been assumed before he'd stepped up to the position tonight.

Then, Lee smiles. His accent, posh by most standards, now manifesting through a perk or two. "So I sound like Shakespeare, do I now, darling?"

Beat.

It mixes with the meds.

Finally, a difference between the two. "I haven't taken mine in decades," Lee confesses. Two, to be exact. "It mixes only with—" With the very tip of his index finger, Lee taps at his own temple. "All this."

"oh, I don't know about discussing all that without a drink in my hand first." still, consider his interest piqued. "...nor without more compliments. keep telling me how gorgeous I am." vanity is a blessing, sometimes.

"It 'takes one to know one', I reckon, darling." A phrase overused — as well as underplayed. No one that hadn't experienced the horrors of a mental asylum could think to join this very conversation with them; an automatic disconnect.

If vanity's a blessing, obsession is a curse. "Gorgeous face, to match such gorgeous hands." Javier has them, indeed. "Where fine liquor would fit." Lee calls for the bartender then — placing the order to an exact request. Two glasses that match. "Alas, I avoid drinking myself. I can get quite," — a sharp smile — "erratic, under the influence."

Her drink rested untouched in front of her. A prop, more than anything. Something to justify her presence. Something to look at when people glance her way for too long.

Ophelia had purposely picked a table in the corner. It offered her perfect view across the whole place and a sense of solitude at the same time. Not quite tucked away, not quite visible either. Just the way she liked it.

Her gaze drifted, unfocused at a glance, but deliberate in truth. She watched reflections more than faces. Listened to pauses more than words. Let conversations come to her in fragments—names, places, inconsistencies slipping loose in the noise. "Sorry," she said, glancing up at the nearest person. "I couldn’t help overhearing." A slow breath left her, steady, measured. A pen and journal had already found their way to her hands. "Could you repeat that last part?"

In such settings, Lee speaks freely — as he typically does. Were any details ugly, well, it would then be an issue for the listener. Never the teller.

Once Ophelia's presence becomes evident, everything else dissipates. There's a certain surprise to finding her here, at the same time there's not.

Could she make it happen? Perhaps. Would she? Definitely. "Then I guess our next meeting will be in your favourite city." Elena put down her half-finished glass now and leaned towards him, her voice dropping several octaves, her lips brushing his ear. "I can't wait."

He's infinitely intrigued. Is the status quo of her clean-cut life, the right parameters for what bleeds into personal affairs? Does she crave more of the same, or the excitement of someone who refuses to play by the same rules?

Lee does take her face then, delicate between his hands. "You, and me, and London." Leaning in, he kisses not her mouth, but the side of her face — lips connecting to the base of her ear. "Can't bloody wait, darling."

Ava reaches for her phone but she changes her mind and, instead, kneels down next to one of the bodies. "He was gonna run away— and you taught me how to do that!" The throat-jab. Lovely memory with her boss. She drops the corpse's hand back to the ground and looks around at the scene they've caused. "And I don't need to show off, I'm already Sam's favorite," arms fold over her chest, tantrum style.

You taught me how to do that. It's true, he had. How many years ago had that been? "Fancy move, innit," he grins.

Then, a face pulled the word favourite. Perhaps she is — perhaps she is not. How hurt could a killer truly be, over petty issues such as this? "...He hasn't got a favourite."

and then, he keeps going, until javi finally understands what's going on. was he talking to himself again? or did he look exceptionally away from keyboard just then? either way, this guy just caught him.

alarms don't start sounding off in his head just yet. after all, not everyone walks up to some random guy, listing off forensic psychiatric hospitals. "kirby." he smiles, head tilted to the side. impressive. "you?"

"Oh, I knew it," he comments. "You're too bloody gorgeous to be a brit." English women are one thing — but men, Lee had never been a fan. "What for?"

After a beat, he shrugs and offers — "Broadmoor," — with the neutrality of someone sharing their alma mater. Go Crows!

“If this is you actually showing up…” She tilts her head slightly. “Then yes. One proper date.” A small pause as she weighs her words a little more. "Somewhere neutral. So maybe London would be a good choice," she teases once more with a smile.

“And for the record? I’m not still here because of the danger.” A moments passes as she inches closer herself, hating how easily she's getting swept up in the moment. “I’m here because you tried.” Will she regret this tomorrow? Perhaps but for now--it's what feels right.

"I don't feel guilty, darling. You're a grand woman, so a grand gesture is the bloody minimum, I reckon."

London. It's a tease, and he knows it — but not such insane of an idea. Grown adults as they are, it could be made into reality. "My favourite city."

But as soon as he closes some of the gap between them, her hand in his, those lips against her hand, she's aware that he's taking every initiative she's thrown his way. "It has...it's why I'm still here," she remarked before keeping her hand in his grip. There was a very dangerous allure to Lee and somewhere it made Elena question if that was what drew her in--or if there was something deeper than that even.

(Had he gone to Elena, would she have welcomed his insanity, or rejected it altogether?)

"I apologise, darling." It's all that Lee can say — all the the recognition he can offer. "It's a new year, innit. A date, the proper kind. Be it in New York, DC, London, or wherever you'll have it. How about it?"

Unless you know more than you let on, of course, written between the lines.

"Would you come, darling, if you were him?" Lee asks him plainly. "A brainiac and a maniac. I'd keep my bloody distance, if I could."

Ava wipes her nose with the back of her hand, essentially smearing more red over her skin. "Why do I have to call him?" she asks for no other reaosn than complaining at each other is what they do best. Or— second best, to this. Ava frowns, knife still twirling between her fingers.

"Fine, and I'll tell him how you wanted to show off." Objectively untrue and extremely unlikely that Sam would believe her anyway.

Ava pauses. That is interesting. "If you're not my boss right now, what are you?" Surely he won't say friend. They're not enemies. A secret third thing? Ava tilts her drink up to her lips and takes a sip, before offering the glass to him.