REPOSE.

Odette Delacroix had never been in the business of personal favors, and definitely not the ones that resulted in meeting people -- she was quite satisfied with the number of people she spoke to (TERRORIZED, her mind echoed in amusement) fitting on her one hand. But the elder Raven sister (a frequent client of hers back in London) had been insistent and persistent to the point that the art dealer capitulated just to keep her email inbox from being flooded with pleading emails. 

The he doesn’t know anyone there and I’m worried he’ll never leave his apartment if I don’t force him and blah blah blah blah blah’s had driven her crazy and so Thursday evening found her waiting in a quiet booth in a half empty bar, nursing a glass of pinot noir. Her attention is focused on the bar entrance, judging and dimissing each patron who enters until him. He’s easy to recognize, the facial structure and eyes feel so familiar (my son comes the erratic thought and Odette fights to shut that down quickly -- the art dealer was hardly known for her maternal instinct), but she doesn’t stand when he approaches. 

the suspicion that her words bring forth, the immediate sense of distrust that her mere presence elicits in odette, does not surprise atropos the slightest. a  seeming stranger walking up to you and initiating a conversation filled personal details? surely she too would be frightened and unwelcoming toward prolonging the life of their little chat. but that is something she will never discover the truth of it, and she is content with the fact. 

it is with this same sense of serenity that she continues regarding odette’s all too mortal form. “believe it or not, you and i are acquainted.” there is nothing uncertain about the way the words leave her tongue. they are all laced with unwavering, sharp confidence — a stark contrast to the understanding hum of a sound that atropos lets out. “though i suppose i cannot fault you for allowing it fade from your memory.” her features entertain a ghost of a smile, as if she is laughing at a private joke only she can understand. “it appears to be a rather frequent occurrence with your lot.”

the woman unleashes yet another round of baseless accusations at her — and yet again, the only effect it has the slight raise of atropos’ left eyebrow. “no one sends me anywhere, odette.” she speaks, her voice firm. “if i am somewhere, it is because i wish to be there myself. following orders is a task belonging to those lesser than i.” not always true, a quiet voice reminds her inside her head; but, unsurprisingly, she shoves that line of thought aside swiftly. 

“must i repeat myself?” atropos sighs, a theatrical quality to the sound. “i am merely here to greet you.” a pause. “i am no enemy of yours, odette. you may not recognize me, but be certain of this. you would much rather have me by your side than against you.” 

It felt like the enigmatic young woman’s words were coming from very far away, a distant echo to them that Odette couldn’t identify as real or imagined. Or perhaps another projection of her own strange internal turmoil. Either way, it irritated her, and she was beginning to regret not bringing her purse out with her -- she still had most of an open of pack of cigarettes in there and the cold rush of nicotine seemed the perfect antidote to the endless prickling beneath her skin. She’s not sure what the girl means by you lot (remember, comes that dark voice, harsh and demanding, REMEMBER; it reverberates in her skull and Odette instinctively presses her fingers to her temple).

“By my side?” Odette echoes, a disbelieving laugh sputtering past her lips. “You’re not that pretty, the whole goth witch thing you have going on is a bit...much.” And isn’t that the biggest fucking joke, considering the hue that adorns her own body: black boots, black pants, black shirt, and black duster. The only thing that wasn’t black were the dark, azure stones of her jewelry, but even those to the untrained eye were close enough. “So you’ve greeted me. Now what? You haven’t even mentioned your name.”

also if we haven’t plotted yet, pls expect me in your inbox/dm’s soon :) 

Hephaestus chuckled. It was a dark sound, a deep sound, and it resonated heavy within his chest. He shook his head. “I’m certain he would,” he responded. “But there are some things that fathers have no need to hear from their sons. I believe that is one of them.” He wondered how much joy Dionysus would take from explaining such vernacular to him. Likely there would be at least two jokes tossed in there at his own expense. Lifetimes of Dionysus’ jokes reverberated around in his mind and Hephaestus merely shook his head as he pushed his glass back across the bar. He needed another drink with the amount of memories that continued to invade his consciousness.

The name coming from her lips sounded wrong. He had heard Nyx say his name – his true name – countless times over millennia but to hear her voice release his mortal name bothered him on a truly visceral level. His eyes glinted. “I’m told it means wildfire,” he drawled in response, reaching for his refilled drink and taking another long pull on the liquor. “But I’ve never bothered to look it up.” He smirked at his own snark and he found he could not resist the pull to continue. “Oh, I don’t know. You look like someone I used to know.”

“Wildfire,” she echoed, an odd timber to her voice and for a moment, it felt as though the haziness that usually colored the edges and outlines of her view vanished and Odette (no, She) could see the older man clearer than ever before. Wildfire, he said and she could see it in his eyes, ferocious and knowing. Wildfire, he said and she could see it in his hands, tanned and strong. Wildfire, he said, and she could see it, though the word would never be enough to describe him. “Fits you better.”

The corner of her mouth pulls low -- Odette couldn’t tell if he was teasing her, or being genuine (she hoped the latter, she knew it was the latter). Nonetheless, she stood, pushing her empty glass further towards the bartender. “Well, I’m going to assume that this person I look like is someone you remember very fondly, and they’re so amazing, and beautiful that just the memory of them bring a nostalgic tear to your eye,” she continued, reaching for her jacket and purse. “And since I brought this lovely memory to mind, I’ll let you pay for my drink too.”

A knife-edge smile slices across her features; Odette couldn’t stay much longer, not without making worse decisions than ditching a stranger with her drinks bill. The door to the bar opened, the darkness beyond calling to her, jacket edges fluttering around her like wings. Her gaze is fixed upon her escape and she turned to leave, parting words floating over her shoulder.

“Enchanté, Wildfire. Thanks for the company. And the drinks.”

“It’s a little late to be worried about my preferences, don’t you think?” Rob responds dryly.

Is it weird he can imagine Odette looming over him when she glares like that?  She’s something terrible sometimes.  Too much intensity in such a petite package.  All her glowering though, has the opposite of intended affect.  Rob shrugs off her scowl; shrugs off the shoulder to his chest.  He’s too much of an expert in sour moods to let this get to him, especially when it seems like it’s a concession from her.  He lets her leave in a huff.

Her concession though, at least inspires him  to follows with caution, trying to keep a few steps behind.  She seems like she needs the space.  His efforts though, are somewhat in vain.  Despite his best intentions, he keeps catching up to her far too quickly. (It’s not his fault he has longer legs and she has no direction.) Eventually, he just surrenders himself to walking besides her.

When she finally does speak to him again, it’s a good distance from the house.  Her comment isn’t that surprising, other than it’s coming from Odette and if he tilts his head and looks sideways, he might see a flicker of remorse across her face.  He has to think about his answer, glancing to the night sky as if that would hold any inspiration for him, but none comes.  He shrugs back at her.

“Only a little,” he says, daring to glance back at her out of the corner of his eye.  "But you’re the least insufferable person I’ve had to deal with today, so I guess I’ll live.“

Where Rob could not find answers was the one source of solace for Odette -- the distant pinpricks of light and empty darkness between them flooded her with calm and her angry strides slowed to a more even-paced stroll. She felt more clear-headed than she had all night, no longer drowning in his cold gaze or floundering for solid ground in Ha-- Rob’s presence. The embarassment she’d felt wasn’t simply the ill-timed kiss, but that he saw her so vulnerable at all.

If she’d been feeling more hysterical, Odette would have probably choked on her own frustrated laughter, convinced the universe was playing one monumental joke on her. She’d never understood why she was like this, driven to irrational behavior and left behind with the emotional fall out. But her barbed tongue hadn’t softened and Odette managed to huff in amusement. “I’m not sure whether that means more people have tried to kiss you today, or that more people should try and kiss you.” A mere beat had passed before her inevitable snark cut through. “I know you haven’t exactly been getting any action recently.”

The streets haven’t looked familiar for a while, but in some ways, New York was the same everywhere. Though the night chill didn’t bother her, despite her lack of layers, Odette was still a moth seeking light. Catching sight of a 24 hour diner, she pivoted leading them towards the nearly empty, hole in the wall cafe. The art dealer paused by the windows, dark voice in the back of her mind encouraging a cup of coffee. Turning to Rob, Odette met his light eyes with her own, though she couldn’t hold his gaze for long. “I-- I should let you know that won’t happen again. Tonight has been weird.” A patron left through the doors, warm air gusting out and drawing attention to just how cold her legs were. “But I won’t get into more trouble here. You don’t have to stay if you’d rather get some sleep.”

iii. @ncbulovs​

Laurel took the offered chair and crossed her legs at the knee. She had been trying to remember to cross at the ankle - like a lady - but old habits were hard to let go. She reached into her bag and withdrew the folder of photos and placed them on the desk. Odette was forthright but that did not bother her. They were there to do a job, after all.

“We ran the numbers and it would be more cost effective for the estate to send you to the locations of each painting than it would be to bring them here, though we doubted whether you would like to spend the better part of a month sitting on a plane,” she said with a small shrug of her shoulders. “And besides, we are only looking for a rough guide. If anyone disputes any particular evaluation we will take further measures, though the only way to know anything’s true worth would be to auction it.”  

She slid the folder toward Odette but kept one manicured hand on it, “I was told that you were the best, but if you do not believe you can do it than I should not wish to waste more of your time.”

Her first thought was despair -- that she’d missed a paid opportunity to disappear from her life for a bit; immediately,some harsher voice thundered over her weaker (foolish, mortal) instinct to run away. Anything but a coward, it growled and so, all Odette did was frown. She may have looked disproportionately angry, but it was a far better look than the demand of respect from young (goddess) woman the intrinsic, dark part of her cried for.

Odette didn’t reach for the folder, unwilling to capitulate even a little. She did not bow. (She did not bow.) “You sound like you like mathematics,” the art dealer drawled. “Exactly how much margin for error does a ‘rough guide’ allow? I assume you wouldn’t need the best unless it was rather small and precise.”

Pale fingers curl into a cradled fist, upon which Odette rests her chin as daintily as her namesake. “But I suppose when you determined what cost effective, you’d already considered the potential loss -- price low, and your client could undersell their piece; price high, and the lot might be passed entirely. Even in the free market of an auction.” 

The needless antagonism only seemed to fuel her further, lips teased into a smug smile. “But it’s not my problem. You know my fees, the price of hiring the best. I’m happy to take a look.” Then, Odette placed her fingers on the folder.

THE  FACT  THAT  HE’D  SEEN  her, before she had ought to be his saving grace. somehow avoiding the wrath - inducing stitch of her attention. the lack of intimacy in events like these seems to reverse the spell of entropy — it is the only reason he bothers. he doesn’t smile. his lack of immediate disgust is pretence enough. ❝   you didn’t come alone did you ?  ❞      //  @ncbulovs​

“What, exactly, would it matter to you, Axel?” He’d caught her off-guard but jilted as she was, Odette didn’t quite tell the truth -- that she’d tentatively invited Rob, and that he’d tentatively accepted; but tentatively here with tentatively a friend was still a kind of lonesome. Arms were crossed, fingers curled around her arms (not to seduce for once, but to protect them both) and her voice was chillingly soft. “I thought we were done having words.”

Due to the habits her mortal persona had developed, the connections Hermione had made, Hera decided after a long night of consideration it was in her best interest to keep such connections. Both for her personal benefit and keep up appearances as the mortal woman she had lived as, to prevent any suspicions from arising due to a change in behaviour. It’s something she cannot risk, not while she doesn’t know how many have their memories back, or who happened to be behind this. And where is her husband? 

This leads her to her frequent meetings with Odette, or should she say Nyx, to keep up with their friendship. If she dips into Hermione’s thoughts and memories, she knows this was important to the woman. It kept her grounded, it kept her human, it brought a sense of respite into her otherwise perfectly timed life. Simply put, their meetings were treasured by Hermione, though she rarely let that feeling come to the surface. 

Stopping by to grab her go to order prior to their meeting has either delayed her, or the other woman is early. “Odette, darling, it’s good to see you.” She greets her politely before taking the empty seat beside her. Could she believe the audacity as she put it? As a matter of fact, why yes, yes she could. “You should take it as a compliment, not the demeaning insult the girl most likely meant it as. What’s wrong with being called a witch?” The hint of a smile touches her lips as she looks at her.

Hermione approached life with a lens rather similar to Odette’s. There was an edge to the woman, an uneasy tension only hinted at beneath cool words and tight smiles. But whatever deep currents brewed beneath her surface, Hermione was the picture of composure in the face of Odette’s more straightforward antagonism. “Doesn’t change that she meant it as an insult -- I’m French. Wearing black is chic,” the art dealer sneers into her coffee, though her complaint is half-hearted. It hadn’t been the word that offended her after all, just the morally righteous tone of it. Especially when Odette really hadn’t started it this time.

“I’m honestly a little surprised to see you,” she added on, tongue wetting chapped lips. “And as much as I might wish the reason for your recent, absurdly busy schedule is something interesting, I somehow doubt it.” (If only she knew.) Odette’s eyes study Hermione’s features like a canvas, the shiny hair that fell over the high planes of cheekbones just so and the fine arch of her brows. She’s arresting in her perfection and for one ephemeral (Don’t call it fleeting, call it true, the dark voice in the back of her mind corrects) moment there seems to be glimmers of a crown nestled at the divorce lawyer’s (No.) temples. “Been surviving the hordes of Upper East Side socialites alright?”

He wondered, idly, how many more of his brethren he would meet who had no knowledge of their true identities. Part of Hephaestus was amused by it and part of him was frightened; if his mother did not know where Zeus was or where to find him, it did not likely bode well for the rest of them. But he did not want to dwell on that topic, not when it was clear Nyx was enjoying needling him.

A scoff left his lips, though it was a good-natured one. Hephaestus’ eyes were alight with something akin to wildfire and he shook his head. “You know, I’m not sure that word means what it did when I was younger.” Hephaestus was not completely in the know on today’s vernacular and though he had both Ella and Dionysus to inform him, he preferred not to ask questions he knew he wouldn’t want real answers to. Brantley would have found it less amusing, he supposed, but as Brantley was not an ageless being in the way Hephaestus was, it seemed a moot point.

Hephaestus looked at her, his eyes peering into her own. It was still strange to him, speaking to those he’d known for millenia who had no idea who he was. He supposed he ought to be used to the anonymity by now. As she asked his name, he hesitated only slightly before giving her the mortal name he’d been using. “Brantley,” he responded. “Most people call me Brant, though.” He shrugged his shoulders and took another sip of his drink.

“I’m sure that son of yours knows,” Odette replies, peering into her empty glass as though it had offended her. “And would be happy to explain.” He’s not as scandalized as she’d hoped, disappointment flowering in her chest in a heavy, familiar way. Every turn she takes, every move she makes, none of them seem right -- the dark undercurrent that guides her intuition and instincts stubbornly holds to the conviction that only one person could make her feel as though she weren’t too big for her body.

“Sure, Brant,” she echoes, voice quieter and gaze unfocused. There’s a look of contemplation etched on her features, a fine line creasing above her furrowed brow. “Somehow -- you don’t look like a Brantley.” He deserved a name more volcanic, though Odette couldn’t articulate why. “But who am I to judge,” she continues flippantly, waving off the bartender when he returned to check on them. “It’s not like we’ll remember each other’s names or that we’ll even have occasion to use them. We’re simply two strangers passing in the night.” The words still don’t feel exactly right, but they do feel less wrong -- or perhaps, Odette is simply drunk.

One of Rob’s eyebrows nearly arches to his hairline, unimpressed with her bravo.   Capable isn’t exactly the first word he’d use to describe her current state, unless she was implying her capability for disaster…but he hardly believes that to be the case.  Since suggesting that to her would also be disastrous, he simply snorts back, and reaches past her to grab his keys.

“I wasn’t asking,” he says, fixing her with a look that manages to be both stern and sarcastic.

With keys in hand, he opens the door, and waits for her.  He hadn’t really opened it for her as a courtesy, but more as a direct suggestion of how the night was going to go.  When she doesn’t immediately leave.  His lips press together and he takes on an air of mild impatience.

“I promise you, neither of us want me to throw you over my shoulder, but I’m prepared to do so.”

He can’t make her cower with a stern look -- she’s not one of his interns. A cold breeze rushes between them, but Odette is stubborn enough to hold her stance for a bit longer, arms crossed. She irritated that he won’t let her be mortified in solitude, that the dark voice that haunted her mind had suddenly, violently returned, that suddenly she couldn’t bring herself to even look at her friend (young neighbor, dark king, lovelorn fool, the voice supplied). 

But staying still feels as much a cage as Rob’s home, and so finally Odette throws her hands up with a hissed, “Fine. Have it your way. I didn’t think traipsing about the streets of Brooklyn at four in the morning was really your sort of thing.” Tossing women over his shoulder shouldn’t be either, but there’s laughter in the back of her mind suggesting that perhaps, Rob could, even if he wouldn’t (couldn’t, comes the correction) manhandle her.

She moves past him, intentionally letting her shoulder shove against his chest on the way out. Odette strides forward confidently; she didn’t care if he followed, resented that he’d keep up. They walk in silence for a bit -- thoughts of dark caves and betrayal swirl in her mind, a dizzying cocktail. The cool night air is sobering, however, enough for Odette to ask quietly, voice tense, “Are you angry?”

she has never been one to form attachments. aside from her undying loyalty to her sisters and her unwavering sense of duty, relationships and attachments hold no meaning to atropos. they are, after all, nothing but distractions that she cannot afford in her line of work. nothing but frivolities which she has never needed to experience herself. in spite of this, the woman’s lips curve upward into a fond smile as she listens to odette speak. perhaps it is a twinge of familial affection; perhas it is the same amusement that colors all of her interactions with these fallen beings. she does not know for certain, nor does she care to find out just now.

“how is it so shocking?” a curious raise of brows accompanies her inquiry. “i consider people watching and speculating a refreshing change from my regular line of work.” a lie — it is an integral part of her duty to follow people and their lives, for they factor greatly into the end they will face. “based on my experience, i suspect you are more alone in your opinion than i.” 

thenodette speaks again; and again, atropos smiles genuinely, a burst of laughter barely concealed behind it. how ironic it is that she is in the presence of one of the most unpleasant goddesses, yet her feelings are the most authentic they have been in a while. “it most definitely is not a pitch of any sorts.” atropos chuckles. “rest assured, nobody wishes to live in a world where i have to resort to selling my ideas rather than just making them a reality.”

“you need not purchase anything from me either, odette.” she continues, briefly glancing the couple who had unknowingly sparked this whole exchange. as they move away, so does atropos’ gaze which, yet again, returns to observe the older woman’s reactions ( no matter how large or minuscule ). “i am only here to say hello. it has, after all, been a while since the last time we saw each other.”

Odette’s nose wrinkles distastefully. There’s an unsettling weight in her chest, the heaviness of being seen, being known, and really -- who the hell was this girl to tell her she was alone. Anger simmers beneath her skin at being both read so easily and the simple boldness the stranger had in approaching her. And yet, where her anger might have have easily bubbled into her usually antagonistic tendencies, there’s an odd edge to the other woman’s laugh that prevents her blood from boiling.

“We’ve never met before -- how do you know my name?” The corners of her eyes wrinkle as she squints suspiciously, and though accusation laces her voice, Odette knows that she could be entirely wrong just as easily. The art dealer was quite aware of her pattern of meeting, then almost immediately forgetting, most of the people she met at those fancy parties; there was no reason to remember anyone but the most influential, after all. But that deeper, more intrinsic feeling of familiarity that had been washing over her so often was also present. It wasn’t as strong perhaps, as other times, but it frustrated her nonetheless, akin to the feeling of a word on the tip of her tongue.

Or perhaps, it’s simply an intimidation tactic. It’s not entirely unreasonable given the less savory aspects of her career. A scoff escapes the sharp line of her mouth. “Look, if someone sent you to me specifically, just spit it out. I’m not interested in games.”

Idly, he wondered what his wife would do if she knew of what his life had been like of late. Perhaps she would have been angry, perhaps she would have been amused, or perhaps she would simply not care. Hephaestus wondered which one of these he preferred.

“Indeed,” he drawled, taking a sip of his drink as she finished her own. There was something cagey about Nyx in this form, though Hephaestus would not bring it up. He had seen this already, when he’d seen Hades, and he wondered if more of his brethren knew who they were or if the majority were in the dark.

He could hardly argue with her assessment, though if he was feeling more Brantley at the moment, perhaps he would have made a comment that everyone was odd in their own way. As the woman spoke, Hephaestus lifted his glass of bourbon to his lips, savoring the taste. He had just taken a healthy sip when she made her insinuation and he immediately began choking on his drink, though he hastily attempted to cover it up with a cough. “No,” he sputtered, setting the glass down and struggling to regain his breath. “Definitely not like that.” Another breath, another blink of his eyes and he was speaking again. “I don’t come to watch my son bartend,” he felt the need to defend himself, acknowledging that it was strange to feel as if he needed to defend himself to anyone who was not Zeus. “It’s on the way home from work.” Lie. “And every parent likes to check in from time to time.” He shrugged, trying not to think of his actual children. He wondered if they had been brought back as well.

She’s not sure what it says about her that watching this gentleman stranger choke on his drink has brought her the most unadulterated joy she’s experienced in weeks if not longer. (That’s not entirely true, Odette knows exactly what it says about her.) The bartender is busy at the other end of the counter, so the art dealer doesn’t yet order another drink. Perhaps it was for the best; Odette didn’t need to be making poor decisions just yet.

“Right, sure. Whatever you say,” she indulges, lips twitching with amusement. “You’re a helicopter parent. A daddy, if you will.” Though she jokes, Odette can’t help comparing him to the other man she teased for being old. There was the obvious similarity in age, but something about the aura the two men held. She’d noticed it immediately with her bar companion. With Rob, it’d taken longer, post ill-advised kiss, to pick up on the subtle powerful energy they seemed to emanate. (And yet, neither would compare to the all-consuming force that drew her to--)

“I’m Odette, by the way,” she finally offers, peering at him steadily with a gnawing sensation in her stomach. There’s the nagging feeling in the back of her mind that she should already know the answer to the question she’s about to ask. “What’s your name?”

iii. @ncbulovs​

The art world was not one that Laurel frequented yet the name Odette Delacroix was curiously familiar to her, though she could not place exactly where she had seen it. Laurel knew nothing about art and, truly, had very little interest in learning about it. Why stroll through a gallery when she could spend her day in a park? No less beautiful, far more accessible and less pretentious. 

However she had a collection that needed to be evaluated for its worth or, depending upon the executor’s decision and the beneficiaries’ wishes, and she had been told that Odette was the best person to discuss that particular style with. 

She didn’t have the actual paintings with her, of course, but she did have a list of titles and artists along with some high quality, glossy photographs tucked into a folder in her bag.

“Ms Delacroix?” she said, extending a hand in greeting, “Laurel. We spoke on the phone.” 

As an art dealer, Odette was somewhat famous. Or rather -- she’d gained the exact level of notoriety that allowed her to remain under the radar of anyone too curious about her work. Perhaps a keener eye would have noticed how frequently the Delcroix name popped up as the beneficiaries of estates she little connection to; by no means was she femme fatale, though femme criminelle was hardly out of the realm of possibility.

Her first impression of the willowy woman who entered her office was the general disdain she felt any time she met someone so ideal. Blonde hair, a pretty smile and an aura of sunshine and flowers. It made her nose itch so much she was sure she was allergic to such people. Nonetheless, Odette stood and shook the other woman’s hand with a clipped enchantée and jerky nod towards the chair opposite in invitation.

“Explain to me again why I can’t see the pieces in person,” Odette immediately began, forgoing any other niceties with a furrowed brow and templed fingers. The itch was beginning to spread and she could feel the usual headache beginning to develop as her vision clouded and for a moment, it wasn’t simply an aura but actual flowers, pomegranate red laced in those golden locks. Odette sighed frustratedly and pushed through. “Even high-resolution images can’t capture the more nuanced aspects of the art. That’s where all the difference in value lies at the end.”