Ulysses the Gorgon

"Secondly, why do you think it's heading to my house? & how am I supposed to know if my supplies can treat something that's never been treated medically before? I studied animals, real things," Sigrid snapped. Then she huffed. "I will call the police if you continue to harass me. So I suggest you go away & take your story with you. Hurry up!"

She did not trust the person behind her door at all. She had too many questions for him, like How do you even know about this creature at all? Still...she hated the idea of a wounded animal, limping around alone & lost. Some of the pets who were still awake whimpered, not used to hearing her so angry. Sigrid cursed under her breath & made sure she had her "emergency essentials" in her bag, for whenever she found the creature. As long as it wasn't a bug or a snake, she could & would treat it.

"Scheiße [shit]--" Without warning, she flung open the door (hoping to catch the stranger by surprise if he planned to attack her) & stormed out into the night. The door to her business locked behind her & Sigrid dropped her bag, before assuming a fighting stance. She didn't know if the man was trying to trick her into lowering her guard, but she planned on finding out long before she left her workplace. If he thought he was going to rob or hurt her, he was sorely mistaken.

"Who are you?" Sigrid growled.

"Who am I?" he repeated. Her question seemed to annoy him more than her gun. He dragged a hand through his silver hair and let out a tired breath. "A man having an exceptionally irritating evening." His eyes drifted briefly toward the darkness beyond the parking lot. "I was handling my own affairs. Then I found something wounded. Then I realized that if I ignored it, people would probably die. Unfortunately, my conscience has a habit of appearing only when it is least convenient."

Ulysses's attention returned to her. "And no, I do not know where you live." There was a slight emphasis on the word live, as though the distinction mattered. "I know where your property is. The tracks crossed land registered under your name. I had a name, a property record, and a trail of blood leading in the same direction. That hardly makes me a stalker." His expression tightened. "As for why I think it is heading there, because wounded creatures seek the same things they always have. Shelter. Water. Isolation. Your creek provides all three. You said you studied real animals. Good. Then you already understand that much."

The whimpering from inside the clinic reached his ears, and for a moment his eyes shifted toward the door behind her before returning to her face. "I am not asking you to believe every word I say. Frankly, I would prefer you didn't. Trust has a way of making situations messier than they need to be."

She was still upset at how things went between them, both were heated and probably said things they didn't mean. She stormed off after what he had said to her, not even looking back once she got in her car and left. It was a shock to see him now, at her door step apologizing.

Lips pressed together as she stood there, eyes glazing over him before she finally let him inside her place. "I also want to apologize too, those I said I didn't mean it either. I was just hurt that you didn't trust me. Thanks for saying that tho."

His eyes settled on her for a moment. "Trust isn't something I give easily, but that doesn't mean you've done anything to deserve my suspicion. I want to do right by you, Margo."

She took a large breath of the cigarette as he explained and then breathed it out and away from him from the side of her lips, like a dragon exhaling the remince of a town. It was actually more of a kindness then he probably realized. If she didn't like him the cloud would have been shot right into his brooding face. "And why exactly is the embarressing? People look at me and think that I'm breakable or-" She snickered the next word. "Naive, because of how I look. Lean into it. Use it." Se shrugged as if it was the most simple solution to everything. "Plus I dont see what that has to do with being embarressed of people seeing you talking to me."

His eyes dropped briefly to her drink before returning to her face. The answer she'd given sat poorly with him, though he couldn't quite explain why. Perhaps because she'd delivered it so matter-of-factly, as if it were the weather. As if it didn't deserve outrage.

"Months," he repeated softly. "You say that like it's normal." He let out a slow breath and shook his head. "For what it's worth, I think that's a tragedy. Not because you're helpless, I don't think you are for a second, but because everyone deserves at least one person irrational enough to come looking." His expression eased into something wry. "Preferably someone willing to kick in doors and make accusations before they've gathered any evidence. The sort of person who becomes deeply inconvenient the moment you go missing." He tilted his head slightly.

"I had mistaken isolation for freedom before. Maybe you're doing the same."

"What do you mean, I can't pull this off?"

"I mean... you look like my father. Put that fake mustache back before costume department comes looking for that specific style."

The faint scent of a fragrance hung in the air between them, and while she attempted to concentrate on his words, she studied him as he now seemed broader and taller than last night against the backdrop of the beautifully adorned fireplace. Those features which had already been wickidly alluring under the moonlight were suddenly more intense: a jaw sharp enough to cut if dared to touch, and the dimple resting on his chin beckoned to be kissed. The thought caused her to blush as she suddenly realized she'd shifted her weight forward at some point, leaning in towards the man.

Quickly, she righted herself and took a proprietary step back before she scanned around the room for a distraction; an obvious, nervous, tight-lipped laugh escaped. Space was needed to think and breathe, but she found it difficult catching a softness in his eyes.

Eyes fell to the letter in his hand with the confession that he regretted nothing. The word conspirator caused her to tilt her head, as she let out a gentle, pleased sigh. Finally, able to formulate a sentence from her buzzing mind, "I assure you I've no regret either entrusting you with the secret." The words trickled from her mouth ever so slowly as she took another look around to find a pianoforte in the corner she'd initially missed. A smile bloomed across her features as she'd already begun to walk towards the well-crafted instrument, and she asked, "How delightful do you play?" Obviously, someone in the home must have.

Pulling out a bench, the scrape against the floor seemed to echo throughout the room. She looked over her shoulder and asked, "Do you mind if I play? I don't think I've ever seen one as lovely as this one." Checking pitch at first, she found it perfect. Bored by the silly songs most girls her age played to entertain suitors in parlors, she opted to play the melodically moody Sonata No. 14, Moonlight, by Beethoven. What was the point of music if it didn't elicit an emotion? Lifting her eyes from the ivories, she finally met his gaze again as she continued to play, a bit more at ease behind the pianoforte. Slowly, she was working up the nerve to ask a favor, but the temperament of the piece seemed too aggressive, so she shifted into Allegreto Symphony No. 7 as she smiled and sweetly confessed, "Sorry, he's my favorite."

It was another minute before she asked, "It might be rather early in our partnership to ask for a favor, but I need something only someone of your privilege and...eh- gender could assist in." She continued to play, bespelled by him as he proved too distracting, she found herself looking down at the keys more than usual. Finally, unfurling slightly more, "The payment for the publications has been quite lucrative, but I'm in desperate need to double my earnings, you see."

Making a conscious decision to stop playing and concentrate on the conversation, her hands fell into her lap. Eyes glossed over with emotion, her shoulders dropped before she continued, "It is my understanding that White's is a place where one could do just that, through gambling and bets. Is that correct?" Letting her eyes fall back to the piano, she gently traced a key as she almost choked on the next words, "I need to outbid my bride price before the end of the season, or else I'll be on a ship to the Americas to wed a railroad baron twice my age." It wasn't the most perfect plan, given her uncle could reject the offer, but it was all she could cling to at the moment.

Ulysses had been perfectly content to let her explore Driftmere at her own pace. Then she sat at the pianoforte and began to play. The first notes silenced whatever clever remark he had been preparing. Most young ladies played to impress a room. Sasha played because she loved it. There was a difference. The music carried through the study, settling into corners that had grown accustomed to quiet. He found himself listening more to her than to Beethoven. "A dangerous favorite," he remarked. "He has a habit of encouraging honesty."

The moment she began speaking of favors, his attention sharpened. By the time she reached the part about a railroad baron twice her age, the pleasant mood had vanished entirely. He stood in silence for a few seconds after she finished, staring into the fire as he considered everything she had told him. The thought of her being shipped across an ocean to marry some aging industrialist sat poorly with him. Much more poorly than it should have. He crossed the room and stopped beside the pianoforte. "No." The word came out firm and immediate. "You are not going to White's."

He lowered himself onto the bench beside her, leaving a respectable amount of space between them. "A young woman trying to make money in White's would attract every predator in London before the evening was over. Some would try to swindle you. Others would try to charm you. The distinction is smaller than you'd think." His mouth twitched slightly. "And before you suggest disguising yourself as a man, allow me to save you the effort. It would be discovered almost immediately."

But he probably didn't have to worry about that, after all she said she was needing him for his specific traits. Setting the cup aside, he folded his arms loosely across his chest in amusement and curiosity. "Privilege, I understand. Driftmere has saddled me with an unreasonable amount of it. My qualifications include being moderately wealthy, occasionally persuasive, and possessing the tremendous advantage of being permitted to do things society would condemn you for attempting."

He glanced down at the keys beneath her fingers. "Besides, White's is a terrible solution. Men lose fortunes there every season convincing themselves the next wager will save them. Whatever it may be- you came to the right Viscount."

His attention returned to her face. "How much?" he asked quietly. "Not the bride price. How much would it take to exceed it?" He leaned back slightly, studying her expression. A plan was already beginning to form, though he wasn't ready to voice it yet. Instead, a small smile appeared. "So tell me exactly what we're trying to defeat, Sasha. Then we'll determine whether it requires blackmail or something more creative."

The judgment came from within rather than from Uly, he merely bumped into it on the way. Weighing his words carefully, she understood the attempt to share sympathy, hoping that she might learn and benefit from his wisdom, of what was likely several lifetimes' worth of reflection. He could be generous and endearing at times, not that he'd ever want the compliment.

There was so little she could say, knowing he was right. Instead, she lifted her gaze to the mug before finally his eyes and confessed softly, "Suppose I'm lucky to only have a couple of decades worth of ghosts to carry and not several millennia." It felt easier to say than the truth: she wasn't sure how to be any other way. Though the admission that he carried so much made her heart heavy.

Chastising him for playing with Mercutio helped ease the tension. The tension of his jaw didn't go unnoticed. Playfully, her eyes rolled as she laughed until the mention of the petrifaction of their newest rommie, at which point she mocked being offended by gasping and tossing the towel she'd been using to dry dishes at him. "You will do no such thing. Besides, I've yet to turn to stone."

Silently watching him for a moment, she wondered where his mind wandered. A bit worried, she inquired about his well-being as she moved back to the sink to finish the clean up, but the moment he began talking, she turned, offering her undivided attention as she leaned back against the counter. Not the least bit surprised, he was consumed with thoughts of the shore and water until he mentioned a place, lifting a brow at the suggestion of rooting out the rot.

A low hum escaped as she caught the sway of a branch just outside the window. "It's a lovely thought, ya know," she sighed out. Before settling her attention back to him, given her audience, she slightly winced before she admitted, "Sorry, probably not incredibly helpful, but maybe feminine energy." It was the truth, present company excluded, most masculine energy felt too aggressive to allow walls to drop.

Pinked lips rubbed together as she considered what else would be helpful and could lull her in. "Also, maybe shifting away from the cool gray and white-blanced aesthetic everyone seems to embrace right now. Make things warm and inviting. Large windows to let light and the sky in. Greenery with winding vines and plants, where the scent of soil and blooms always linger," she paused and winked before teasing, "I'm sure you can work out the water bit. Just bring the outside in, ya know."

Still, something he said earlier began to dig in, and her shoulders tensed. Turning back to the sink, she began to wipe it down as she asked, "Am I stray?"

“No,” he said at last. “Not in the way I meant it.”

His eyes settled on her across the kitchen. He thought about how the woman had spent the morning delivering scones to neighbors. There was glitter on his refrigerator because of her. A borrowed lizard occupied his table because someone trusted her enough to ask for help. Everywhere she went, she left connections behind like breadcrumbs.

“A stray is someone with nowhere to belong and nobody waiting for them. Someone who keeps moving because there is nothing worth returning to.” He took another sip of coffee and nodded toward the room around them. “You seem incapable of entering a place without becoming part of it. People know your name. They trust you. They hand you responsibilities that should probably concern me more than they do.” His mouth curved slightly. “You're not a stray, Lennon. Frankly, you're a community outreach program disguised as a person.”

The joke softened the edge of the conversation, but only a little.

“I think you're asking something else.” He set the mug down and folded his arms. “If you're asking whether I think you're adrift sometimes, then yes. Everyone is. But being adrift isn't the same thing as being alone.” His attention shifted briefly to the window and the movement of the branches outside before returning to her. “I don't think you're wandering because nobody wants you. I think you're wandering because you haven't decided where you want to stay yet. Am I wrong?”