DARE YOU! DARE YOU!

But he wouldn’t be here at all if he weren’t delusional, so there’s that.

He wants to ask about the college plays: whether the scenery was always falling apart, whether being on a stage made her feel alive. His own stage credits are limited to rigid school productions that left his mum crying with silent laughter because, according to her, he looked like he was reading a ransom note whenever he tried to deliver his lines. He would always scowl at her for that, only to find himself years later in the exact same position as a father: other people having to shush him and Esme — almost always the youngest parents there and by far the most immature — while the two of them sat in the back row, completely losing it because one of their daughters was playing a horse and the papier-mâché head had spontaneously fallen off and rolled across the stage. "I have so many questions about the plays. What shows did you do? Or, if there are too many to name, which one was your favourite?"

I’m very patient. He could intellectualise that, reach for some unnecessarily long words to explain exactly what it makes him feel, construct an elaborate theory about restraint and devotion and the particularities of wanting someone. But the reality is much simpler: it’s hot. Nobody needs to swallow a thesaurus to admit that. Patience is one of the traits Edward finds the most attractive, despite possessing absolutely none of it himself. But for Sophia, he knows he’d be patient. In guitar lessons, certainly, but beyond that too. He knows he could wait for anything. The fact that he hasn’t thrown himself across the sofa to kiss her like a teenager tonight is, in his mind, proof of restraint in action. She doesn’t need to know that he often dreams of the opposite — of her patience finally running out. Of Sophia, flushed and flustered, pulling him into empty rooms at Horizons, or down onto the sofa he now knows the colour of, already certain his future fantasies will adjust accordingly, filling in the new details her apartment has revealed. "I've been to Susan's house and lived to tell the tale. I deserve a medal, truly."

Another opportunity to kiss her presents itself when she sets down the new blanket. Another opportunity that Edward already knows himself well enough to know he won’t seize. All he wants is to pull her down next to him, to nudge his nose against her cheek, to sleepily kiss her face — her forehead, the corner of her jaw, the tip of her nose. To fall asleep with his head on her shoulder or in her lap, feeling her nails scratch softly across his scalp, her fingers carding through his hair until sleep swallows him. It feels as though Sophia's read his mind. At first, he thinks he’s imagining it: the hand brushing his hair away from his face. He leans into the touch instinctively, eyes closing briefly, a small, shaky sigh escaping. Turning his head to nudge against her palm like Clíodhna, fighting the urge to press a kiss there. But she’s gone too soon. Her hand disappears, pulled back as though he’s a hot stove. Edward wants to tell her not to apologise, that all he wants to do is melt into her touch, that all the tension in his body drained the moment her fingers found his hair. He wants to tell her that she has no idea how much she’s given him in such a small gesture, that she's been so gentle with him he feels like he could cry.

Exhaustion makes him braver, but not that brave. He says none of it.

"Thank you. For letting me stay." Quiet and reverent. The Ghost and Mrs. Muir. The reference catches up with him belatedly, a flicker of excitement crossing his tired face as he realises he understands it. He’s too afraid to acknowledge the obvious parallels between the film and his relationship with Sophia, just as he refuses to admit that his own favourite film, Roman Holiday, is currently unfolding in her apartment. "I was in love with Gene Tierney as a kid." It ages him, he thinks, that he grew up falling for the likes of Gene Tierney and Eartha Kitt rather than existing in this strange, modern world full of technology he doesn’t understand and people he definitely doesn’t understand. God knows what the millennium will bring. The machines will probably take over.

Usually, he loves like a timid cat: slowly inching his way closer to people he likes, testing whether it’s safe, always ready to lurch back the moment things move too quickly. But with Sophia, everything's moved far too fast — a headrush if ever there was one — and somehow, he’s still here, wanting more. He catches her hand gently before she can leave, thumb brushing once over her knuckles. "Stay with me?" A second brush, almost absent-mindedly hopeful. "Just until I fall asleep?" If she agrees, he already knows he’ll fight like hell to keep his eyes open, that her face will swim in and out of focus until sleep has the audacity to pull them apart.

He's fighting his own best interest at this point. She knows it by the gravel in his voice as he speaks. "Oh man..." She sighs out, rubbing her face as she tries to recall the other less notable plays. "I played Maureen in RENT! my last semester, one of the first plays I was one of the street girls in Little Shop of Horrors, and then I was Susanna Walcott in The Crucible." A time she'd rather not relive, the irony not being lost on her at all. "I think RENT! was my all-time favorite; it was just a lot of fun, and the students I worked with became great friends. Or the very first show I was in the company for Les Mis, which was a lot of fun." She smiles a bit at the memory of paint-stained overalls that still hang in her closet, late nights spent trying to rig together stairs in their janky theater, the after-hours cool down where they realized they were doing something worthwhile in Nowhere, West Virginia.

"Oh my goooood! That's crazy!" She all but squeals again, smile breaking wide across her face. "Does she have a thousand cats? She strikes me as the type." More gossip about Susan, her favorite pastime truly. Their colleague seemed to evade her even though they spoke often, which made it easy to craft an image of her. Likewise, Susan had a habit of crafting her own rumors about what Sophia and Edward got up to when they were alone. It was probably the greatest thing they had in common: the wild imagination of what Sophia would do with Edward behind closed doors, away from where they could be heard or seen. She's been confronted about the possibility of hushed noises coming from offices, empty rooms, or the basement, all of which she dispels because they simply aren't true— though they make her imagination wander further in the long hours of the afternoons she's alone.

Gentleness is a trait that wasn't learned; it was inherent. A gift of patience, tenderness, and a heart that was molded of clay and never hardened quite enough for this world. Caring for others, wanting them and enabling them to feel important and seen, comes naturally; it's a desire and burden she happily hoists on her shoulders. "Of course... Anytime." A breathlessly hopeful statement she'd happily take the consequences for. There would be a price to pay for his company, even if nothing happened; he had someone waiting at home for him. The admission of having a crush on Mrs. Muir has her chuckling, their differences in celebrity crushes both apparent and similar.

she lowers herself into the chair with the quiet dignity of someone determined not to acknowledge the condition of it at all. she’s likely failed at exuding such posturing. despite her upbringing and then clawing her way to success had seemingly separated the two contradictions. she was no longer the ballet protege taking scum filled buses to practice, nor was she the frequetner of the local dive bars in town. with edward gone, she must look like a trout of water, floundering and clinging to the closest and prettiest girl in the room. but that was always her imo, aligning herself with that which she desired or desired to be. 

"how extraordinary," she observes, the corner of her mouth threatening the smallest smile. "we've discussed purpose, children, and the inevitability of loss before either of us thought to exchange names." a beat. "either we're remarkably trusting..." her gaze lifts toward sophia. "...or remarkably poor at introductions."

the conclusions she’s drawn on her account would defer to how utterly disarming the young woman was. even as they steal their own table, she can’t stop wondering just how much closer she wanted to be to this person. how they make her feel like she’s the only person in the room, and how she finds their vitality refreshing. sophia is by far the most intriguing person in the establishment.

"nari." nothing more. no surname. no explanation. no handshake. nari. simply offered as though it were sufficient. it usually was. 

the evening settles comfortably around them now, the noise of karaoke reduced to little more than distant laughter carrying on. for the first time all night, silence feels less like something to fill than something to share. these were her most treasured moments with others, sharing quality time trumped all other love languages in her book.  

"as for being a night owl..." she considers the question for a moment. "i've never been especially attached to sleeping."

there is the faintest trace of amusement in the admission. "there were years when it felt rather indulgent." her attention drifts briefly toward the passing traffic. "poverty has an unfortunate habit of convincing people that exhaustion is a personality trait. afterwards..." a small shrug. "habits become surprisingly difficult to negotiate."

she turns back toward sophia. "these days i simply enjoy the evening." another pause. "people become considerably more honest after midnight. or at the very least, less disciplined." her gaze lingers just long enough to soften the observation. "though i suspect you've already noticed that."

the smile that follows is quieter than the ones before. "i'm pleased to have met you tonight." it is perhaps the closest thing to an outright compliment nari has offered all evening. “i had been dreading this appearance for the longest time, and was told by a couple of my husband’s associates that it would a place to survey more art.” she couldn’t deny karaoke an art, it did after all involve a stage.

"most conversations at events like these end after someone mentions the weather." a thoughtful tilt of her head. "this one improved considerably."

she rests her cheek on her hand, her gaze tracing the fiery tresses that frame sophia’s beautiful face. 

Nose crinkles and dimples deepen this time with amusement rather than disdain, as they assume a relaxed posture and get comfortable in their new environment. Not completely silent, but enough that the ringing inside her ears was already starting to quiet and the need to yell was wavering. It does, in the quiet space, make it even easier to be enthralled in Nari's voice.

Nari.

She knows nothing of the origin but somehow she knows it's fitting for the woman that sits before her. Solnyshko. It pops into her head, the endearment ringing with her father's voice from a sunny day in the holler. Dark appearances do not deter the fact that the pet name is also fitting for Nari.

"Well, Nari, I like to think our conversation had just surpassed the need to introduce... A recognized calm." She offers up the explanation, though truthfully, she just hadn't expected to be so excited to speak with someone that night. She'd been taken by surprise.

A hum of acknowledgment as she answers her question, a soft grin quirking up at the corners of her lips.

Poverty. She knows all too well that the night is for those who only get to experience the decadence of life from behind the looking glass. "I get that. Think it's why I've never really felt the need to give up a night shift." She muses softly, though recently she's considered it more and more. The night provided an escape, a type of silence that only the cloak of the moon could provide. But there was a danger in the darkness, and she could no longer deny that.

"Yes, it's very noticeable. In this scenario, alcohol seems to help, but the lack of sleep and the need for sleep are also great catalysts for lowering inhibitions." It's more a jab at herself and her own inability to remain a mystery, every emotion worn on her face, every thought expressed with reckless abandon. Sophia could never be a secret.

As such, a blush paints itself across her nose, cheeks, and down her neck. I'm pleased to have met you tonight. The recognition, the admission that brings a sense of validation— approval, even. It's not something that she realized she'd been wanting, certainly not what she'd set out to find. But it comes and it stains her skin the color of her hair all the same.

A smile follows, eyes dropping to her fingers as she cools herself, sucking in her bottom lip before looking up again. "I'm pleased to have met you too... You are just...." A slow shake of the had, alcohol soaked synapses unable to find a word fitting for the force in front of her. "Sensational."

A husband. A lucky man in Sophia's eyes, a smart one to marry someone as striking as Nari. The quiet doesn't linger long, and she clears her throat, nodding at the further explanation for Nari's appearance in the bar that led them to this moment. "Oh wow, were you looking for musical talent then or more of the physical artists? Fellow dancers?" She asks, shaking her head at the questions of her own business in the city of lights.

"Oh, I've only been here a few years; I came out for grad school. It's kind of lost its shine since grad school ended, but it's still a fun place. Haven't put much thought into where else I'd go." She admits, watching a drunk girl stumble and be caught by her friend, chuckling a bit before returning her gaze.

In the end, he looks away from the phone, thoroughly ashamed of himself. Gaze dropping to his hands, thumb brushing over his wedding ring as if the familiar weight of it might somehow recentre him.

He imagines Sophia must hear she’s beautiful ad nauseam. He prefers to pretend he’s above noticing things like beauty, intellectualising attraction as if it’s something he can shut off, but beneath everything, he’s always been captivated by women. He regularly finds himself gazing at Nari, unable to comprehend how someone could be so beautiful, literally married to her yet often still as bashful around her as a lovesick teenager asking someone to a school dance. And Sophia’s beauty is undeniable: hair like late autumn leaves that he can’t stop thinking about getting his hands tangled in, lips he wants to brush the pad of his thumb over; the same lips he keeps trying not to look at, although he doesn’t even need to anymore. He’s memorised her mouth, dreamed of it so often that reminders are unnecessary. "I didn’t mean that. When I said it was just about your voice. I lied." The confession comes out hurriedly, like he’s a child admitting to colouring on the walls — not because they’re noble enough to confess, but because they know their parents are about to notice their crayon-stained hands and think they’ll get in less trouble for admitting it outright. "I was trying to say that you’re beautiful. Just in general. Your hair. Your smile. How kind you are. People must tell you that all the time." But I mean it more than they do. The thought is so pathetically petulant for a grown man that he’s quietly horrified it entered his mind at all.

Smoke on the Water gets filed away. A choir implies a church, although he supposes there are non-denominational choirs. He wants to ask for clarification, unsure if it’s an overstep. "Choir, as in a church choir?" The thought of being taught how to play the guitar by Sophia prompts the same strange combination of warmth and dread as so many things about their relationship. Like the self-defence lesson, Edward knows the reality would be excruciating: her hands showing him what to do, resting over his as she guides them both over the strings. On a positive note, it would be an excuse to study her hands under the guise of an education. But he’s never needed an excuse to study them, has he? "We have a piano." It's offered quietly. We. Nari. In his home. Their home. He's acutely aware that the most predictable thing a man in his position could do is have an affair, and remains frustrated with himself for pursuing this, yet also unable to step off the carousel of clichés. Because it’s Sophia, and that, Edward's learning, is always a good enough reason. But it’s also a reminder that there is a we. That Nari’s hands have also been studied by him; that they were one of the first things that made him realise he was falling in love with her, unable to understand why he couldn’t tear his gaze away, too frightened and too stupid to accept the obvious explanation. "But I would love to learn how to play. I can’t promise I won’t make you regret offering, though. I’m pretty clumsy with stuff like that."

Not for a while. Maybe one day. He has a terrible track record with social cues, but even Edward recognises a closed door when he sees one. Not slammed; just closed for now. So he doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask why not, or what it would feel like to return home if she did. I would join you in that rant, so it is probably best saved for another night. "Another night, then." Another dream, perhaps. A safer one than most: ranting together. God, he’ll really have to find a way to curb the swearing, though. He can’t think of a single political rant he’s ever gone on that hasn’t mostly consisted of cursing. Back in Ireland, his mother always said he would’ve made an excellent politician if he wasn’t so enamoured with the word fuck. Unfortunately, everyone knew that if he ever made it into Leinster House, he’d spend his entire career being removed from debates for swearing at his peers.

He’s seen where Susan lives, having helped her home once when her car broke down. He doesn’t want to describe it as a lair, but... if the shoe fits. She’d been strangely excited about him being there, all giggles and hair twirling, which he's never tried to examine. Sophia offers threads and Edward wants to pull them. Susan offers the same, and he debates the merits of walking into the desert and never returning. "I bet she’s awake right now, listening. Her house is very odd. I’ve only been there once, but it’s definitely haunted. Although perhaps it’s just haunted by Susan herself." A sheepish pause. "I feel mean sometimes when I speak about her like this, but then she goes and says something ridiculous and my conscience is washed clean." It’s all in jest anyway, and Susan seems to enjoy arguing with him, telling Edward he’s going to hell with the kind of smirk that suggests she’d quite like to join him there. "But God, I love Crime and Punishment." Of course he bloody does. The most predictable thing possible: being a Russian literature fanboy. But there are so many books he cannot be remotely normal about; once he starts, he’ll go on and on and on. Sometimes Clíodhna is the only one he can convince to listen. She’ll meow throughout his one-man literary debates, and he’ll nod at her each time, taking it as agreement. Exactly, Clio. "And, oh, please do that. We need to make it ridiculous. Tell her my dad only speaks in riddles and ran away with the circus. I told her he worked for a circus once, but I don’t think she believed me. I mean, I did also tell her he stitched the Bayeux Tapestry and painted the Sistine Chapel ceiling during the same conversation. How Susan hasn’t murdered me yet remains one of life’s mysteries."

Before he’d lurched back, he’d seen Sophia’s eyes closer than ever before: little flecks of colour he hadn’t known existed until tonight. Soft lashes. His list of reasons for being doomed hardly requires any additions, but he makes the revision anyway. He knows he should’ve kissed her; the perfect moment had presented itself, and he’d squandered it. When Sophia stands, he silently wills her not to leave. His hand moves from his knee as if to reach for her arm, to gently pull her back, but he loses courage almost as soon as he lifts it and his fingers curl uselessly around the empty air.

Can I get you anything else to be comfortable? As pitiful as it sounds, all he wants is her. To rest his head on her shoulder and fall asleep. To allow himself to be that bold, even for a moment. But he can’t say it, so instead: "No, I’m okay, but thank you, Sophia." The tea-stained socks are still damp and uncomfortable — a sensory hell — but somehow the thought of being barefoot in her apartment feels worse. Too intimate. Too vulnerable. So Edward resigns himself to enduring it. His shoes seem to have taken the worst of the spillage, at least. Besides, he’s struggling to keep his eyes open, frustrated with himself that all his body seems to want is to give in, to slump forward, when there's still so much he'd like to ask Sophia. He tries to form another question, but he’s so exhausted that the words come out unintelligible, leaving him laughing softly at himself and covering his face. "Oh my God. Sorry. That was meant to be, ‘What’s your favourite film?'"

But that would be a lie. Her attraction runs deeper than that.

It's why when he calls her beautiful, she can look past the ring and blush. Deep brown eyes, now half lidded with her own need for sleep, gaze at him. Kiss him. Just kiss him. He looks so soft in this light, a face deserving to be cradled in between her palms, messy hair made wilder as her fingers navigate through them, pushing the locks out of his face, pulling the truth and answers along with the strands as they fall from between her fingers. A slow nod at the confession. "I... I could've guessed." Softly spoken, the same butterflies fluttering around deep in her core. "But, uhm, thank you... I—" She stops the thought, stalling it. She should let him sleep. Should cut this now. Should walk into her room, close the door and go to bed. "I want you to find me beautiful. I'm glad you do." Her heart is hammering against her ribs, she feels it all the way into her lungs through her stomach.

Another nod. "Yeah, yeah, I was part of my church and school choir. Church until I was nineteen and then school from, like... God..." She laughs, thinking of how long ago it was. "Sixth grade until I graduated and then I did some college play stuff but only for a year." She waves off the experience, having played Maureen from RENT! and then a few smaller roles throughout the season. It was an experience but she much preferred focusing on her program classes in the end. Eyebrows raise, excitement over the idea of him sitting at a piano, keys under his fingers even if they were just clanging along and laughing. She's sure he's entertained his wife the same way, it may be why he didn't learn, but it's an act of affection that warms her.

Even if it's another woman in the picture.

"I'd be happy to make an attempt to teach; I'm very patient." She notes with a final nod and a smile, happy to put herself into a new picture. A picture that includes healthy debates, banter, late-night talks on current politics and the ever-changing world around them as they enter the new millennium. Those dreams are tabled with the news that Edward has been to Susan's home. A privilege Sophia herself hasn't even been given, and they're in a book club together. Hand covers her mouth, what's basically a shriek of excitement being muffled. "I'm sorry, I'm just so taken aback that you've actually been to her house!" A quiet exclamation, hanging on the fact that he knows how elusive their colleague lives. She has her own few choices on his adoration of Crime and Punishment, as well as enjoying other Russian lit. Sophia has already admitted her lack of education on such topics; however, she knows enough from her brothers to realize it's all depressing and thorough in the romantics of suffering.

She needs to get out of there. Safely under the blankets of her bed and away from the temptation that is sure to damn her further. The energy from him is drawing her back, and she actively ignores it, unable to allow herself to imagine what isn't there with him. If he'd wanted to kiss her he would've by now right? He would've taken advantage of those moments? Then again, she could've as well. Would it be worse to be rebuffed than to commit adultery? Would it be worse to bring those eyes closer to her, hold his gaze and press her lips to his, eyelashes fluttering against her cheek during a long embrace? Or is it worse to suffer in silence? Maintain their dignity and innocence?

A fresh blanket is folded in her arms, smile softening as she takes him in. Exhausted. Sleepy. Still fighting sleep like a child that's been told they can stay up past their bedtime as a reward. The babble that comes from him elicits a laugh, soft, quiet; she pads over to him across the carpet that now needs to be cleaned. Carefully, she sets the new blanket down, grabbing one of the pillows from the end of the couch and tucking it into the space on Edward's opposite side. "Here, go ahead and rest." A gentle encouragement as she unfolds the blanket for him.

He watches Sophia’s fingers dance over the pew, brushing the weathered grain of the wood before stopping beside him. He wills himself to hold her gaze, hand momentarily stilling in the cat's fur, mid-stroke, as he looks up, eyes soft and unguarded.

Nothin' ain't nothin' “If it ain't free,” he finishes the line for her with a small, conspiratorial smile, like they’re sharing something nobody else would understand. His gaze follows hers to the cat between them, to the gentleness with which Sophia strokes her. It's so easy to imagine it’s Clíodhna instead; that their impossible plans for Sophia to visit his home have somehow come to fruition. They could wander the grounds until the manor disappeared behind the trees and everything became quiet. He'd show her his favourite hiding places, listen to the birdsong together and try to identify each species—a game he already plays silently in his own head, though he'd always imagined it would be better shared. He’d find her a mug in one of her favourite colours. Show her the library: warm fairy lights reflected in the dark windows, towering shelves, untidy stacks of books that his housekeeper continually scolds him for leaving unshelved, and for constantly buying more. To the point where he’s started smuggling new books into the library as though they’re contraband.

He has so many questions for her; those already waiting on his original list, and countless new ones surging forward now that he’s found her here. What were you confessing? is the obvious, indecorous question, the one sitting at the forefront of his mind and the one he knows he absolutely cannot ask. Everything else feels equally enormous. Do you believe in God? What does faith mean to you? Are we living in a secular age, or are people simply finding new things to worship?

Please, don't apologize. I'm sure it isn't easy being an owner of a large business or multiple large businesses. He doesn’t know what to say, so he opts for the coward’s choice of saying nothing at first. Even if he dressed every one of his businesses up as legitimate — and conveniently ignored the minor detail of the literal money laundering — the sheer number of places he owns still feels obscene. "It’s the paperwork, mostly. It’s like, if I blink, it multiplies. Horizons generates mountains of it, and the previous Vitelli administration were..." He almost swears; almost says fucking abysmal. Only now does he realise how tightly he reins himself in around Sophia, diluting the colourful Irish vocabulary and only ever speaking like a gentleman. Another deception, he supposes, like refusing to smoke around her, as though she’d somehow believe he didn’t have the habit at all despite the scent lingering in his clothes; constantly trying to present the most respectable version of himself. "Well. Let’s just say that the occult practices in the basement consist primarily of me arguing with misfiled folders." He nods at the mention of Janis Joplin. "Very different, but in the best way." He wonders whether he’d enjoy it half as much if he weren’t so hopelessly smitten with Sophia. Perhaps not, but Edward suspects she could recommend circus music and he’d convince himself it was highbrow art deserving of a bloody Grammy.

The self-defence lesson. God. He’s been staring down the inevitability of it in the same way he imagines most people would reserve for staring down the date of their own execution. Not seeing it through would be worse, though; he'd never forgive himself if he backed out of helping Sophia. Unfortunately, actually imagining the lesson is agonising no matter which way he tries to spin it. Furniture pushed aside to make room, his shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, suit jacket and tie abandoned over her marigold sofa. The lesson beginning earnestly enough before inevitably collapsing beneath the weight of its own distractions. Explaining wrist locks to the wallpaper because looking directly at her would feel impossible. Her hair falling between them as they tumbled across the floor while he demonstrated how to break free from a hold; how he’d need to keep his legs locked around her waist, wrestle with her arms, try to pin her wrists down. It would be easier if he could make it ridiculous, like slapstick theatre. Something almost childlike about two people their age play-fighting in the middle of her living room. But he knows it wouldn't be like that: it'd be tension-soaked and impossible. How is he meant to survive it? He supposes he'll just have to imagine he's wrestling with Susan instead. "Oh. Definitely. I’ve been thinking about the lesson, trying to remember everything I know. I haven't taught anyone in a while, but I want to get it right for you. It's important."

He’s genuinely stunned into silence when she thanks him, his brain short-circuiting. He did something nice for someone... and they’re thanking him for it? Dealing with criminals on a daily basis means Edward's life is full of people who are openly hostile towards him — not that he’s innocent either, always willing to spit venom straight back at them. But Sophia’s consistent kindness keeps breaking something fundamental about his understanding of people. He has to consult the imaginary societal handbook in his head, trying to imitate what he imagines a normal person would say. "You’re welcome. It was nice to see the city at night. Usually I’m at home, so..." His voice trails off awkwardly; apparently even the cat finds his conversational skills unbearable, because she hops down from the pew with a dismissive flick of her tail, weaving between the benches before disappearing further into the church. "Well, that’s rude. She didn’t even say goodbye." He laughs quietly, despite the fact that without her wedged between them, the empty space feels dangerous.

"Do you come here often? I’m surprised we’ve never crossed paths before."

He looks different in this light. Maybe it's just the setting giving them both peace of mind; maybe it's the low lighting; maybe it's her own exuberance from feeling temporarily relieved of her guilt.

If it ain't free. Mouth twists off to the side, trying to suppress a laugh but it comes out softly, yet somehow still echoing off the empty church walls. It reminds her these walls are meant to amplify voices. Not just that of the pastor tending to his flock, but the choir as they praised, the members as they spoke, discussed, and prayed along. The dome shape having abandoned traditional structures of blocked churches. She'd heard once it was to allow sound to travel; it allowed more airflow long before windows had glass and were just small cuts in the stone. Sophia wonders for a moment if thoughts can also be amplified in the space. If the low lighting and the evening sunbeams from the stained-glass panes installed over time were all ways to lower inhibitions. Make them feel free to be honest with themselves. With Christ.

She wonders then, if he's having the same image projected of them sitting in his library together on an evening, cat between them, book passages being read aloud.

Self-restraint is a low-tier way of describing what it takes not to ask him if that's what he's thinking. Have you ever been in a confession? Did you grow up religious? What's your favorite passage if so? When did you stop believing in God, and what was the final straw? They're all piling up faster than she can categorize them by level of conversational appropriateness. There is an easier task to focus on: the one of him staying at her apartment and his subsequent leaving without saying goodbye. Without waking her for morning coffee and sharing it while the sun rose. Without conversation or making eye contact at work the next day. In his stance, there must be some level of embarrassment about being around her, potentially being seen with her. Class wasn't something that she thought of, but the recollection of his own stance on classicism and what it did to him makes her question how much was internalized and thus projected to the world around him. If it colored the lens of his daily life and adjusted his social sphere accordingly. Sophia chuckles at the description of the paperwork; she'd be the first to believe it would take an act of witchcraft to get it in order. "Ah yes, well, if it isn't the filing system, it's the fax machine screaming so your occultists keep you quite busy, I'm sure." She smiles, wanting to nudge him, a playful gesture and test of how far she can push affection.

Different in the best way. Like him.

"Where did you learn to fight?" There's an assumption he learned from scrapping around with other boys in the alley of his hometown. Adolescent turned teenage antics in an effort to survive the world changing around them, the brutality of reality that they were not meant for what had been built in place of crumbling buildings and false prophets. These images are certainly to distract from the ones that have her gazing off during the late afternoon huddle. Twirling hair around her finger or pencil, absently tapping against her notes while she continues to put off charting in favor of thinking of his weight pressed against her. So close she can bury herself in the crook of his neck or feel his breath humming around her. Legs straddling his hips as she stretched over him, or his arm wrapped around her waist, holding her in place. It's important. He's right. But it's important in more ways than the intended reference, and she hopes the close encounter will be enough to end her fantasies. To have just enough of a taste to satisfy curiosity, she will no longer have to daydream. Though Sophia is old enough and wise enough to know that will most certainly not be enough for her. It won't be enough until she knows his skin biblically, until every question has an answer two times over, until she's seen the library and understood his past. Only then would she be satisfied.

Their continued conversation was apparently too much for Cat. Irksome or interrupting her peace, she disappears into the church. "She's a lady that knows what she's about, I suppose." Sophia snorts, watching her disappear, hand falling to the space she'd once occupied, only to find Edwards' hand beneath her fingers. It burns. It's like being stung, yet she can't pull away; a shock of water so cold on the plunge, all you can do is stiffen. "Uhm," cautiously, her hand moves to the side, sliding across the bench to safety, not recoiling, not hurried, but not wanting to push him away. "No, I just started coming here... Usually after work since I work weekends, but I really like the pastors." She nods, offering a smile.

he sees the young woman's reaction to what she saw. it was far to predictable how she'd react. not everyone is made to see the things that he has to see. hell, the life of a hunter is hardly what constantine wants for himself. he should feel a little symphony for her, but instead he feels a bit of annoyance. he's totally used to it by now for. having been in her position when he first started. yet, all constantine wants to do is leave her alone and go on about his night. but he can't do that. she's seen too much and he needs to make sure she understands what she saw. she seems the age of his daughter. perhaps he can train her like them.

knowing that plunging a stake into the heart isn't enough, constantine takes out lighter fluid and a match from his hunting back pack. he pours the fluid over the corpse. like a routine he somehow came up with for himself, constantine takes out a cigarette from his pocket. he strikes the match against the match box and lights his cigarette. he takes a long drag of it before he tossing the lit match onto the body of the vampire. his eyes hold the glow of the fire before him as he stands watching the body burn. the last thing he needs is the vampire deciding to suddenly come back. even though he knew it was impossible, he couldn't take a risk.

the cigarette still hanging from his mouth, constantine finally turns around to look at the young woman. "you done?" he asks, still keeping his distance from her; not wanting her to run away when all he wanted to do was talk. "i mean..." he clears his throat, trying to remember the times his girls told him to be patient. which was very hard for him to do. instead he takes three breaths and counts to four before moving slowly towards her. "are you alright? is this your first time seeing a vampire?"

Always told to run. Always on the run. It's her first instinct; often the rabbit, never the wolf. It's only how it's always been. Truthfully, what would she even do with fangs and glowing eyes?

Nose wrinkles up at the smell of the now burning carcass; she wants to cry. So she does. Frozen in place, knees threatening to buckle she wants to scream but nothing comes out. Instead, all she can do is brace herself against the wall and heave up what's left. Tears mix with the sweat and snot that are on her face, and all she can do is nod at his questions at first.

It's taking a moment for everything to register. Vampire? Vampire. A vampire. She'd heard the same nonsense from patients at the hospital and while she knew it was their reality, she also knew that wasn't real. It wasn't reality. How was she going to help this man and how was she going to plead on his behalf when he's charged with murder? How many other people had he done this to?

"I'm okay!" She calls, wiping her mouth and nose with her sleeves, trying to steady her breathing. Ruddy cheeks and nose, eyes stinging from the smell and the bile that threatens to erupt once again. "I'm okay just... just stay right there." Hand rises in the indication, trying to will her legs to move but they stay in place, the other arm going back to bracing herself against the brick.

They didn't know he was doing this, and he figured they wouldn't give him shit for it. He might get shit for who he'd brought, because they were jealous. And Benny liked that.

"Hmmm," he said, as he got himself a glass of whiskey from behind the counter, putting the bottle down there along with a bottle of untouched water in case she wanted to grab something. He'd pay for it later, probably.

"I don't have a usual," he admitted. "I just fuck around on the keys and see where the flow gets me. A little improv if you will. Perhaps you'd like to try and follow? We can see what we can create together." He wiggled his eyebrows as if it was an obvious innuendo. He was happy, actually. Being near the piano always made him feel better. Different, younger.

It's an intimate experience, showing a piece of yourself no one else knows of. At least, no one who knows her here. Aries knows. Her co-workers? The men she entertains that call her Nina? Her boss? God her boss. Edward enters her thoughts as Benny starts to play, humming a bit before finding a rhythm with her guitar.

Plucking at the strings, relishing in how they feel against the calluses on her fingertips, the vibration of the acoustic against her chest. It's like coming home.

"He didn't," she deadpanned, looking at the dog a last time, daring it to bark again. But it seemed to be well controlled by its owner. It was rather sad to see how an animal would admit to discomfort to please the owner.

"Good. Sometimes I worry, but he's gentle." More of a reminder to herself than a comfort for the other. He has good instincts. He knows better than she does most of the time. Right now, however, he seems almost at a loss: follow his instincts or hers.

her attention lingers upon the younger woman's face. the warmth gathering beneath her cheeks—likely owed as much to the alcohol as the crowded room. the unguarded way her eyes wander over nari, as though searching for something worthy of admiration rather than merely finding someone to speak to.

curious.

she had long since grown accustomed to occupying people's attention. respect was expected. courtesy was routine. admiration, however, was another matter entirely. it had become surprisingly rare to encounter without calculation hidden beneath it.

she finds that she does not dislike it. the realization arrives with the quiet persistence of something she had not realized she'd been missing.

conversation drifts, as it so often does, toward hyunjae.

it always does.

she has often wondered whether her son grows weary of it—the endless concern, the habitual reminders to eat properly, sleep properly, call when he arrives safely. edward had endured months of the same relentless affection with remarkable patience, though whether that patience was genuine or simply practiced remained open to interpretation.

love, she had learned, possessed an unfortunate tendency to accumulate. it asked to be expressed, regardless of whether its recipient believed they required so much of it. she has never quite discovered what one is meant to do with the excess.

before motherhood, she would have dismissed such sentiment as melodrama.

now she knows better.

"there is a possibility," she says, the faintest curve finding the corner of her mouth, "that if you have children one day, you may discover i was understating the matter entirely."

her gaze follows the description of the apartment, effortlessly assembling the picture from the scattered details.

"a balcony," she muses. "that alone would have sold me."

she imagines shelves crowded with houseplants, leaves spilling toward the light. a chair tucked into the corner. a blanket forgotten over its arm. the sort of place that invited quiet mornings with tea and a novel one promised to read only a chapter of before inevitably finishing half.

"a home should encourage lingering," the thought escapes before she has quite decided whether to keep it to herself.

at the invitation, nari allows her gaze to travel across the room.

the evening has surrendered entirely to itself. music swells louder than necessary. somewhere in the crowd, edward has disappeared with the effortless predictability of a man who could occupy an entire room while remaining impossible to locate when required. she supposes he will survive another half hour without her.

"i would like that," she says simply, already turning toward what appears to be the nearest exit. "meaningful conversation becomes increasingly difficult to find as these days"

a glance slips toward her companion, touched by quiet amusement.

This, however, is not one of those spaces.

Inhibitions dropped; there is nothing to stop her thoughts from projecting across her face, blooming across her cheeks, and deepening dimples as Nari speaks. Thoughtful. Concise. Intentional.

Then the immense loss fills her.

Being a mother had once been a dream thrust upon her along with other deemed womanly duties.

These days, Sophia doesn't want to be. a mother. She doesn't believe it's something she'd be good at, nor does she find it something that wouldn't be met with fear projected onto a child undeserving of trauma that isn't theirs. Having love and adoration to give to a child isn't enough to build them a home and to help mold them into a functional person.

Even so, she believes Nari's words, giving a slow nod of acknowledgment. There seems to be a mutual interest, a quiet, but prominent desire for a connection that has yet to be named but doesn't need one. It's a rarity, she silently agrees, to find meaning in a city where quantity over quality reigns heavy.

Sophia pushes herself off the table top, rolling out her neck and making sure she has her things before moving to lead Nari out of the crowded area. "I agree. A space should be somewhere you want to be." Thumbs hook into her belt loops, a smile back on her face.

"Oh," Nose wrinkles a bit. "I usually work evenings or nights so I"m up anyway." She explains away with a wave of her hand. She doesn't feel much like explaining where she'd come from earlier in the night.

A warm but new rush of fresh air washes over her as they step outside onto a quieter street. Partygoers mill around and disperse, flowing with the traffic of activities but being mindful enough not to block the pathway.

"Are you normally a night owl or is this a special occasion?"

It dawns on her as they find an abandoned table, probably sticky with beer and crumbs, but it was a place to take the weight off their feet, that she didn't get the other's name.

and quite honestly, galleries possessed a superfluous rhythm. paintings were rarely experienced in isolation. one carried the last into the next until eventually it all blurred and blended together. 

his work did not fit into this equation, she realizes this as her attention settles upon the second piece. 

his apology arrives before she ever thinks to demand one, not that she would. she does not answer immediately and instead, she continues studying the painting, allowing the quiet to remain exactly as it is.

comfortable.

unforced.

"you've nothing to apologize for." her voice is gentle enough that it almost disappears beneath the low murmur of the gallery.

there was a particular sort of exhaustion reserved for people forced to occupy rooms that rewarded performance over substance. she knew it well—charity galas, fundraisers, endless dinners where everyone mistook visibility for importance; entire evenings spent pretending conversation was not simply negotiation wearing better clothes. silence had acquired an unfortunate reputation in those circles. people rushed to fill it, mistaking uninterrupted conversation for connection, as though the loudest voice invariably carried the greatest depth. nari had never found that to be true. some people thought most clearly while speaking. others only began revealing themselves once they stopped. "the people most determined to impress you generally have the least interesting things to say." her gaze returns to the canvas. "i prefer those who leave enough silence for someone else to think."

how tedious.

"silence has always struck me as considerably more honest."

she studies the brushwork before speaking again, almost as though the thought belongs more to the painting than either of them.

"besides..." the smallest trace of amusement surfaces. "i promise i play remarkably well with artists." only after a thoughtful moment does she glance toward him again.

“will you tell me about the inspiration behind this one?”  

Though a key player is missing.

The squeeze of his heart is all too prominent, a physical reminder of what once was as he stops at the painting with her. It's easier to pick apart than to acknowledge, and he doesn't feel the need to explain what it is. That defeats the purpose of art.

It's meant to speak to you, to be open to interpretation even with a tangible subject. He thinks of Meeting on the Turret Stairs, St. Bartholomew's Day or Who? by a russian painter whose name he can't recall. Obvious at first, but with depth, the more you look into the details. It can be taken multiple ways: face value or more.

Elliot is not so self-righteous as to believe his art possesses such deep meaning that it holds a narrative that transcends the tragedies of recent times or is relatable to lovers in mourning, but he hopes someone, perhaps Nari, finds something in them.

A nod of appreciation, the lack of pressure to speak allowing him to once more relax and get into his own comfort zone. He assumes it also allows her to take time to observe, to study, and hopefully, enjoy.

He steps forward with light feet, head tilting as he at first only answers with a hum and a nod, formation of thought taking place as he looks upon his own work.

"It's from a memory of mine." A dark midground, texture in his strokes to show the dirt that had embellished the stone around him and the real Elliot. Two boys gaze at each other, their contrast in the foreground against the disappearing light in the window bright but fading, accented by feathered strokes. He remembers that evening clearly. The first time he'd placed his lips onto his lover's skin, the smell of metal and smoke, how Mateo fell so effortlessly from his lips in spite of the tears.

What he'd give to hear his real name from someone again.

But the boys aren't embracing. Instead, they're on opposite ends, separated by items scattered on the floor. Despite this, they're both laughing.

"It's a play on our youth, how we didn't know what was coming and, in hindsight, the day was much darker than we ever realized it would be. No white flag to save us, but there was no shortage of joy." He realizes context is missing for why they were in that situation to begin with, so he looks to Nari, a solemn smile on his face.

Because he's married. Because he's older. Because he is, in all likelihood, going to die a brutal death sooner rather than later. And Sophia is so full of life, so kind and talented, that he should be the one - if only because of their age difference alone- to stop this before it goes too far. He should be sensible, but nothing about this is remotely sensible, and refusing to surrender to an insanity that feels like a siren song is becoming too much to ask. So: "I would like that, too."

The quilt should feel inevitable; he suspects they both know how much they've been tiptoeing around the subject of calling a cab as though it’s an active minefield. Yet the reality that he will likely be staying here still manages to horrify and thrill Edward in equal measure. "Thank you. I suppose the cabs... probably won't be coming out tonight?" His driver could be there within minutes. Or, at worst, he could walk. There’s very little point in pretending otherwise, yet he still feels compelled to play along because the alternative would be admitting the truth: that he wanted this. That, from the moment he entered her apartment, he's been quietly searching for reasons not to leave. That even before then - during their walk - he'd been trying to stretch the night longer, greedily stealing every extra minute he could have with her. His voice is small, impossibly tired, when he speaks again. "Would it be terribly inconvenient if I stayed?" He'd leave, of course, if she wanted him to. But the speed with which she retrieved the blanket suggests Sophia might quite like the idea of him falling asleep on her sofa. He carefully unfolds the quilt, fingers brushing over the fabric as he smooths it down, as though even this tiny act of domesticity is something he needs to handle carefully.

Misha. A name filed away, another piece of information he's inevitably doomed to mention later and make Sophia think he’s strange. She might wonder how on earth he remembered it, why he remembered it, or both. "I didn't realise." He’s already said that before, but apparently it's the only thing his tongue-tied brain can produce. He's visibly flustered, perhaps more openly than he’s ever been around her, and Edward has no idea why the discovery that she can sing has affected him so profoundly. "But I think it’s beautiful. I think you’re beautiful." The horror arrives immediately, clearing his throat softly, as though the gesture alone might somehow undo the admission. "I meant that your voice is beautiful. Sorry. Tired brain moment." As though calling Sophia beautiful isn’t one of the most honest things he has ever said. His gaze follows her finger towards the guitar. Another question of his answered: she plays. He wonders what songs she gravitates towards. What she plays when nobody is listening. Whether she sings along. "What was the first song you learned to play?"

Do you play at all? Sing? Have any hidden inclinations towards the arts? "Oh God, no. For the sake of everyone’s ears, I don’t sing." It’s self-deprecating and objectively untrue; he can sing well enough. Not nearly as nicely as Sophia, obvioussly, but well enough to have sung old Irish lullabies or fragments of the Françoise Hardy songs his wife loved to his daughters when they couldn’t sleep. He used to sing along quietly to the radio in his office without even realising, before silence became the default. These days, he only sings when he’s making up ridiculous songs for Clíodhna or trying to make Nari laugh, and that's different; those are performances where the entire point is to be terrible. "If I have any hidden inclinations, they’re so well hidden that even I don’t know about them." A laugh, then, more seriously: "I can play the piano. Not very well. My wife taught me." He chooses not to specify which one. The first one; the one he hasn’t told Sophia about. Her hands over his, guiding his fingers across the keys, rushing through lessons or abandoning them entirely in favour of kissing.

The Mountain State. Obviously. He rolls his eyes at his own stupidity, though the amusement remains. There ain't nothin' like it. Another new dream, apparently: getting lost in the mountains with her. "Do you ever go back to visit?" I’m sorry you felt the need to change yourself. He’d considered changing his own voice so necessary that he never stopped to consider what he was losing until it was already gone, or how it must've felt for the people around him to watch him become so ashamed of sounding like them that he reconstructed his entire vocabulary. Nowadays, it’s almost a relief when he gets so angry or upset that the East End inflections slip back through; proof that some part of it still exists. "Like books, I'm also deeply unhinged about classism, but maybe that's a topic for another time. If you're interested in sweary political rants, I'm always happy to oblige." He doesn't know why he’s trying to mine humour from it; the subject is so far from funny that it tips into something closer to grief. Deflection. Always deflection. He remains furious about politics, grateful not to be living in England while still irritating himself by keeping up with the news. But Las Vegas had only reinforced the belief that, even as part of the one percent, he will never truly be accepted anywhere. The Vitelli feud, in his mind, had always been classism in action; they could smell the struggle on him like bloodhounds. But he’s alive. And Augustu is dead. So, apparently, it pays to be poor.

Music is Sophia's wheelhouse; he's learning that now. It makes perfect sense. Her hands dancing when she talks about it, her knowledge of Janis Joplin, and, as the lingering flush on his face proves, discovering she's a singer herself; he still doesn't understand why it has unravelled him so completely, just like he doesn't understand why dimples or hearing her say his name have the same effect. Logic seldom applies to his thoughts about Sophia. Most men, Edward imagines, would have their minds wandering in one particular direction. He is no better - his thoughts have gone there too - but mostly he finds himself caught on the smaller things; the freckle on her thumb has occupied his thoughts more than any fantasy of ending up in her bed. "I liked it when you spoke about music." His gaze drops briefly to her hands. "Your hands danced. I feel like people suppress that instinct, like they try so hard to be cool when, actually, it's far more embarrassing to not care." Deeply ironic coming from one of the most emotionally repressed men in Nevada, but he means it. "Oh. It's by Dostoevsky." He pauses, considering whether another reference might land better if The Brothers Karamazov means nothing to her. "Like Crime and Punishment? White Nights? That Dostoevsky." His thoughts snag on the idea of Sophia introducing him to music, him giving her book recommendations in return. Maybe, of all the things they cannot have, that's something they can. "I think Susan would love the choice because patricide is a huge part of it." A book largely about patricide, when he killed his own father. Edward is painfully aware of the irony. "And even though I keep telling her I don't have a dad and simply fell to earth, she has informed me this is," air quotes. "not scientifically possible. She's always asking about him."

I'm glad my little corner of the city has charmed you. A pause. "It's just... maybe this is weird, but it’s the quietest my brain has been in..." He trails off, genuinely unable to quantify it. "I don't even know how long. It feels nice. Hazy." It should frighten him. The idea of his mind not constantly moving, of losing the one thing he values most. Instead, it had felt like a relief so profound he thinks he could cry. "But hazy in a good way." He wants her to see the library too. Edward searches for some half-plausible excuse, some reason that would make the invitation seem casual; he can't find one. "We could make it happen." As though he's trying to convince himself just as much as her. When her gaze drops to his lips, he immediately stares down at his hands. What does she want? Is it a workplace fantasy? Just something exciting and temporary? Or does she want to kiss him because she wants to keep kissing him? The thought of Sophia imagining any kind of future with him fills Edward with a strange combination of warmth and dread.

Dog behaviour remains a mystery, even after the explanation. Edward holds Zoinks' damp blanket as though he's defusing a bomb, carefully moving it away from himself, unwilling to seem ungrateful. He's too busy processing Sophia moving closer - combined with the dangerous hope born from her staring at his lips that she might actually kiss him - to predict what's about to happen until it already has. The teacups slip, tea spilling everywhere. "Oh, no, it's okay, I - " Sophia's so close, kneeling down as she does in dreams that leave him avoiding eye contact with her at Horizons for days afterwards. All he can do is stare at the crown of her head. "I should've seen that coming and warned you. Let me help." He immediately reaches for the blanket, using it to soak up the spilled tea, figuring it will need to be washed anyway and ignoring his shoes entirely. Sophia's floor is the priority; only afterwards does his attention drift down to his feet. He'd wanted to offer to remove his shoes when he first arrived out of politeness, but had been too distracted to remember. Leaning forward automatically to undo the laces, his head bumps softly against hers, his hair brushing her forehead before he moves back as though burned. "Oh. Sorry, I just - it's okay, I'll just..." Too flustered to lean in again, he awkwardly uses one foot to prise off the other shoe, then repeats the process until they're both discarded, deciding the tea-soaked socks can wait until she's moved away. The last thing he wants is for her to feel embarrassed; that has, somehow, become the most important thing in the world. "It's okay, honestly. I'm okay." It's punctuated with a weak, apologetic smile. "I've heard tea-stained socks are very en vogue right now."

Head shakes slowly at his statement about the cabs. They both know the city never sleeps, and so neither do the transport services, but much like the daydreams of traveling and a life away from here, he seems to choose the same ideal: playing dumb. I'd love it if you stayed. I have plenty of room in my bed. You're always welcome here. Instead, "No, not at all an inconvenience."

Her spine straightens a bit. He thinks she's beautiful. She knows she's beautiful, but it's different when someone you want says it. It reinforces what she'd long known, but both had chosen to keep a secret. Her heart all but stops, cheeks flush, and all she can do is laugh a little bit. Nerves, playing it off for his sake, or the inability to do what she wants to do following the compliment, she isn't sure, but she laughs softly all the same. Looking at him through her own lashes now, the blush all too honest about her feelings for her to look up again, she chooses to drop her gaze and follow the patterns on the quilt, picking at a loose thread. "I-I-I," A nod while she gathers her words. "I got what you meant... Thank you."

Finally, she looks up again, lips pressing into a thin line as she gazes off to the side and thinks. "God... I think it was probably some choir song? We played a lot of more religious songs, but when I was older, I taught myself Smoke On The Water." Her boyfriend at the time was a Deep Purple fan so she learned it in an attempt to impress him further. An act of teenage love. She smiles as he speaks of his own musical experience, or lack thereof, finding it so romantic to have a loved one teach you a new language, one that doesn't require speaking. "Piano is hard, but if you ever want to learn more, I'd be happy to teach you some easy songs on guitar. I don't have a piano, unfortunately. It would clash with the hardwood." As if the clash was the bigger factor, not the entire lack of space.

"Not for a while. Maybe one day." There's nothing left for her to say about her birthplace, and she doesn't feel much like elaborating right now. It does, however, seem they have that much in common: classism. She knows a thing or two about lost opportunities or outright being denied because of where she came from or what she lacked in financial security. Her place on the proverbial totem pole solidified before she'd even known it existed. "I would join you in that rant, so it is probably best saved for another night." She chuckled, eyebrows raising a bit at some of the memories. The key difference is that despite all she ran from, she remained rooted in the bones that built her. The bloodied knuckles of her father in the mines, the scars on both of her parents' feet as they fled a country that had every intention of dragging them down- she proudly stands with her head held high of where she came from; accent and all.

There's a silence she can't quite place that settles over them. The compliment about her hands, coming from his mouth, punctuated by his gaze falling on her fingers and his ruddy cheeks. She isn't sure what to say. To her, it's the thing that they also both seem to have in common; there's little desire to be anything less than authentic. Are there things about herself she's yet to tell him? Of course, on the flipside, she's sure there are truths he's omitted for the sake of privacy, for the sake of preservation where trust has yet to be built. But when he speaks of her hands and the honesty they deliver, it's a level of observation that has only been expressed by close friends she no longer sees. There is a breath stuck in her lungs, begging to be exhaled and let fresh oxygen fill the space, but she has yet to figure out how to do so without it seeming like she's gasping. Like she wasn't just thinking about tossing the quilts aside and giving to him what every man she'd ever met tried so hard to obtain. Like being seen was enough to both suffocate and revive her.

"Somewhere in Vegas, Susan knows you're giving all sorts of great psychological information, and she's pissed she's not here to hear it." It comes out breathy, strained, but she's finally able to breathe. To swallow down the dryness in her throat. "But I do know Crime and Punishment; I had to read most of it for one of my psych classes in undergrad. It is not helping your case against Susan at all." She laughs, mostly teasing him but also now very much curious as to what the fuck has gone on in Edwards' life. Dostoevsky was one of his favorite authors. "I'm going to tell her I met your dad just to see what happens. She'll probably combust."

Hazy in a good way. We could make it happen. It's an interesting exploration of what trauma will do to a brain that is finally able to relax. To a body that does not have to fight. But Edward is not her experiment. He's not a patient. He's someone she cares for, and she doesn't want to betray his trust in her by asking therapeutic questions. Even though she wants to know him inside and out. She doesn't need a degree, nor the spoken words, to know he has faced unspeakable moments in life. It's evident in the way he carries himself, and in the bits of his life she's been honored to be told about. Whether it's from surviving the war, parental issues, or some life-altering event, a combination of them all, Sophia hopes he'll tell her one day. For now, there's a sense of duty to him. A sense that if she cannot be his, she can give him a space to feel safe. To feel free.

She wants to utterly ruin the moment and give in. "I would like that as well... Very much so." Self-restraint is a virtue.

It doesn't take long for her to be on her knees in front of him, not the way she'd hoped to be, and too focused on the social faux pas to realize his lack of eye contact is giving away his own fantasies. "Tired brain." She laughs off, looking up to say something, hopefully something witty, only to realize their faces are barely inches apart, close enough she can smell his cologne and the smoke with tea on his breath and his voice in her ear. He's right there. Is he making the first move? The hope diffuses when he snatches himself back, quilts in hand, one shoe unlaced.

Composure. Regain your composure. Slowly, she lets out a shaky breath, picking the cup up and moving it back to the coffee table, debating if her legs are strong enough to stand or if she'd make like Bambi the moment she tried. A hard swallow, she finally tries, unable to stop the short laugh at his quip. "Look out, Naomi Campbell, fashion is actually in Vegas." She teases in return, the urgent need to get away from the situation overwhelming. She finally leans over, grabs the now empty cups and takes them to the kitchen.

Even now, he struggles to reconcile the internal jolt of hearing his name in Sophia’s mouth. Like an ice bath. Like a heatwave. Like a wound. Like a salve. "Of course you can. It’s nice to see you." A ridiculous understatement; the words feel absurdly inadequate when his heart still hasn’t adjusted to the simple fact of her existing in the same space as him, pulse stuttering, gaze lifting only to immediately have to look away again.

I can also leave you be if you’re trying to pray.

He doesn’t pray, but he ought to. Especially considering that, before coming here, he’d signed off on two executions. There had been a time when he built a new mental grave every time someone died under his orders, tending to the cemetery in his head with a grim kind of reverence. But eventually it became overcrowded - which isn’t funny at all, but if he doesn’t stubbornly decide it is, Edward thinks he might actually cry. He doesn’t remember the names of victims anymore - self-preservation, probably - just infrequent fragments of horror that cut through the noise. Noticing wedding rings clinging to dead fingers. A note folded into someone’s pocket reminding them of the date and time of their child’s school play. Pregnancy scans tucked into wallets. A blood-stained scrap of paper with a reminder to call their mother.

But he'd like Sophia to believe the opposite: that he's a good man, an honest man, perhaps even a God-fearing man who never strays far from heaven’s light.

The irony of being inside a church at all is never lost on Edward, considering the objectively godless life he leads. Mostly, it’s his mother’s lingering influence: the impossible mindfuck of grieving the only person who was ever capable of dragging him somewhere like this. She used to regularly attend, irritating everyone else in the congregation by attempting to read their palms in the pews or casually informing people, apropos of nothing, that their handbags were haunted. The usual nonsense, superstitious to the point of absurdity, the kind of thing most people dismissed entirely. He imagines her obituary was read by the congregation with a certain amount of relief. And yet Edward still comes here of his own volition, missing her enough to seek out every place she used to annoy people in.

"Oh, no. I’m just…" He trails off. What could he say? I don’t pray sounds weirdly defensive, almost derisive, and worse, it would be untrue; he's found himself making the same desperate bargains with God as his parents did whenever he wants something badly enough. But lying, despite how much of his existence is a fabrication to Sophia, seems worse. "I'm just enjoying the company." A small nod towards his companion, purring contentedly beside him. "She’s supposed to be catching mice, but she’s decided being decorative is a better use of her time, and I support it wholeheartedly."

"How are you?" A pause. "Sorry for running out on you the other day. I wanted to stay." It had, in fact, taken a level of self-restraint he didn’t know he even possessed to drag his eyes away from Sophia sleeping. To fold the quilts neatly. To write a careful note instead of something far too honest, resisting leaving words behind that he'd regret the moment they existed outside of his head. “But I had some work matters to attend to, unfortunately." Vague. Deliberately so, as if he’d been trapped in tedious meetings, buried beneath paperwork. Which, technically, he had been, just paperwork involving murder, supply lines, drug-dealing...

He accepts that withholding crucial parts of the truth from her is the same thing as lying. Just not enough to stop doing it.

"I had a really nice time. And my Janis Joplin education has already commenced. I listened to the songs you mentioned." He doesn't know how his brain has any capacity for lyrics when it's so overcrowded, but it has quite an extensive catalogue that Sophia is now influencing. Lover, You Should've Come Over has monopolised his thoughts, dominating proceedings, but Me & Bobby McGee and Ball and Chain are now following closely behind. He loves the songs because she loves them. "Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose. I liked that line a lot."

Yes. Sophia would like that to happen; however, the cat is so tightly coiled against Edward that she does not see her giving up the warmth of his leg. If anything, the little beast could probably read Sophia's mind. Women know women; call it a cosmic connection between species. There have been studies showing the relationship between people and animals regarding emotional well-being. It's why therapy animals have become so popular in the late 90's. They can sense just as well as any trained therapist. She's sure that this means the cat could probably see the imagery of his fingers running through red locks, cool touch brushing her scalp, her jaw, her cheeks, tracing her lips, playing out in Sophia's mind on a wide screen.

So she stands there, shifting the weight on her feet, debating if it's worth going against holy advice. If it's worth the potential of damnation.

"I also support her. It's the Lord's Day somewhere, I'm sure of it. She deserves a rest." She chuckles, the cat's eyes opening briefly to observe Sophia before nuzzling closer into Edward's palm, as if teasing the redhead. She definitely knows.

She knows that Sophia is currently running through her knowledge of Dante's Inferno and wondering if it's worth the wrongs she's about to commit. Unfortunately for her soul, the more he speaks, the more his voice develops a gravitational pull, moving her towards him. Fingers glide along the back of the pew, feet feeling detached from her until she reaches him, looking down into his eyes, studying his face, before finally taking a seat.

It's sad in a way how the sound of his face made the decision of her fate for her.

She can feel the dimples in her cheeks right now, an all-consuming feeling without a name, without a reason, without a root, that burns her from the inside out. There's still a high from telling someone, from wanting to share with Edward because he would care. He would listen to her thoughts and feelings and share his own. There's not enough naivety for him to understand or share the same excitement, but there is enough for her to believe he would care simply because she does. That whatever knowledge he has about rejection and recovery would deepen their connection in one of the most daunting and holy of spaces.

"Nothin' ain't nothin'." She quotes softly, eyes dropping to their benchmate, who is now looking fully at Sophia. "Please, don't apologize. I'm sure it isn't easy being an owner of a large business or multiple large businesses." A brief pause as she holds her hand out to the cat, a peace offering accepted with a wet-nosed bump against her fingers, earning scratches to her ears and down her spine, the same purr echoing between them. "I uhm, I'm glad you're enjoying Janis. She's a very different vocalist..." A trail-off as a question pops into her head: why that line in particular called to him. Instead, she focuses on the apology, adding it to her ever-growing list. "I really enjoyed having your company... I've been looking forward to our self-defense lesson." An excuse to see him. An excuse to touch him with intention. An excuse to talk about books, an excuse to talk about music, media, the future, the past, and the present. An excuse to explore this man who has remained a specter to the majority of Vegas yet has blessed her with a backstage pass to his inner thoughts.