#fourrarri

     Iᴛ's ʙᴇᴇɴ some months. Honestly, he never expected to be back, and there are several things off putting the second he dips into the nightclub.

     First: he hasn't missed people. That's weird, considering how much he used to hide within the mass, how accustomed he grew to it, always being around someone, near someone, seeking out people because he didn't want to be alone. Now, the idea of being alone is foreign: an abstract idea that no longer applies to him. He has, of course, interacted with various people in the time in between; just... nothing of similar scale. Nothing as filled. The music and air are a different concern, almost enough to make him turn back immediately. Why has he come here in the first place? It's a bad idea. It's going to become messy. There's blood on his hands now (metaphorically), and if this ended aggressively —

     Well, lets hope the evacuation plan of this place would work out in such a case.

     But: there's something different. The longing to be remembered, to just talk to anyone that even knew him still (when he himself barely did) and maybe — well, maybe he's lost in the struggle between hiding from people spread all over the planet, and a vendetta only partly of his own will, and it doesn't hurt to have something akin to a friendly face.

     Akin. He's sure Lance would not be happy to see him after all this time, but that's fine, too. That would just add to the list of other debts to be repaid. It doesn't matter much anymore.

     When he exhales, he can almost see a few black dots in the lights and the thick air, but it might just be inside his mind. Leaning back against the bar. He's not going to actively seek for the other. If he's here, he'll know within seconds. If he's not, probably as well. Leaving it all up to him.

"...I'm not a slut."

The survival in his eyes took a moment to die down, remember where he was. Remember just who THIS was.

Lance. Alpha. Back down.

"Santiago said I had 'work' today anyway."

The hangover (and still remnants of drunkenness) is strong, but showing weakness in the wild only earns you death. Jason knows bettee. Jason has learned that doing what Lance asks is the path of least resistance. And possibly, reward.

Now if only he could choke down that pride sucessfully.

"What kind of 'adventure'?"

                                               &&                       Helena:  Don’t worry I have a few knives up my sleeve.                       Lance: I think you mean cards.                       Helena, pulling knives out of her sleeves: No I do not.