#salvationstarter

She needed to breathe.

That was supposed to be a fun day, a day of smiles, but Evelyn could only feel a cold shiver go through her body. And not even being near Roman made her feel safe because that feeling got inside of her and rested on her bones. And she knew she wasn't the only one feeling it. Something was off and it was impossible that she was the only one noticing it.

And they weren't on the best of days either, Roman and her,  it was like every little thing made them argue and that hurt her, even if she tried to ignore it. Because besides everything... He was her friend. And she cared. So when they got there, she was smiling, like always, brightly, sweetly... Even though inside all she wanted to do was find what the hell was wrong on that Ball. Not hide, not run, but fix it. Before something happened.

So she excused herself, saying she needed to go talk with an old friend, even though her mind screamed she needed air. Roman probably got that, but that was the purpose of him hearing thoughts. She took steady steps, the sound of her heels barely audible on the mess of loud voices and background music. But she managed to find her way outside, the cool air reaching her pale skin and embracing her.

'Don't be paranoid, everything is fine' she told herself as she looked up to the stars, sighing.

Getting to the ball was one thing; but as delightful as it was to have all those stuffy, snobbish, rich-looking people dancing about and mingling, Peter ... really wasn't into it; his mind was elsewhere. Perhaps he was more interested in making sure his partner-in-crime Natasha was having a good time ...

... but he had lost her ... somewhere.

Where did Shelley go? He'd taken his eyes off of her for just a moment; little girl's room, perhaps? Pfft, far from it. She was certainly no little girl--not that she'd ever really been ... little ... but that was besides the point. Where WAS she?

So he took it upon himself to look for her.

Creeping into the hall, he stopped, overhearing quiet voices talking in that bumbling way that one expected in those teen romance movies that Peter avoided like the plague ... but still, one of those voices was familiar, Shelley's, so he continued to listen to their conversation from a distance, the sensitive hearing coming in handy as he peeked around the corner.

And he could sense, just had the feeling, that the boy she was speaking to was a good person. He could tell. And a slow smile crept onto Peter's face, the smile of a happy and proud older brother witnessing his younger sibling accomplish something for the first time.

He wouldn't be nosy. Nope. He wasn't going to butt in on this. If he were Roman, he might have--memories of the first time he'd really talked to Shelley, in the halls at Hemlock Grove High School, asking her about the dance ... those memories came to mind; how Roman interrupted in his protective way also came to mind ...

But this guy she was talking to? He really was a good person, someone Roman might even approve of ... if ... Roman ever thought that anyone was good enough for his precious baby sister.

Meanwhile, Peter thought she would be all right with this gentleman--let the lovely young lady have some real experiences without the over-protective older brother figure looming over her shoulder.

The ball may have already been underway, with dignitaries and businessmen, figureheads of the community meeting and meeting, teenagers attempting to spike the punch that they hadn't known had already been spiked by the teenagers before them ...

And then there was Tristan, somewhat hidden from everyone, managing to remain a wallflower, shrouded in shadow. Since his 'mother' was the secretary of the Rosedale Historical Society, it was expected of him to be there, so a suit of dark emerald green had been procured for the Irish lad; and so help him, if he heard one more leprechaun joke that evening, every single person at the goddamned ball was going to die. He didn't fucking care anymore at that point. So, despite it being a social gathering, he wanted nothing to do with interacting with these ...

... these ...

Ugh. Even the music was rather bland. He liked Bach as much as the next person, but this? Was a bit too boring for his tastes ... and yet still infinitely better than that awful 'techno dance' music kids today were listening to. Really? Dubstep? That was like death to the ears. And brain. And soul

Tristan almost prayed for deliverance.

Almost.

That is, until he saw a familiar profile and silently, instantly appearing behind Stiles.

"You wouldn't happen to have a handkerchief or something I could use to plug the flute player's pipe, would you?"

It's been a while since Evelyn didn't sit down and play. A very long while, in her opinion. It was something that relaxed her, that made her let go of her worries. And it was a way of expressing her feelings as well. The ones she hid millions of times. So it wasn't surprising that the music she played wasn't exactly in the happiest tone. Notes of minor chords echoing across the room, filling the house of the soft, delicate and somehow beautiful sadness.

Her fingertips moved carefully, every note equalling a vulnerable touch. She didn't rush it, breathing deeply as she played, eyes closed. She learnt to play with feeling, not sight. The final chords were strong and she took her time with each one. And when it was done... She sighed and relaxed her shoulders.

It was the right time, she could feel it. She had questions and maybe this time around, he wouldn't be upset enough to not come around. It was still a possibility but something inside of her was telling her that she should give it a try. She sat by the open window. The wind was cold but she preferred to let her music float outside than being cuffed on a room. Just because she had to keep her feelings didn't mean she had to keep her melody on a cage.

Tick tock goes the clock ...

Peter put the number in his phone, saving it, then tucked the napkin back into his coat pocket, just in case he ever lost his phone and still needed it. However, he had a feeling, a very bad feeling and that was why he dared call the hunter, even if it was to just leave a voice mail. After all, the man had said to keep him in the loop ...

He paced the room, constantly checking the door, making sure that no one was coming as he listened to the rings, and then the automated voice message.

Beep.

"Hey, Dean. It's Peter. I got a lead."

He didn't explain how he knew, he wasn't comfortable discussing the fact that he was a medium with anyone ... but his tone wasn't the usual carefree and playful air that he had; no, he was serious, and he hoped that Dean could hear that.

"Remember when I mentioned that fancy ball you should take my friend to? The ball that's tonight? Yeah, I hope you're still planning on going because I heard that some major shit's supposed to go down. The kinda shit that can't be cleaned up with water--"

Code? Perhaps ... perhaps he was hinting that holy water would not help the hunter in this matter.

"Oh, and even though you're taking silver with you--"

Silver, meaning Argent, of course--

"--doesn't mean that it's a dress code that everyone will agree with."

Was he suggesting that silver, too, would not be helpful? Perhaps ...

"Try a more ... steel color."

Steel? As in iron? Perhaps.

"Later."

Good to be back