2-6-2015: A Near Thing
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Date: 02/06/2015 Time: 16:23 EST |
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Cast: | |
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She answers the phone with something slightly dubious in her tone. "... Hello?" "Miss Novak." The voice on the line is clear, and clearly Ben. "We spoke recently," he says without introduction. "I directed you to my brother regarding your non-profit concern, but you and I had..." He pauses a moment to draw in a slow breath, and finally chooses a euphemism: "Shared business as well." Maya swallows. "Yes." In the background, a door closes. "What do you need?" "To know," he says, ever direct, "Precisely what you might contribute." "Then we should talk somewhere safe," she says. "And I need to give you another number, I wasn't thinking..." She takes a slow breath. "I can meet you at the center in an hour or so, or we can go to a location that's tied to neither of us. Which would you prefer?" "I'll meet you at the center," is Ben's (perhaps predictable) reply. "Should I send a car?" There's a beat, and then a small laugh. "Ah, no... I'll get there fine on my own, um, thank you." "Right. You'll find me in the lounge. I'll leave word at the desk that you'll be calling." And with only a click for goodbye, Ben ends the call. She arrives some time later--a bit sooner than the allotted hour--and parks her car a few blocks away. By the time she gets to the building, her cheeks are reddened by the wind, and she has both arms wrapped tight to hug the Goodwill overcoat closer to her body. This time the gloves have fingers, though they're knit in every color of the rainbow. The man at the desk is middle aged, clearly local rather than someone Ben brought personally. He directs Maya to the back hallway with a knowing smirk. Benedict Markov waits, comfortable on the same leather couch. "You'll need a proper coat," he observes without yet standing, “if you're going to make Detroit your home." Already uncomfortable when she walks in, Maya averts her gaze almost instantly--unwinding the scarf and stripping off her gloves with jerky little motions. "Have you been throwing bachelor parties, back here? Or--" Whatever that was going to be, she bites it back; the set of her jaw remains tight, though. Ben does stand at that, his brow furrowing as he scans the private space. "This is hardly a place to entertain," he says, his tone curt. "If there is something you mean to say, get on with it." "Nothing," she says, mastering the momentary anger with a merciless control, looking down at her wrist. She takes a slow, grounding breath. "I'm sorry. It's nothing to do with you." The words still come a shade too fast, but her movements no longer carry that snap of irritation. There is a flicker of annoyance that comes to Ben's face, but that too is quickly reined in. "Very well, then." He dismisses the issue with a nod. "Shall we begin again?" His eyebrows lift, but he does not wait for agreement. "Your coat looks positively undignified, Miss Novak." Resuming his seat, he glances at an expensive looking wristwatch and adds, "But you are very prompt." She heads for one of the chairs, dropping her gloves and scarf onto the seat and then shrugging out of the coat (which might almost fit him, really). Folding this just-so, as if in response to his comments, she lays the heathered wool overcoat over the back of the chair. "Yeah, it's funny," she says dryly. "Velvet Shadow Air has a really strict baggage policy, you know?" "Cute," Ben returns, managing a brief flicker of entirely false smile to accompany the word. "So?" She takes a slower breath, one hand coming up to rub at the back of her neck--as if she can physically chase away the nerves, smooth the raised hackles. "So," she answers, without lifting her eyes from the floor. Despite that downward focus, the posture doesn't necessarily feel submissive--it's more like she's thinking fiercely, scanning possibilities that are laid out on the ground before her. That, and collecting herself, establishing her boundaries, reinforcing her calm. Ben watches for a moment in silence before interrupting. "Miss Novak," he finally says, his tone flat. The couch creaks as he comes slowly to his feet. "I make you nervous." In his mind, that is a simple statement of fact, punctuated by the sound of his footfalls as he steps toward her. "This is unavoidable; if we are to work together, we must find a way to work through it." Her eyes close for a moment, and she takes a slow breath. "It's not y--" Yes, that would be lying. She amends it, and forces herself to look at him directly. "It's not just you. Rough night, and the desk guy and..." She shakes her head and looks away again. "And trying to figure out what I can do next, and how to defeat this-- this *thing*, before it gets worse." She takes a slow, steady breath. "It's a lot of things." "Let us assume, for a moment, that we can not defeat it before it gets worse." The Silver Fang's tone is again level, matter-of-fact in his pessimism. "We must nevertheless defeat it. Are we agreed in this?" He looms over her, a half-step too close, suddenly adding 'pedantic' to the list of his charming traits. "Might we also assume that the man on the desk's conduct was insignificant next to our other concerns? Or should I see him dealt with?" Something in her posture goes rigid: the muscles of neck and shoulders, where that shirt leaves them exposed, tighten until her body becomes an overturned string, on the edge of breaking. "Please stop with the looming," she says quietly, the light voice not quite steady. "Trust me. It's really not necessary. I'm suitably impressed with your power and might and all that, without the looming. And it just makes it harder to think straight." Ben takes a step back, disappointment tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You may, at some point, be forced to think straight despite my presence," he warns, then quickly adds, “If we are to be allies in this... Endeavor." His dark eyes narrow, focused on Maya, appraising. Judging. She takes a deep, steadying breath, and lifts her gaze to meet his--squarely, this time. "It isn't your presence that's the problem," she says crisply. "It's your lack of respect for things like personal space. And the way you enjoy pushing at my boundaries. We don't have time for games. And no, we don't really have time to deal with your desk guy thinking I'm a whore, either." There's a savagery to that word--and a fierceness to her, as if facing up to him requires summoning up this aspect of herself. Harder, and stronger. The edge of the steel, not the pretty sculpture of the hilt and blade. The way she looks at him now is not defiant, but challenging--in the sense of asking, harsh and direct, if he's satisfied with that answer. His hand flashes out, deceptively fast, to catch a fistful of Maya's shirt. "Your boundaries need pushing, girl," Ben growls - but in that moment, perhaps he is not Ben. "Be mindful that you don't push mine. That will end poorly for you." His chest heaves as he pants, red-faced, now truly looming over the young woman as he fights for calm. Her eyes close tight with a wince, and an involuntary sound is jarred from her, a wordless response to the sudden violence. She knows, at least, what to do: she turns her face away, eyes averted, and forces the tension to drain from her body until she's pliant. The only sign of not-calm is the slight shiver in her breathing. There is a slight push as he lets go of Maya's shirt, but Ben doesn't step away just yet. He stands, face flushed with heat, chest heaving. The fingers of his right hand slide into his dark hair, and he spends a moment in silence. Maya shivers, her eyes closing for a moment. "I'm sorry," she says, in a voice that's low and full of effort. Perhaps wisely, she doesn't say anything else. Her hands open and clench at her sides, releasing some of the pent-up energy. "Right," Ben nods, taking a step away. His back to Maya, he puts both hands on his hips. "You'll excuse me. Where were we, then?" Still there is a savage undercurrent to his voice, and his shoulders continue to rise and fall with each breath. "Speaking of what you might bring to our partnership in more precise terms?" She takes another of those slow, deep breaths. "I can try to calm you," she says quietly. "If you'll allow it." Ben's first response is something akin to a growl, which is apparently meant to be a chuckle. "You'll find me difficult to calm," he warns her. "The nature of the beast, so to speak. Somewhat more literally, in my case." Maya swallows. "I understand." Her voice stays quiet, and now might even be called calm. "Try to focus on your breathing. Only on that, for a minute or two, okay?" She makes no move to touch him; head bowed, she turns the bracelet on her wrist and sinks into the mandala for a long moment. "Breathe with me," she murmurs, gentler now, soothing. <<DICE>> Maya rolls arete, difficulty 4 <<DICE>> 3 successes (6 7 10, Specialty: No, Willpower: No) "Breathe with you." Ben's voice betrays his skepticism, but he's willing to make an attempt. His eyes close, though she can't see, and with a conscious effort he regulates his breathing. Sharp inhalations through his nose, lomg exhalations from his mouth. She begins chanting something, almost whispered--some language with far too many consonants and glottal stops, giving it rhythm and inflection. <<DICE>> Maya rolls arete, difficulty 4 <<DICE>> Ben rolls perception + primal urge, difficulty 7 After a couple of minutes, of course, the breathing itself is helping. Her words drop to a whisper. He feels it, then-- like the first clearing breath of fresh air, when one crosses into the Umbra in a place of great power. Like the cold, sweet water from a mountain spring. Calm and clarity wash over him, gently soothing away the stirrings of his Rage. When that sudden rush of stillness washes over him, it is almost startling in itself. His head turns slowly to regard Maya over his shoulder, and his voice is low. "You are a dangerous woman, Miss Novak." He whispers the incongruous thought so softly that it might be meant for himself. "I have never felt... Whatever manner of magic that was." That first moment catches her off-guard: he sees a glimpse of her face at rest, almost at peace, only the faintest line of thought between her brows. Then he speaks, and that line deepens, and she focuses on him with wariness in her eyes. She looks away, then. "One of-- your people might come to you with a story of... something similar," she says quietly. "It's-- one of the things I do. Part of my work in this world. On this side." She wets her lips nervously. "A soother of spirits," Ben remarks, turning slowly to face Maya. His hands slip into the pockets of his expensive slacks, a marked change from his earlier aggressive posture. "What else? Go on." She turns and paces a few steps away. "I can-- cross over. Speak to the spirits without crossing. See the other side, and walk this world at the same time..." As before, he might notice something beneath her shirt, carried at the small of her back; a knife, not a firearm. "Imbue a weapon with spirit, so that it can strike into the spirit world. Given an object, I can sometimes rouse its spirit into wakefulness... though I'm not very skilled with that." She ducks her head in thought. "It's hard to explain," she murmurs. Ben listens, nodding, as though making a mental checklist. "I am perhaps more familiar with the subject matter than most," he says, the words tinged with something very much like encouragement. "You will find me unpleasant in many ways, perhaps even intolerable, but a willing student always." His head tilts to the side, almost apologetically. "And a teacher, at times." She turns to look at him, curious. "More familiar with... what part of things?" she asks. "And how?" Some of the wariness has returned. "I meant only that I know of spirits, and 'the other side,' as you call it." Ben raises both hands, palms open and toward Maya, in a soothing gesture. "That has been a part of my life since my life truly began." She actually lets out a breath of barely-perceptible relief. "Of course," she says quietly. "I don't... understand exactly how it works... I think maybe the loup-garou are innately part spirit. Or you're immune, somehow, to the division of the world into spirit and not-spirit..." She glances away in distracted thought, and wets her lips again. Ben's brows raise above a thoughtful frown, but if he has any insight into the matter he keeps his own counsel on it. "Perhaps it isn't for you to understand," he suggests. "Knowledge can be a dangerous thing, Miss Novak. You know more than you should about me and mine. Study our enemy. Turn your inquisitive mind in that direction." She swallows, and rubs at the back of her neck. As if unable to quite contain the tense energy in the room, she paces again, crossing away from him almost to the other side. "I've-- been told I have an effect on the Gauntlet," she says quietly. "That it seems... softer, around me. Spirits find it easier to speak to me, people find it easier to cross." One hand lifts to rub at Ben's heavy chin, and he looks to an open window. "People..." That unsettles him somewhat, beginning to penetrate his preternatural calm, but there is something yet more important. "Be wary. If that means spirits find the Gauntlet more malleable as well, then it leaves you doubly vulnerable to servants of the enemy." "I know," she says quietly. "And I don't have the power to manipulate the Gauntlet itself, yet." She swallows, tracing a hand across the edge of the liquor cabinet. "I can heal," she says quietly. "Though my skills are most effective on myself. I-- can't do much for others. Unfortunately." Even from a distance, he might pick up on the sudden shift toward bleakness. Ben watches her trace the liquor cabinet in silence for a moment, and when he does open his mouth to speak the hopelessness in Maya's tone stops him short. It takes him a moment to refocus, but then the sound of footfalls fills the empty space. "First, learn to see to yourself. In that way, you help all those around you." A heavy, reassuring hand finds Maya's shoulder, gripping it firmly. Muscle goes rigid under his touch. She's frozen for a moment, not even breathing. "Your people don't ever seem to need healing, in any case," she whispers after a moment. "We are more resilient than most," Ben agrees, lifting his hand away slowly. "But I mean that in a more general sense, as well." A step away and he turns so that they stand back to back, perhaps two paces apart. "Have a drink, if you like." "I've never been very good at that whole 'healer, heal thyself' thing," she says, a slight unsteadiness lingering in her voice. "Mostly I try to bury all my issues deep as I can, when I'm teaching or standing in my power or-- doing anything that matters." Ben shrugs, and perhaps it is her calming influence, but when he speaks there is sympathy in his voice. "Not so uncommon as you might think. We bury our weaknesses until we are certain of our comrades. Then we let their strengths cover them." "I'm sorry," she says quietly. "This is... weirdly hard for me. Trying to quantify something that I don't ever think about, that much. It's..." She takes a slow breath. "The way I work, and others who are awakened... it's flexible. I can only... try to give examples. Like-- I can calm a room full of people, the way I did with you. Or give them hope, or joy, or... whatever. But I can't read your mind, or establish a telepathic link of any kind. I've only learned to deal with the emotions. I can read feelings, but not the higher workings of the mind. Like-- I can step through to the spirit world, but I can't create a doorway that will allow others to walk through." Ben listens to the explanation, focused and attentive. "Don't apologize," he tells her. "You're doing well. I'm beginning to find a sense for it, I think." The garou crosses back to his couch in silence, but doesn't settle there yet. "We need to know these things about one another, if we're to fight side by side." She turns, an open astonishment written clear on her face--along with a touch of incredulity, as if she can't possibly have heard him right. She reads him for a moment in shock, searching his face, his posture for signs of duplicity. Ben is lost in the conversation, so much so that the searching look escapes his notice. There is no guile apparent in his face, no deception in his dark eyes. He is in his element, confident, more in control than Maya has seen him thus far. His hands come together with a soft clap as he looks up at her, but her sudden look of fragility stops him, makes him think a moment and switch course. "Stop," he says after that pause. "Your fear. Your self-doubt. You have something worthwhile to contribute to this fight, Miss Novak. And so long as you fight at my side," he adds, stepping closer again, "So long as you have my trust, any who would harm you will first face me. And, Miss Novak, I am not an enemy to be made lightly." The woman's expression hardly changes--a moment's deepening of the creases in her brow, maybe. There's a sheen in her eyes that betrays the threat of tears, and for a second or two she looks completely lost. As if her reality has swerved off-script, or perhaps someone's rewritten the laws of physics. "You-- You would--" Ben has traded tension for patience, now. He folds his hands together and waits, after a moment prompting her with, "You asked half a question?" She looks away, needing a moment to get through what's clearly an emotional reaction. "Forgive me," she says, very quietly. "I-- Your ki--" Embarrassment keeps making her second-guess her words, until she finally settles for a slightly lame, "Thank you." "Don't thank me," Ben says, brushing the gratitude away with a wave of one hand. "It is my duty to you. No more than I would do for anyone who took up my cause." In that, too, he seems genuine. "And you need never ask my forgiveness." She looks to him again, the guarded expression gentler now as she reads the truth of his words. She wets her lips, considering. "There's something else I-- may be able to do, that could help you," she finally says quietly. "...But you are afraid to tell me," Ben guesses. He begins pacing slowly, the length of the sitting space. "Can I trust you, Miss Novak? If I can, then you can trust me as well. If I cannot trust you," he cautions, "Then you are right to fear me, and need tell me nothing further." A faint sadness awakens, as she watches him. "You can," she says quietly. "But so many of your people have-- assumed the opposite--" She takes a shallow breath. "It's as you said," she says, looking away. "I know too much. Sometimes that's all it takes, for the claws to come out." Her eyes stay lowered, when she continues. "I don't... completely know. But I believe that the places you guard are... the same as those my people protect. Wellsprings of Gaia's energy. Sacred places, where her power comes to the surface." Ben's eyes narrow. She does know too much, but she is an ally, and she seems willing to share. That much is visible in his expression. He is cautious of where this is going, as well. "You have been to one of our sacred places?" She swallows, and gives a quick shake of her head. "No," she says, hoarseness edging the sound. "But I-- have some understanding of the power they hold. The energy that makes them sacred. The same energy that fuels all life, that shapes all the worlds." Turning, Maya meets his gaze. "I can see it. And maybe-- in time, help you seek it." Ben's eyes go wide, and his mouth opens to speak, but clicks shut again before a single word escapes. He sucks in a long breath and holds it before letting it escape slowly between his lips. When he finally does speak, the words are even carefully controlled. "That is something to consider." She watches him closely, searching. "I... have learned that there are fallen loup-garou here. Those who serve the enemy." Her voice is very, very soft. "They-- hold that ground, don't they?" "I..." Ben's mouth draws into a hard line at the mention of them; a sound of steel scraping steel rings through his aura - a blade sliding free of its scabbard. "If you take nothing else from our conversations, Miss Novak, take this: avoid them. They are as unpredictable as they are dangerous, and they are very dangerous." The great silver wolf that shares his space plants its feet, hackles raised. There is violence in him, waiting. "I work under the assumption that they hold that ground, yes. There is someone to whom I must speak. He may know for certain." Maya wets her lips, and swallows. "I may be able to help you find them, as well," she says quietly. "If I-- see anything, I'll tell you." "Do your best not to see anything, Miss Novak," Ben warns her, raising a hand as he steps toward Maya. "If you can see, you can be seen. Wait until I'm more certain of the situation. Don't expose yourself to that level of danger." She looks up at him with a trace of alarm. "You want me to walk blind?" The prospect clearly unnerves her a little. His head shakes once again. "No," Ben counters. "But don't go looking. Don't seek them out." He's closer now, within arm's reach, his concern obvious. "Be safe. Be cautious." She gives a tiny nod, in answer. As if to return that protectiveness in kind, she says, "You know not to-- try to cross over, in the white zone?" "I don't..." He struggles with the admission, trailing off, but regroups to say, "I know there is danger here, but I don't know what the white zone is." She swallows, a touch of alarm showing--and this time, she is the one to break the bounds of personal space, a hand coming forward to touch his arm. "You must not cross over, downtown. The enemy's eyes will swarm you. If you need to step sideways, go past Hamtramck, go at least that far." Her brow furrows for a moment, and she asks, "Can you-- see, look across, before you try to step through the Gauntlet?" Ben's eyes dip to that hand on his arm, and he shifts closer almost without thinking about it. "I will look before I leap," he says. "I will not cross over into a swarm of the enemy's servants unwittingly." A smile that is half snarl curls his lips as he imagines that confrontation, but his reassurance seems genuine enough. Her supernaturally induced calm still flows through the Garou, but there is something else alongside it now - a mounting tension that comes and goes as he watches Maya. She catches a glimpse of it, an inkling of something, and lowers her gaze quickly. Color mounts in her cheeks, that swift awkward flush that isn't anything to do with coquetry or pretty feminine wiles. When she speaks her voice is low, a little dry. "I'll-- show you, if you want to see. Sometime when the moon is brighter, a night or two more. But you can't--" A hand raises to Maya's chin, slowly but firmly turning it upward until Ben can meet her eyes. "Don't presume to tell me what I can't do," he laughs, but his voice is pitched nearly as low as hers. "You will show me, and we will see what there is to see. I am no fool, Miss Novak. Trust in that." "Maya," she says quietly, the blue eyes meeting his for only a moment before sliding away. She lifts her chin a fraction, turning her face away to try to escape that intimate contact. "It's at three-quarters, now, and waxing," she says, a slight unsteadiness in her voice, her breathing. They are still standing far too close. She wets her lips, that nervous little movement before speaking. "Tuesday is the full." Ben grins as he forces her attention back toward him, his nod bringing them closer still, if only briefly. "I know. The moon..." He snorts something that is meant to be a laugh, and shakes his head with no further explanation. "At any rate, I'll not put either of us at risk unnecessarily." "What does the full moon-- mean, truly?" she asks. "Is it easier to-- to lose control, then? I've seen--" A flicker of pain crosses her face, as if the memory still cuts deep in some way. Her head is still sharply turned, the scar a pale line against the flushed skin of her throat. It's almost as if his posture freezes her there, and the words she speaks are hardly related at all to what's physically going on between them. The only sign of unrest in her voice is a barely-perceptible tremor, and perhaps a lowered pitch center. "Wouldn't it be easy to lose control now?" Ben answers her question with one of his own, a grin playing across his features as he breathes the words. "You should be wary of the full moon. Of me, on the full moon." He still holds her chin, though now his grip is loose; she could break free if she wished. She swallows, the movement of muscles alive under his hand. Her skin is actually hot to the touch, warmer than normal, feverish. And then, with an effort, Maya looks up to meet his gaze. "And what about now?" she whispers, the words barely discernible. "And now as well," Ben admits, leaning in toward Maya, his intention obvious. "It seems we are doomed to hurt one another after all." This he says with a wry smile - he means to enjoy this, whether it is wise or no. There's a barely-perceptible widening of her eyes, a moment of total shock--and she turns her face away sharply. Even so, there's something in her posture that betrays her, that fills the air with mixed messages; a slight sway, and the way she holds her head, almost as if to offer him the graceful line of her throat. Her breathing is fast, audible, in a silence that's suddenly alive with possibility and danger. "I see," Ben says as he withdraws, pulling back slightly as his hand falls away from her chin. "Bold enough to face the horrors that threaten to end our world, but still too weak to take what you want? I misjudged you." The sharp blue gaze comes up, a chaos of wariness and desire and fear storming there. "What I want," she says in that low, unsteady voice. "What I want--" Her focus flickers down to his mouth, briefly, before she tears it away, down and left. "--Isn't always a good idea," she finishes weakly. Her eyes close, and she takes a slower, measured breath... or tries to. It comes out with a slight shudder, and faster than intended. "No," Ben agrees without reservation, "But you're not likely to simply stop wanting it." His right hand reaches upward toward her short hair, and his body is close again. "It is inevitable, Maya, isn't it? If we continue to see one another - and I imagine that we shall - then sooner or later, we are going to fuck. There's no sense in fighting it." Maya doesn't dodge his touch, this time. When his fingers find her hair, her head tilts into that presence, leaning on him in submission. She can hardly breathe to speak, and she has to swallow against the dryness in her throat before she can make the attempt. "I, I c--" Ben's fingers curl, but her hair is short - he chuckles as his fingers find nothing. "Finish your thought," he tells her, his breath hot on her cheek now. "You what?" He's amused now, watching her fight and give in. Amused, but very obviously drawn to her as well. Her eyes close, and she's almost gasping out the words, now: "I can't I sh-- shouldn't do this--" Not once has she reached out to touch him, since that conversational contact that sent them down this slippery slope; her hands are clenched at her sides, now, fists curled tight enough to dig little half-moon imprints into her palms. "Likely not," he agrees again, "I most certainly shouldn't." Ben's fingers find and wind through longer strands of hair then, curling tight as he leans in to breathe words against Maya's ear. "But I'm going to. That is, unless you insist on being tedious about it." A low, involuntary sound escapes her, when his hand tightens. She almost laughs, then, a few bursts of air that come without voice. "Tedious," she says unsteadily. "Is that what you call it when something you want doesn't just fall into your hand?" Despite the words... she is, now, a subtle bit of body language in the arch of her spine, the lean of her body. "Why?" Ben's fingers wind more tightly still, pulling Maya's face toward his own, "Is that what this is? You refusing to fall into my hand?" His free hand drops to take hold of one of hers, lifting it to press against his broad chest where the line of buttons climbs his shirt. "If so, you're making a poor showing at it." This time, the sound she makes is practically an animal whimper, an unmistakable sound of arousal. Her fingers tighten into the front of his shirt, and the other hand comes up to clutch at the fabric as well, somewhere at his side. There's a small gasping breath, and then her mouth is on his own, hard and fierce, the kiss demanding. Ben meets her kiss with an equal ferocity, his free hand on Maya's hip now to pull her tight to him. His approval is a low, rumbling growl into her throat before he pulls away, hand sliding down through her hair to the nape of her neck. "So much easier, isn't it? To say you want a thing, and then take it?" She breathes out sharply, when he tugs her close. Her head falls back into his hand, her throat offered up like a prize. The hand at the front of his shirt begins flipping buttons free, deftly. "Enough with the talking," she whispers. Ben finds her exposed throat with teeth first, rather than lips or tongue. They scrape the tender flesh, never leaving a mark, though he is far from gentle. His hand at Maya's hip presses them together so that she can feel his arousal stir against her. Following her cue he falls silent, his encouragement a nod of approval as she works at his shirt. "Gaia--" she gasps out, the second syllable hardly there at all. Her hips roll hard against his, a rough caress. Both hands are working on the front of his shirt, furiously. Ben's hand slides down from her hip, outside those form-hugging pants, to quickly trace the curve of Maya's backside before slipping beneath the hem of her shirt. After the roll of her hips against him, he presses into her, using his hand to balance them against the force. Her skin is warm, as soft as one would expect. She moves in his embrace like a flame, never still. For a small moment, she backs off--just enough to slide her hands past the unbuttoned placket, caressing his chest and moving out to his shoulders, taking the shirt along. One hand keeps going, moving over the curve of a shoulder; the other slides around his waist. Her head is still tipped back in surrender, or perhaps it's trust. Her hand on the bare skin of his chest raises goosebumps in its wake, and Ben mirrors her, sliding his own hand beneath her shirt to climb to her shoulder blade, palm flat against her skin. He descends on her neck again at the same time, desire rumbling its atavistic noises in his throat so that she can feel the sound vibrate between them. He feels, in passing, the belt worn to hold the sheath at her back. Beneath it there's a thin layer of silk knit, a camisole that clings to her skin and--annoyingly--keeps him from touching it, for now. Maya's breathing quickens, harsher now, edged with voice on the exhale. "Please--" she whispers, the word hardly sounding at all. Ben's fingers clutch at the silk of the camisole, but find no real purchase there. "Please..." He repeats the word under his breath, but it is not a plea. His free hand lets go Maya's hair to trace down her body and slide over the leather of her pants, strong hands exploring her curves. She's decidedly impatient, hands starting to tug at his shirt, trapping one upper arm in her effort to strip the garment away. Finesse doesn't seem to be in Maya's vocabulary, not at the moment--but then, something about him seems to draw out that primal response from women, turning them into id-driven animals. He helps to shrug free of the shirt, loosing a rough chuckle when it hangs, trapped, from one arm. His hands return quickly to Maya's body then, one finding its way beneath her shirt to slide a palm over the bundle at the small of her back. "Not a pistol," he whispers, leaning in to tug at her earlobe with his teeth. "A knife?" She pulls back for a moment, long enough to wrap both arms across her waist and strip off the embroidered shirt. Her eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed. "Sort of a family heirloom," she answers, breathing hard. The lace of her bra is faintly visible through the thin silk undershirt--but it's something practical, not skimpy, not sexy, meant for an active life. "I know the sort," Ben says, brows lifting as he watches her pull the shirt away, his dark eyes running over her torso. While he does, he works at the sleeve of his own shirt with the fingers of the opposite hand until it comes free, then tosses the expensive garment aside onto the floor. Maya reaches for the belt, and she steps back from him as she unfastens it. Something guarded awakens in her eyes. "You know knives?" she says, just a little breathless. It's clear she's trying to gather together the shreds of reason. When the belt's undone, she takes it carefully and pulls the sheath itself free; the sheath is old, covered with tribal beadwork that looks a hundred years old, mended many times. The hilt that protrudes from the sheath is carved horn or antler, and overall it's about the size of a substantial Bowie. The belt gets tossed next to the liquor cabinet... but the sheathed knife, she treats with due respect, laying it carefully on top where the decanters sit. Maya's still breathing fast, the expansion of ribs plainly visible beneath sheer silk; for a moment, her back stays turned to him as she looks down at the knife. Ben shakes his head, holding his position - not stepping toward her when she drifts slightly away, but neither does he widen the gap. "I meant that I know heirlooms," he answers, but is forced to confess, "I am educated in the use of a knife, but not in their variety and history." His bare chest heaves as he speaks, but either he senses the shift in her mood, or it has shifted for him too. She turns back to him, then, that wild heat mixed with something oddly vulnerable--a glimpse of that guarded creature he first saw. Her color is still high, and she is clearly trying to slow the pace of her breathing, to bring back some measure of coherent thought. There's a tension between them, like a cord stretched tight, but for the moment she resists its pull. Ben rolls his neck from one side to the other with an audible crack, his eyes tracking Maya. He clearly feels the tension as well, but crosses his arms, his lips drawing into a thin, straight line. His feet are shoulder-width - there is a challenge in his posture, despite its apparent passivity. His chin is slightly upturned, his shoulders squared, dark eyes narrow. <<DICE>> Maya rolls perception+ empathy+1, difficulty 6 Benedict watches Maya with keen interest. He believes he knows what she wants, and can clearly see that she is denying it. Denying herself? He doesn't understand her reasoning, but his posture and body language seem to almost dare her to make a decision. <<DICE>> Maya rolls willpower, difficulty 9 <<DICE>> 1 successes (1 3 4 9 10, Specialty: No, Willpower: No) One hand comes up to the crystal she wears; the pendant hangs just at the low neck of the camisole. "How could--" She's fighting through some inner conflict, and it leaves her open somehow, vulnerable. "I thought-- I thought your kind--" It's not ‘’fear’’, but the uneasy confusion of someone having an experience that just doesn't make sense: it's as if she's watching an apple fall into the sky. "Were all the same?" Ben snorts something that might be a laugh, though it carries little in the way of mirth. He turns from her to begin pacing slowly back and forth as he asks, "What did you think, Maya? Tell me." He watches the young woman as he walks, dark eyes always on her. He can't completely supress a sense of predation as he prowls back and forth across her path. Maya averts her gaze. "I thought you hated us. That it-- didn't matter what we did, whose side we fought for." There's a faint shine to her eyes, the threat of tears distant but unmistakable. She closes her eyes tight for a moment, fists clenching at her sides; whatever that grief might be, she forces it away with an effort of will. <<DICE>> Ben rolls Perception + Empathy, difficulty 6 <<DICE>> 2 successes (4 7 8, Specialty: No, Willpower: No) Ben shakes his head, grinning. His blood seems to have cooled somewhat, and now he looks upon Maya as something of a puzzle, or perhaps a naive soul in need of guidance. "I have use for anyone who shares my fight, Miss Novak," he assures her. "Do not misunderstand me; I bear within me a great deal of hate, but the greatest share is reserved for our common enemy." The heel of one hand rubs against the leather at her hip. "That's not the most important thing," she says quietly, looking back to him. Her expression is uneasy, the conflict leaving her looking... almost ill. The guilt is subtle, but it's there, blended with all the rest: something that makes her stomach flip over. An untold secret, trying to claw its way out. <<DICE>> Ben rolls Perception + Leadership, difficulty 6 <<DICE>> 0 successes (1 1 2 3 3 4 7, Specialty: No, Willpower: No) He comes around to look at her full on, a pause in his pacing. "And what, then, is the most important thing?" His own hands drop to his hips, elbows out at his sides to give him an imposing presence. His stern gaze leaves no doubt that this answer means a great deal to him. Letting out a breath, she wraps both arms around her body--holding in the unease, the fear, the guilt and conflict and need and desire that seem determined to twist her into knots. She has to look away again. "The reason I'm here isn't just--" "Isn't just..." Ben gestures with one hand for her to continue, his eyes narrowing. "Tell me, Miss Novak: why are you here?" He takes a short step toward her, no more than a few inches. She draws a quick breath, looking up to him at the movement, a flash of wary alarm on her face. And then she takes one of those deeper, grounding breaths, steadying herself against whatever follows; there's a subtle shift in her posture, a squaring of her shoulders. Her gaze doesn't leave his, but she's *almost* calm. "Skylar," she says quietly. There is a soft gravity to Ben's voice as he repeats the name. "Skylar." It's just above a whisper, and as surely as the gesture of a moment ago it is a prompt to continue. A subtle touch of heat returns to the woman's face. She wets her lips nervously. "What I know of your people," she says. "None of it was-- from her. She has never revealed any secrets to me. I-- I knew of your people, already." There's a subtle fear in the blue eyes--not a fear for her own safety, either. Ben frowns, taking a moment to assess Maya in silence. It draws out for an uncomfortable moment, with the Ahroun stepping closer still to loom over her, staring as though he might look through the smaller woman. A deep breath swells his chest, and he releases it slowly. "I believe you," he finally says, though there is a dangerous note in his voice. "So tell me this: when 'Skylar' found out you knew, why were you not killed?" A flicker of confusion crosses Maya's face, and she finally looks away, her eyes closing for a moment. "I don't know," she whispers, as they open again. "New York was--" She gives a small shake of her head. "Some of them wanted to kill me. I think. But I had-- friends, as well. Maybe they spoke for me. I don't know-- how it works, among you. How that--" She swallows. "How that decision would have been made." "New York," Ben repeats, something that might be familiarity in his voice. "Among my people, it is more likely they bled for you, Miss Novak," Ben opines, stepping away. "You might send them your gratitude." The Ahroun returns to his slow pacing, his eyes no longer quite so fixed on Maya as he walks. "So. You were about to tell me about Skylar? Or about New York? It wasn't perfectly clear to me which." "I came here for her," Maya says softly. "Because she's here. When we-- left New York, I knew where she was going. And she knew that I would come here, if I survived the visionquest." She's watching him now, guardedly, to see when the truth strikes him--or if it already has. "Not a lo-" Ben begins, but corrects himself. "Not a man, then," he says with a smirk. "I see that you survived. So then, did Skylar send you here? To me?" His voice is even, but not disinterested. "And I gather that you have met with her in Detroit. You mean to put me in touch with her?" Maya shakes her head quickly. "No. No, she didn't-- tell me anything about you, I didn't-- connect you with--" She looks away, takes a steadying breath. "When you said your name, finally, when we met. Then I thought you might be the same person who'd called her to Detroit. I didn't know anything more than that." The flood of words halts, as she trips over a thought; brow furrowed, she looks back up to him. "Put you i--" Ben is quick to confirm that. "I did call for her, yes. And others." A glance to Maya and he adds, "She and I met some time ago. When you mentioned the name, I did not immediately make the connection." A shrug, a tilt of the head, and he dismisses his failure to connect the dots. "She and I have not spoken since our arrival here. I trust she is well. You will tell her I am as well, and where I might be found? Of course." <<DICE>> Maya rolls perception+empathy+1, difficulty 6 <<DICE>> 4 successes (1 2 8 9 9 10, Specialty: Yes, Willpower: No) "Of course," she echoes softly, watching him. After a moment, she turns away, hands coming up to cover her face, her head tipping back as she lets out a deep breath. *That* perilous bridge has been crossed, now. "Could I-- d'you want a drink?" she asks, her voice that low-pitched thing again, betraying a little quiver of unsteadiness. "Of course," Ben says, without so much as a glance toward the liquor cabinet. "None of that swill from the lower cabinet; I'll have something worth drinking." With a sharp look he adds, "As will you, when you are in my company, Miss Novak. One lapse in your standards is quite enough." The last is said with no irony at all, and a glance toward her coat. Quiet sounds follow--she doesn't catch that look, already moving to get out the top-tier bottle of Scotch she chose before. "That's n--" She pauses a moment, because he can't *possibly* be referring to himself; she's seen the ego in action. Liquid pours, then, and she sets down the bottle and corks it. With a glass in each hand, she comes to him. The one she offers holds ice along with the liquor: she remembers these things. The blue eyes meet his, forthright. A nod of the head is all she's likely to get for gratitude as Ben reaches out to take the glass. He swirls the glass so that ice and glass make a soft, musical sound - a subtle way, perhaps, of acknowledging that she remembered - before he raises it to his lips for a sip. His eyes do not waver, now or ever. Those eyes seem always to move with a purpose, and now they meet Maya's without hesitation. "You found what you wanted?" Maya lifts the glass when he does, her own gesture more of a silent toast. Unlike Ben, though, she lowers her eyes as she drinks. Her lips twists in a wry little not-quite-smile, as she turns her face away. "Some things are memorable. Thousand-dollar bottle of single malt? I'll remember where to find ‘’that’’.” Ben lifts the glass to look at the amber liquid. "Is it?" He muses - the figure seems to mean little to him. Not in the sense that he doesn't value the money, more that he has very little frame of reference. "Well, so long as you are welcome in this place, you are welcome to it," he says with a shrug. "And whatever else you find here. If you should come across someone unfamiliar here, though, you might ask to be introduced. Safest." Her focus returns to him, then. "Ask to be introduced?" she asks, uncertain. "What do you mean?" Ben shakes his head at her uncertainty. "It is a private space. I will mention you to anyone else you might find here, but if you are unsure, or if you are harassed: find me. I will introduce you." There is a soft insistence in his voice as he says, "You will be welcome here." That slightly shocked vulnerability returns, just long enough for him to pick up on it. She looks away quickly, hiding it in a too-large swallow of her drink. Shame, wasting so much as a drop of the liquid gold. "Thank you," she says quietly. She takes a slow, deep breath, and releases it--probably not even conscious anymore of her state of undress, though she must be cold. She certainly isn't thinking of what that steadying breath ‘’look’’ like; though her expression's softer now, her emotions calmer, she seems to be focused inward. Containing things, maybe, or just thinking. Ben's eyes are drawn down with that breath, shamelessly so. Again there's no sense of wandering, or glancing. He looks for a moment, unabashed. Long enough to take a slow drink of his own scotch before his eyes travel upward toward Maya's again. Shirtless himself, he seems oblivious to the chill. His bare torso is lean and well-muscled, with skin that might tend toward pale slightly flushed at the moment, a silent reminder of the recent tension. She still isn't looking at him--he's just in her peripheral vision--but on some level, perceptive as she is, the woman must ‘’feel’’ it. Color heats her skin again, and she takes another sip against the dryness in her throat. As before, her eyes close for a moment. Stillness, will, breath. When they open again, they stay downcast, focused on nothing. "Skylar and I--" Maybe she should have put more thought into the words, into how she was going to frame it; maybe she just second-guesses herself constantly. The stammer is back, the uncertainty. "There are other people. She knows. That it's-- there are things I, I--" "If you meant to make it clear that you and Skylar aren't exclusive just now," Ben says in the uncomfortable lull, "You were off to an exceptionally poor start. Take a moment. A deep breath." He raises his glass to his lips again, watching Maya's face now, as he paces closer. "Steady yourself and start again. Put things plainly; clear communication is sometimes the only step to getting what one desires." Maya closes her eyes, and swallows again; she ‘’is’’ a little steadier, after, though she still doesn't look toward him. "We're not," she says quietly. "But that part of it-- isn't easy, for her. And with-- the two of you being what you are, I--" She ducks her head for a moment. "It doesn't matter if it doesn't mean anything, even. But it's-- who you are. It's-- that you could take me from her, because of-- who you are. I think, um." More Scotch, definitely; she drinks down the last of the not-quite-a-shot she poured for herself. "I think I have to talk to her. If you--" It gets hard to speak again; her free hand clenches and opens. "If you even want--" Ben stops where he stands, near Maya but not uncomfortably so. "I don't intend to take you from anyone," he says lightly. "We won't be mates, Miss Novak. Ever." There is finality in his voice, but no real condescension. "Mine is a society which places great stock in heirs and their lineage, and you are not a part of that." Pity colors his tone ever so slightly as he says the last - not for Maya specifically, but for everyone who is not a Silver Fang. "So do I want? Clearly I do, as do you. But..." A shake of his head, and the Ahroun offers his companion the remnants of the scotch in his own glass. "It would be, as you suggest, without meaning. So perhaps for your sake and Skylar's, it would be best if we did not indulge our wants." <<DICE>> Maya rolls manipulation + subterfuge, difficulty 6 <<DICE>> -1 successes (1, Specialty: No, Willpower: No) She's already shaking her head quickly, before he's spoken two sentences--though whatever words she tries to interject seem to get caught in her throat. Though she doesn't speak, that brilliant red goes all the way to her ears. Her free hand draws into a fist, and then she steps away to set the glass down on the sideboard, and carefully pick up the knife. She bends to retrieve the belt, straightening as she slides the sheath into place again; her back's almost entirely toward him, her head bowed. "I get the feeling you like things in your life to be perfect, anyway. Clean." Her voice is low, quiet. "Not-- damaged." She still doesn't look at him, as she wraps the belt around her waist. Then the woman moves to collect her discarded shirt and throw it on. She is *actively* hiding her expression from him, but the flush can't be wished away; the humiliation is utterly obvious. "We are all damaged, Miss Novak," Ben says, turning away from her to step back toward the sitting area. He's still speaking to her, but it makes it significantly easier to hide from him - or to pretend she is. "You, me, everyone who fights this fight." With a wry twist to his lips that she can perhaps even hear in his voice, the Silver Fang adds, "Perhaps everyone left, whether they are aware of the battle or not." A slight shrug of his shoulders marks that as an interesting point for thought, but not for the here and now. "No, Miss Novak, look around you. I live in a recently remodeled, abandoned school. I endanger those I care about by living among my enemies. Alone, with a scant few allies and no true comrades-in-arms. I am surrounded by filth, by evil, by rot. Surrounded by The Enemy, Miss Novak, and with few friends to hand. Nothing in my life is clean. Nothing in this world is perfect." He speaks, and she listens, standing still, her back arrow-straight. "No," she says, low and hoarse. "But you're not alone, either." Both hands rake back through her hair, then clasp the back of her neck. A silence, a beat measured by the sound of her breathing--that unsteady shudder that comes with the effort of controlling tears. "Just so you know," she finally says, "I didn't mean it that way." Maya turns to face him, no longer caring. The tears aren't about ‘’hurt’’, so much--he doesn't get the feeling that he's kicked a vulnerable puppy, or wounded her any more than skin-deep. What shows on her face and in every line of her body: humiliation, touched with anger, blended with a tangle of shame and self-loathing and sick understanding. "I know you'd never want--" Something twists across her mouth, and for a moment she has to avert her eyes, until the shadow passes. Then she's focused on him again, with that willful lift of her chin. "What I meant," she says hoarsely, "is that you could order her never to speak to me or see me again. That's what she was afraid of. When I told her that I'd met you, and we talked about-- what we should do. Whether I should tell you." Ben laughs at the simplicity of it, for a moment forgetting both her humiliation and his scorn. "You do not know me well, Miss Novak. I might have taken offense at that, but it was said in ignorance." A shake of his head, and he explains. "I hope that Skylar will join my cause and fight at my side. To endanger that for something as petty as a convenient fuck?" A shake of his head, and he finishes the scotch in his glass before he goes on to say, "That would be foolish indeed. No. I would hold you as an ally, and Skylar closer still. When we come to know one another better, you will see that I am not one to waste something so rare and precious in the pursuit of something so common and fleeting." There's no real sympathy in him, no reassurance that she is worthwhile, or that he could someday want her. He is merely entertained by the misunderstanding, and arguing that he is no fool. Maya presses her lips together hard for a moment, and gives a small nod. "Good," she says, though the word comes out quiet and cracked. She turns on a heel, then, fetching her scarf and coat. "I'm working on something," she says tersely. "Finding a target. When I have it figured out, I'll be in touch." "Good. You know where to reach me," he says as Maya makes ready to go. "You'll take my message to Skylar, then. I am glad to have made your acquaintance, Miss Novak. Be careful in your search, and if you should find yourself in danger? Remember me." Maya looks to him, then, a little redness still visible around her eyes. Her gaze, though, has that clarity that seems to be part of her normal self. She ducks her head, then, and digs something from her pocket. It's the same card as before, but this one has something written on the back. "If you need anything, call," she says, coming close enough to offer it. A thin smile, then. "This one's the burner." Ben looks down into Maya's eyes for a moment before reaching for the card. "That's useful," he says as he takes it, tucking it into a pocket. "I will be in touch." As an afterthought, he adds, "And my brother will contact you tomorrow. Stan. Stanislav Markov." "Understood," she says. "I tend to be busy on weekends--if I don't pick up, tell him to leave a message." Maya searches his gaze for a moment, her own intense. "Luna watch over you," she says. "She does," Ben says with a nod, no trace of jest or mockery in his voice. His eyes remain on hers, intrigued by the fire in he sees there, and he adds, "May she watch over you as well." A terse nod, and then she turns to go, her steps fast but not fleeing. | |
