Changing Places, Old Faces [Jesse Fforde/Invite]

[Yekaterina Ostrovsky]

The blonde woke to a whisper in her ear, something she hadn't heard in ages. But it wasn't who she expected at first in that sleep-clouded haze where nothing quite makes sense, where the subconscious formulates answers based on repetition, familiarity, consistency; no. Niklaus had wandered off in search of human blood some nights ago and her libido - and intensely-focused interest - had wandered off with him, snuffed out by the sudden clarity born of being on her own again. But such was the nature of their... thing, she supposed she could call it. On for a while. Off for a little while, for nothing more than a change of pace or scenery. Back on again. Only this time, "on" had lasted for months. She slowly, languidly sat up in her comfortable bed. A break was good, she had decided once her head cleared a bit in the wake of the needed silence. Truth be told, it worried her a bit that she had grown so used to him sharing her bed that her first instinct that dusk had been to turn to face where he could so often be found. Her relief was almost palpable that reality was now restored, but she would have to do something about the jarring familiarity of his presence.

It had been a whirlwind while, where days bled together along with all of the spilled vitae, where the only thing reminding her that the days changed, with an entire City outside her apartment for the taking, was the daily call to her two thriving businesses. When one had the ability to replicate enough blood for two vampires, and there were plenty of blood packs to be had, what reason was there to leave the cozy, lust-laced little cocoon they had unwittingly built for themselves? She smirked softly at this. It was a different arrangement than they were used to, and maybe that was why she kept going back, kept letting him come back. It was always different. Always a challenge that had her interest captivated. A power struggle, no matter what they did. And, as it had always been for the last two years, she was sure they would fall right back into something some random night in the future.

But. Until then, that City out there, lit up like some corrupted Christmas tree, was calling to her again. The sensory experiences to be had, the news to catch up upon, the businesses she had built and the next one she had been considering. There were so many things to do, see, smell, taste... and then there was that whisper. There - just a murmur, calling again. Her gaze narrowed as she flung open the drawer to the beside table, only to reveal the pretty little earring she had picked up some time ago and promptly forgotten about. A slow smile graced carmine lips as she lifted the item with a curious glint in her eye. Oh yes. A raid. A perfect way to let off some steam and get her head back into the game.

"Henry!" Just a quick call to her obedient little wraith, and within the hour, she had all the information she could ever need.

-------

Leather clung to her like a second skin - it was excellent, she'd learned long ago, for any manner of fighting or the messy detritus that was the direct result of death and dismemberment, notwithstanding how good it always looked. And here, in her element, surrounded by gangsters that still cropped up all over the place since her family had been dismantled, Katya could do little more than enjoy every single glorious death. She kept moving, kept taking out every one she could find, searching each corpse for a key. They seemed harder to come by this time around, but finally, she scored one by way of ripping it from the cord around one particular gangster's neck. A sweet smile was all she could offer as she turned on her heel and sent Henry off in search of the door to Floor Two.

-------

Her energy - and much of her enthusiasm - had finally waned to the point of exhaustion by the time she found a quiet little corner to catch her proverbial breath for a bit. Aqua eyes slid closed to rest them for just a little while, but when she opened them, hours later, she realized she had actually dozed off. A frown creased her brow. That was unlike her, but then she hadn't really been doing much in the form of training for some time now.

As she forced herself awake, she cast a look around, only to find she wasn't alone. She stared blankly at the attractive, tattooed male for a long moment, not certain she had much to say; tedious statements about the weather and other assorted small talk simply was not her style, and nor was it is, if she recalled. Her cool reaction didn't come from an emotional place, which was a mistake 90% of the people she came across would make of her; no. It was more a practical assessment. She'd taken what she wanted from the random little tête-à-têtes she and Jesse had engaged in, ages ago now, and left it at that. An attempt or two to connect had not garnered any response and Katya was simply not the sort of woman to give chase... unless she was hunting, that was. Though she appreciated him, both his silent wit and his physical appeal, in an objective way, and his level of talent - if she ever wanted another piece of art to adorn her flawless flesh, he was the first person she would go to - he had proven unreliable and essentially useless to her.

The tall, blonde Killer slightly pursed carmine lips for a long moment, trying to decide what to say, if anything, but before she could utter a word, a young brunette appeared, her eyes narrowed as she eyed the pair up. One brow arched in slight amusement as the woman sniffed slightly at the air, her predatory tendencies easily informing her that this was someone related to the male who stood nearby - but only by the mystical properties of vampiric blood, apparently. A slow smirk formed over her lips as the wave of distaste rolled from the younger woman and she spoke only of the man's name before she took off once more. Now that was interesting, and something that had the smirk melting into a laugh. Oh, she did enjoy ruffled feathers over something altogether innocent. But before she could even comment, Jesse had taken off with one muttered phrase:

"I think she could be mad..."

before he, too, took off. Now that was a surprise, something that she had not ever anticipated. Jesse, with a voice? An actual, rumbling altogether masculine voice? She arched a brow once more, finding the mystery far more intriguing than his sudden appearance where she'd been resting. Rolling the uncharacteristic sense of surprise from her mind, she sauntered off to find more things to kill, determined to mention it the next time she bumped into him.

[Jesse Fforde]

Gangster raids are not all that challenging. They are, however, a good bit of fun—a nice way to vent. The reward comes also in the loot that can be collected, as goes with every kind of raid. Gangsters don’t offer so much that Jesse can use in his rituals, but he doesn’t earn much money and so what he does get, he delights in selling, even if there’s no real profit to be made. Truthfully, he doesn’t care much about the loot. It’s a cover, for how much he simply enjoys spilling blood. It’s something he has realised that he’s always wanted to do. Inside of everyone there’s a serial killer lurking, whether they want to admit to it or not. Society does not adhere to anarchy, however; rules and regulations and a sense of moral behaviour is stamped into every society’s citizenry from a young age, and thus all serial killer tendencies are quashed, and ignored.

This life, however, has given Jesse the opportunity to indulge in some of the more sadistic urges that he has. It’s never anything so angry or bitter as wanting to torture people. He’s got no interest in hearing them scream, unless there’s some kind of vendetta involved. No, he just likes blood. He likes the look of it, the smell of it, the taste of it, as it slides warm and savoury over his tongue, soothing the constant burn in his throat.

Also, he’s restless. There’s this constant, pent-up energy coursing through his veins. Rather than spend it all on Grey, he goes out to slaughter things. To practice, and to hone his skills. To become better at what he does, to be able to become a better asset to his faction.

Up on the second floor of the raid, Jesse rolls his shoulders and assesses the scene. It’s not too far from the door that he sees her – a woman he has not seen in months. Yekaterina Ostrovsky, the Russian whose skin he has marked, and whose body he has enjoyed. Nothing stirs in him now, as far as desire is concerned. There is curiosity, however—it’s been a while, and he has not heard from her. Granted, he hasn’t tried to contact her, either. But from what he remembers, he doesn’t think she’s the kind of woman who’d care. Is she?

He approaches, to stand with her, to perhaps ask her what she’s been doing with her life. Before he can utter a word, however, Grey passes him by. The woman, with her fiery narrowed eyes and her hair messily pulled up in a bun. It wasn’t a friendly greeting, by any stretch of the imagination.

“I think she could be mad…” he says, before leaving Yekaterina to go and find his lover. But she is lost in the labyrinth of slaughter, and the next person to greet him is the woman whom he had failed to greet properly beforehand.

He speaks. How interesting.

Jesse smirks.

“Maybe I always could, and I was playing a very elaborate joke,” he says. Of course it’s not the case – but he’d prefer to joke around than to have the woman ask him how, or why, or when. It’s a story he’d prefer not to tell. When he does speak, his voice is gruff, gravelly, husky due to the abuse—or lack thereof—his vocal cords had copped for the last decade. He’s wearing all black, and so the blood spatters are less noticeable, though he is covered in the blood of the fallen. There’s a splatter on his neck, smeared over the side of his jaw. All he can smell is blood; he’s so ******* thirsty. Always. He ignores it. He has to wonder, too, whether it’s that constant thirst that hinders the strength of his voice. It certainly does feel, sometimes, like there’s a ******** critter stuck in his throat, clawing constantly.

He keeps his smirk, regardless, and eyes the other woman curiously, a gleam to his bright blues.

[Yekaterina Ostrovsky]

A slow smirk curved over the blonde's lips, a mirror to his own. Oh, Jesse. In between the rare surprise at the sound of his voice - an actual voice, how about that? - there was the ever-present sensation that in him she had found a kindred spirit. It was there in the predatory gleam in his gaze, the blood soaking through his dark clothing, and the teasing sort of way he dangled the prize of his words. Perhaps not one quite so fucked up, so twisted as she - after all, vampirism had merely removed limits for her; it hadn't created some fundamental change in her psyche - but certainly someone who understood her and accepted her quite well. She liked that. There were very few people she could say that about, no matter how things shook out for them.

Now more than thoroughly amused, she rolled his words around for a moment in her head and snickered softly. "Somehow, I doubt that, but whatever." She shrugged a bit; it was no skin off her *** if he wanted to tell her how it had come about or not and truth be told, her curiosity was less than piqued as to the story than the actuality. The Killer smiled slow and crossed her arms, leaning against the wall once more in an easy recline, though that hunter's grace never quite left her. Time was different in here, it seemed, but she could definitely spare some of it for this. "So. Where the **** have you been?" The curve of her lips took on an almost friendly tilt, her tone playful, but anyone who really knew her would know she was busy sizing up all the cues that didn't come from words or tone. Those things were easy to fake; body language? Not so much. Even - or perhaps especially - if someone had relied upon it as a method of communication for so long.

Still - no matter how sketchy the guy could be, he did hold some measure of her trust. And for that, she supposed, even though she didn't really know another way to be, she could ease off the usual aggressive techniques. Just a little.

[Jesse Fforde]

But whatever, she says. It’s a phrase resonant of the disenfranchised youth. Everything is whatever, as if nothing matters and there’s zero care for anything in the world. It’s such a sulking, brooding phrase, and it sounds out of place, slipping from between Yekaterina’s lips. Yekaterina, who’d always struck Jesse as a woman of the world. A businesswoman, no ********. Certainly not immature or brooding, as whatever might suggest. But whatever is whatever – it’s not pushing Jesse for a story, and this works just fine for Jesse. Let her believe what she wants to believe. Jesse would prefer it that way.

The smile spreads at the corners of his lips, that familiar playful gleam still swimming in his eyes. Though, these days – that night particularly, with his mood as buoyant as it had been – the chaotic presence of an impending storm in those eyes is lacking. Instead, he might appear like a ten-year-old boy, full of mischief and threatening trickery. He holds his arms up, spread out, gun dangling from his fingertips.

“I’ve been right here,” he says, voice gravelly and gaze darting left and right before returning to the blonde woman in front of him. He hadn’t gone anywhere – unless one counted that one week stint in the shadow realm. For some reason, Jesse assumed that’s not what Yekaterina was referring to.

“Where the **** have you been?” he asked. Until recently, he couldn’t claim to have even seen Yekaterina in passing, unless he’d been so caught up in his own recent issues that he hadn’t noticed. Suffice to say, though, it was almost as if the woman had dropped entirely off the radar.

Maybe it did have something to do with Grey. Yekaterina was a friend, but she was also a little more than that. She offered him the particular brand of fun that most ‘friends’ did not. But then there was Grey, who’d come into his life like a silent storm, wrenching him up from the roots and thrashing all the leaves out of his branches. He’d tried to deny any claim to love. Maybe if Yekaterina had waltzed in at that point, Jesse might have used her to try to solidify that denial. He’d done that with AJ. It hadn’t worked. Now, as far as women were concerned, Jesse has blinders on. There’s no one but Grey.

[Yekaterina Ostrovsky]

The Killer's aqua gaze followed the firearm dangling from Jesse's fingers with lazy but focused interest; the weapons of others were always so telling, something she liked to incorporate into her own assessments of personality and preference. In addition to the pleasure that was her general admiration of weaponry. Her own AR was tucked neatly behind her in its holster for the time being, angled just so behind her back for easy access, though it would stay put for now, as would her favored blade of the evening. She liked having her arms free, crossed easily as they were against her slender frame.

A brow rose slightly as a smirk crossed carmine lips. "Right here, hm?" It was a flip answer, one designed to deflect and keep things light and superficial, she knew, while still cheeky enough to be amusing. Speech certainly hadn't affected his tendency to say just enough while not really saying much at all. If Katya hadn't been one to almost always do the same, she would have grown bored rather quickly but, as it was, she found him as mysterious and puzzling as ever. Yes. The few friends she carefully cultivated generally were not tossed away when their initial use, whatever it happened to be, ran its course. Even if she knew little about him, even now, she enjoyed him for a variety of reasons. Still, his turn-about of her playful question almost - almost - took her by surprise.

The blonde slightly pursed her lips and flicked away a bit of something from her otherwise mostly pristine self as she thought how best to answer. She wasn't one to reveal much about her personal life in general, but Jesse knew a bit more about her than most general acquaintances could say, which was refreshing as it was off-putting at times, because she never knew quite how much to tell him about anything. Especially regarding Niklaus - that situation, the almost unnoticed, odd version of couple-hood that had come about purely by accident, was not something she could process well enough to speak on. Plus, if she were honest, it still freaked her out a bit, giving her ample reason to steer clear of the male for awhile, to refrain from speaking of him in order to better regain her equilibrium. So, she figured, flip as Jesse was and just as mysterious was her best bet for a reply. The smirk returned, taking on a sly edge.

"Oh, you know. A little of this, a little of that. Spawning. Working..." Welllll. She cleared her throat slightly. Working was a bit of a stretch, considering she hadn't been to the Kit Kat in months, aside from that one time... "Sort of... from home," she corrected with a cheeky little grin that said all sorts of things at once.

[Jesse Fforde]

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Jesse Fforde> Spawning, working. Working from home, she says, and Jesse’s brain flies in all kinds of directions. If she’s said it off-hand, in a blasé tone of voice, he’d not have got curious. But the way she says it, with that slippery grin and that glint in her eye – almost as if she expects him to know exactly what she means, but there’s only one direction his mind will swing. He remembers the club Yekaterina owns. The specific type of club… but no, no. She’s far too classy to sell herself to others, and besides which, he’s almost one hundred percent sure that even if she were selling herself somehow, she’d not be stupid enough to invite the men to her own home. Unless she’s got one on the side…
…but she’d not be fluffy, no. If that’s the kind of business Yekaterina is in, he can see her in leather with spiked heels and cat-tail whips. A costume that acts as a kind of chastity belt, whereby men can’t get past the exterior shell. But they pay her to torture them in all kinds of ways. It’s got to be at least ten seconds of silence before Jesse realises he’s staring, the images flitting around in his mind like guilty remembrances. And then he recalls the harsh drop of his name from Grey’s lips as she passed them by, earlier on. He blinks.

He has to try to change the subject. Because now he’s imagining Grey in all leathers with spiked heels and whips; oh, how she arouses him when she’s angry. He clears his throat and focuses. Spawning, yes. She’d said that too. Let’s focus on that. “Spawning,” he says, the word rasping from his throat. “I’ve been doing a bit of that myself. How’s it working out for you?” he asks. By this time his arms have dropped, and his own gun is holstered.



<Yekaterina Ostrovsky> The blonde Killer watched with gleeful interest; she knew people - had to know people - to be in the business she once was in. How else could she hunt them down with such accuracy, predict where they would be, what they would be doing, and carry out Emanuel's orders? Hell, she'd had to know even before that in order to survive, to emulate, in order to ensure none of her... proclivities... got her tossed into some sort of therapy or institution or another and ruined all of her fun.

From the earliest age she could remember, Katya would for hours study people; how they ticked, what made them happy, upset, pissed off... aroused. She wondered if his mind had gone to the obvious place - a regular something going on, because even Katya wouldn't try to name it - or elsewhere, as he holstered his weapon. Either way, in her estimation - such a typical male at times, which was a surprise all in itself. A snicker left her lips before he finally spoke again.

"Mmm, well, you know. I'm not much of a maternal type." She grimaced a bit. "But progeny are... necessary... even if they take some effort. So I suppose, its been... going." She shrugged; most of hers had gone quiet, and had been disappointing at best. Who knew where Sony had skated off to, or Rafe for that matter? He never had been the kind to give her any notice when he was leaving and she supposed it was his way of punishing her for essentially doing to same to him in the form of a faked death and a subsequent mourning period. Which she still didn't quite understand, no matter how she tried. She supressed a bit of a sigh - barely - and quirked a brow. "How about you?"


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse grins. It had been rocky for him, in the beginning. Those that he had turned had wandered off, until he felt as if they were all gone. Until he felt as if it was his own fault – though to be fair, his downward spiral of ego and self-worth were now known to be the cause of a deeper fault. It didn’t matter, though, whether they’d wandered off due to something he’d done (or not done) or whether they’d just wanted to find their own feet. For a long while, he’d had none of his own progeny around him. He’d only had Axel’s offspring to keep him company.

Now, however? Now, the majority had returned to the fold. They all had tomes to Larch Court, which he intended to renovate to make it a safer haven for them. Felicity had turned into some kind of hippy flower child. Axel had been spurned by the evil ***** and had come to his senses. Abigail, though still a little quiet, was still around, making traps and generally holding no grudges, as far as Jesse could tell. Ishaq could be prickly, but he too had come back at Jesse’s urging, and seemed happy enough. There’s Andromeda – Andy – who’s odd at the best of times. Aria’s the only problem childe. There’s also Renee, Paige, and Ursula who Jesse feels, sometimes, are his own. A smattering of others, too, as well as Grey. Oh, Grey…

… every thought seems to turn back to Grey, and that grin only broadens. He nods. “Grand,” he says. And it’s the truth. Yekaterina doesn’t need to know all the dirty details about his siring habits; how it’s an addiction that he cannot shake. She doesn’t need to know exactly how they all make him feel. She has an answer to her question, in his single word and his grin. That’s all that’s needed. He glances around, his attention stolen by a sharp crack of gunfire down the hall. He takes a breath and turns back to Yekaterina. “I feel that perhaps this is not the best place to stand and play catch-up…"

[Yekaterina Ostrovsky]

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--




<Yekaterina Ostrovsky> The woman laughed; gone was her usual chiding snicker and in its place something almost close to warm and appreciative. The sound made even Katya slightly surprised, but... she found she couldn't help it. The unpredictable had become, well, familiarly predictable in a way. Jesse could be counted on for giving next to no response, no matter what she said or asked. To a normal person, it might have been infuriating. To her? It was simply... amusing and expected. At least there was the grin to adorn the single word.

"Grand," she echoed with a soft smirk. Whatever he'd have her believe, Katya knew and knew well that, for almost every person, there was usually far more under the surface than could ever be summed up in one convenient little word. "Well. At least its working out for you..."

She trailed off as her attention was suddenly sucked away by the sound of the gunfire that had turned his head. Mmm. Music to her ears, enough to make her want to move off and investigate the source, no matter how mundane, but then, she supposed she had to agree that it wasn't the best place to be... catching up. That smirk only grew. "Is that what one-word answers and guarded phrases and questions are called these days?" she teased, though innocently enough, with another light laugh to spill from her lips. But she nodded, too. "You're right. Neither of us is likely going to win this thing by the sound of things. Come on, let's get out of here..."



<Jesse Fforde> Jesse snorts. One word answers and guarded phrases. It’s the least he can get away with, without being completely silent. It crosses his mind too late that he could have kept to his usual silence with Yekaterina. She didn’t know any different – he could have slipped into that comfortable cacoon that he had given up, and would have been at ease for a while. The talking thing doesn’t come naturally to Jesse. He’d had a few headaches due to miscommunications; the talking lark had gone to his head and he’d started to yabber away like every other Tom, Dick, and Harry. That hadn’t lasted long. Silence and, yes, one-worded answers, were far preferable.

The woman does have a point, he supposes. There might not be much ‘catching up’ if he keeps to his usual habits. But he has faith that he can entertain even with his usual guarded nature. Though not in the way Yekaterina might be accustomed to. He arches a brow, his grin morphing into a sly smirk.

“Come now, Yekaterina,” he says, her name bubbling from his tongue in a very satisfying way. “You didn’t think a whole new personality came with a shiny new voice, did you?” he asks, and shakes his head with a pronounced tsk. Already, he’s leading them toward where he knows the exit to be, his hand resting on the holster of his gun just in case they run into trouble rounding the next corner.


<Yekaterina Ostrovsky> The woman moved silkily in the darkness, so like to the cat that Niklaus had once likened her to, as she followed Jesse down the hall and toward the exit, her tall, slender frame seemingly made of the ethers themselves at times in a place she always felt herself. It was a funny thing, she supposed, to be likened to an animal, though it hadn't stopped her from teasingly calling Niklaus donkey, or ***, in response. She smirked faintly at the memory, before her attention was lured back by that scratching masculine voice once more.

The Killer sort of liked the way he said her name, used the full pronunciation that almost everyone else had given up upon. Something that had irked her at the beginning; 'Katya' was so... familiar and informal and wasn't something to have ever been used lightly. Emanuel had used it, mostly. Some of his children had used it. And that had been fine. Anyone else had usually been scared to address her at all. But those who did had always called her 'Yekaterina.' Or Ms. Ostrovsky. Now... now it was 'Katya' this, or 'Katya' that, to which she had finally given in... or 'Kat.' She gritted her teeth; she really hated that one, though she did find it almost endearing when Lex used it on occasion - he was perhaps one of few she'd allow it from. An inward shrug was given before she managed to shake herself free of the thoughts elicited by the sound of her given name, allowing her to consider his question.

"No, of course not. However, in my albeit limited experience, when one is 'catching up' with a friend, it usually consists of more than 'yes' or 'no' or 'perhaps'," she said with a soft smirk that melted into a slightly fanged grin. "Besides... I'm leaving a raid to spend time 'catching up' ," she said with a teasing little lilt to her tone. "Me. Leaving my favorite thing, to hang out with you. Least you could do is actually catch up," she teased more, with no trace of an actual guilt trip to be found as she was sincerely joking, giving him a muted hip-check before she sauntered past him and around the corner, also watching for potential trouble as she shot him a more playful smirk.

[Jesse Fforde]

Of course it doesn’t take long for Jesse to catch up. Literally – the woman has overtaken him; only a couple of long strides and he’s back at her side, his hand still resting over the grip of his gun, ready to pull it at any second. The majority of the raid’s foe are preoccupied, it would seem. These raids have a way of luring the masses. Maybe one day he’d set up a rave inside, and see what kind of party they could all make of it.

For now, he’s caught up in a whirlwind of quips and avoidance; it’s been a while since he’s seen Yekaterina, and a lot has happened in the interim. He can’t remember ever giving up much about himself to the woman, though he recalls how she’d happily answered all his silent questions when he’d tattooed her that time. The exact details he now could not entirely recall, but he has a sense of the woman that he wonders whether anyone else has.

“The way I see it,” he says, and then pauses as he peers around yet another corner – the exit within sight and a group of skirmishing bodies nearby. “It’s a challenge, see?” he says, referring to her comments. He’s almost certain there’s ways of catching up with only grunts, and yeses and noes. It just takes a little more thought, a little more scheming. Truth is, it has been a while, and Jesse can count on one hand – even half a hand – the people he trusts with his deepest, darkest secrets.

Not that he has many secrets, these days. But he has fears and anxieties, he has deep-seated emotional turmoil, he has issues that result not from previous mental trauma but instead, it would seem, from vampirism itself. The blood that has lent to him power and ability beyond his imagining has also landed him with some pretty astounding curses. One must, as usual, roll with the punches. At least it makes life interesting.

“Besides which,” he adds. “Catching up would require knowing something to begin with. A base of knowledge, outlines that you need to fill in with new knowledge. Enlighten me – what do you actually really know about me?” he asks. And he is curious – because he really can’t remember what he’s said—or at least written—to her in the past.

[Yekaterina Ostrovsky]

The Killer simply gave him a smile as they worked their way past the fighting, where she occasionally had to dodge an ill-thrown punch or a clumsy swing of a sword. Amateurs. She scoffed silently to herself with an almost-imperceptible shake of her head. She let him speak while she held her silence, considering everything he had to say, as they finally made their way out the door that would take them into the fresh nighttime air.

"You've always been a challenge to know in general," she finally agreed with a fresh smile. Perhaps that was part of the reason she liked having him around - he was a mystery to unravel, something to occupy her head that wasn't full of or tainted with blood, murder, sex, or hunting... amongst many other twisted things, she was sure. "Maybe that's what I find so intriguing. You always give me so little to go on, and yet... what you do let slip paints an interesting picture. A picture I like."

A sigh of pleasure slipped past her lips as she let the much cooler, cleaner air surround her and blanket her in relief; it wasn't like her to feel so constricted indoors, but perhaps having a taste of the outside again, when she came up for air once more, had made being inside all but unendurable for prolonged periods of time. The dank, still air filled with too many bodies was enough to make her want to stay out in the cool air for a long as possible Another thing so unlike the predator of late - creatures such as she usually preferred the dark, damp corners in which to carry out their misdeeds, didn't they? Hm. A thought to consider for another time.

"I can't tell you about you based on anything you may have told me, because I'm sure you already know how little you ever say, have ever said, to me at least. Its more based on... instincts. Things observed in our brief encounters. Things I can read in others, though I admit my impressions of those I interact with might not always be precisely accurate." She leaned her slender form against the rough brick of the building they had just exited and eyed him from her relaxed position with a curious, mischievous glint in her eye. But he'd asked. And so, she figured, being the talker she was while in inexplicably comfortable company, she should answer.

"Still. Right or wrong... I can say that it seems to me you're the kind of person who I appreciate. I know your tastes run a bit darker than you like to readily say and that means you likely tend to get me and my own. You don't bat an eyelash when presented or confronted with 'gruesome,' and maybe - probably - you even like it a little bit. Or more than a little, which means you definitely understand the kind of creature I am, which is refreshing. I know you like to play mysterious because, like so many people, you probably find it a good way to deflect people who try to get too close." Her gaze narrowed a bit; despite his best efforts, Katya wasn't scared away by such things as gruff, at-arms-length attitudes. If anything, it only made her stubbornly try harder.

"I know you have people who care for you, and you for them, even if you don't talk much about them, which is the mark of a good sire and friend. It also speaks of intelligence and insight into people, which makes you deeper than you let on, at least on the very surface. I also know you don't know as much about me as you think you do. You tend to lump me into the same category of 'most women' even though I'm not much like most women... which is amusing and disappointing in turns and was all too obvious in those few nights we spent together... though there was nothing physically disappointing about those." She smirked slightly - there hadn't been; only the knowledge that they were an enjoyable one-off and that it was yet more evidence that almost no one could really give her what she needed in that department, not in the long term.

"And I know whatever stole your voice must have been traumatic, and whatever brought it back was likely equally traumatic, if not cathartic, which perhaps is one of the easier things to figure out about you because its a little obvious." That last bit was a guess and a half and perhaps blunt, but Katya hadn't gotten where she was by not researching every mental illness in the book. "You might not say much, Jesse, but the blanks I tend to fill in on my own usually prove to be accurate over time. And maybe I don't know much of anything tangible, as one person to another, like people who deal with one another in their mundane daily lives... but somehow, you don't seem like the kind of guy who necessarily likes to deal in the mundane. At least, not with me. There's more... but. Essentially, I like what I see in you. I can say the same of very few people. You're like a very comfortable old friend, no matter how little we actually know." And while that was true, there was that nagging sensation in the Russian killer that she sometimes wanted to know more about his mundane, to know he wanted her to share some of her own. She gave a little shrug with a raised brow, wondering if he would say anything about any of that or, as was his way, not much at all.

[Jesse Fforde]

Jesse isn’t searching for compliments. He hadn’t expected a monologue – an entire speech about what she has assumed about him regarding the things that he had let slip, in the past. Outside of the raid, in the crisp night air, he finds himself wanting to lean against the wall and remain in the middle of the street. Though he supposes that goes against the whole notion of going somewhere to catch up. There in the doorway to the nest of gangsters, he assumes they’d be interrupted by those coming and going; by the action inside, spilling out of its doors and windows. It might be quieter out here, but there’s still chaos just beneath the surface; just off to the side, threatening to take over. Jesse craves that chaos, his innermost soul reaching for it. But sometimes those inner demons must be denied. Leashed, rather than allowed full reign.

But rather than continue to walk, his company decides to lean. And so Jesse leans, too, his arms crossed over his chest as his weapons have been holstered. He narrows his eyes as she begins; as she says what she knows she has gained from instinct rather than from anything he has explicitly said. Already, this reminds him of a conversation he’d had not too long ago with Doc. A man who presumed to know what made Jesse tick, without knowing a single damned ******* thing about him. Jesse had conceded that Doc could keep his opinions, but only Jesse himself could ever prove or deny whether he’d got anything right or not.

Jesse had always liked being a bit of a mystery. He isn’t one to give anything away; people assume things about him and whether they are right or wrong, he likes to just smile and shrug. Let them think whatever they want to think.

He listens to all that Yekaterina has to say. He decides, this time, to answer properly. Why not? Master of his own fate, and all that, and besides which, nothing that he has to day will give away any weaknesses. Because that’s what he doesn’t like, in the end. He doesn’t like appearing in any way weak. He doesn’t want anyone to know his vulnerabilities. They take advantage, then, whether they realise it or not.

“First – yes, my tastes run dark but I’ll very readily admit to them,” he says with a smirk. He’s proud of his tastes, and readily embraces the vampiric urge toward darkness and violence. No, he doesn’t torture anyone unnecessarily, not unless he’s in need of some good hard revenge. But nor does he balk at the taste and sight of blood; nor does he hesitate to kill when he’s feeling a bit peckish.

“I do find mystery to be a great way of deflecting people from getting too close – and that had worked in my favour and against it, too. Mainly I just don’t give a **** about most people, and they don’t get close because… why would you want to be close to someone who doesn’t give a **** about you?” he says.

Yes, he has people he cares about, and has no doubt that there are those who care about him. Through thick or thin, somehow over the past year or more he seems to have gathered lint in the shape and size of family and mentors; of progeny that he is fiercely protective of. A muscle twitches in his cheek, but the smile remains. He doesn’t admit to caring, or to being cared for. That is one thing that he stays silent about.

“You are most women in the way that you are not the one woman who managed to wrangle me into monogamous submission,” he says. There, the one weakness he can admit to because he is proud of it. Because he loves it to bits. Because it doesn’t matter anyway – he is engaged to her, will marry her, and as his wife, she will forever be his weakness. The thing that, if taken away, will ruin him. Submission? Yes. He submits to Grey, very happily, and she submits to him, too. They share the power in their relationship, and it is to die for.

Another thing which he would not comment upon – which he pretended like he had not heard at all – was her assumption about the traumatic events in his life. The cathartic, as they may or may not have been. In a way, yes – the things that he had done had helped to peel away the chains that had been locked so long around his heart and mind, and thus releasing his voice from its stillness. But those chains had been away by acid, acid that he felt like he swallowed over and over again, every single night, burning into the back of his throat. He swallowed now, and shook his head.

“In the end, you can assume that your opinions are accurate. You can be happy in the knowledge that you have some things right, but there’ll always be inaccuracies,” he says. People change. Things change. Things that once were certain become unstable. It’s the way life meanders on. “But you are right. I do not like the mundane. And I have not changed, even though I have a voice. Even if sometimes I might not give two flying fucks about another person’s life, I’d still much prefer hearing about it than talking about my own,” he said with a satisfied smile. He pushed away from the wall and gestured down the street.

“It might be quieter here but it’s not exactly comfortable. And then you can tell me all about you while we walk,” he says. Of course he’s vague. He doesn’t tell Yekaterina whether she’s one of the ones he does give a flying **** about or not. He doesn’t tell her whether she’ll bore him if she tells him all about her life recently or not; whether he wants to hear it or not. Because that’s how he rolls.