05-28-2015, 08:51 AM
It was an uncomfortable ride in the car to Denny's.
Lavinia had been insistent. More than a little insistent, in fact, that she take her time to ride with the blond man who seemed very intent on paddling himself up shit creek without a paddle. Oliver could drive himself, or at least follow. The Chorister pushed her seat as far back as she could in the charger. She had to hand it to him, he had a nice car. Or, at the very least, a car that was nicer than most of the town probably drove. Lavinia propped her feet up on the dashboard, untying the laces.
"Nice car," she said.
"Thanks-" he looked over for a moment, his eyes flickered over to the woman in the next seat. Lavinia had very little care about whether or not the skirt she was wearing happened to creep further up on her legs. The blond looked immediately at the road again. "Could you not do that?"
"Do what?" she asked curiously.
"That."
"So specific," he could hear her rolling her eyes.
"Stick your feet on the dashboard."
"Are you worried that I'm going to dirty up your pretty car?"
"I'm worried we're going to run off the road because your skirt is trying to become a belt."
There was an awkward silence, only punctuated by the fact that the Chorister was spending her time straightening things out. Feet back on the ground (grudgingly) and skirt coaxed back into a position that only showed expanses of tan thighs instead of hinted at whatever underthings she was wearing. She cleared her throat, and was content to ride for a couple miles in silence before conversation could begin anew.
She studied his profile. Straight nose, blond beard trying to come in but kept at bay by a conscious effort to keep close-shaven. When she looked at his hands she noted the differences. He looked like he was more accustomed to carrying the pen than he was the sword. It made sense for some people, but despite what the saying insists it is incredibly difficult to slay the forces of the unholy with well-written poetry. He was clenching his jaw, and his eyes were so dead set on the road that he could have very well been avoiding looking at the sun as he was looking at the woman beside him.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Hmmn?"
"Name. Like, I'm Lavinia Cervantes and you are..?"
"Liam Palmer," practiced, smooth, a non-answer.
"How long have you been Liam Palmer?"
"I haven't been Liam Palmer in five? Six years?" he pondered.
"So, you're giving me a name that you haven't used in six years," her voice is flat, "I might as well tell you I'm Vincent if we're going to play that game."
He laughed, "you don't look like a Vincent."
"Doesn't answer the question- how long have you been Liam Palmer, excluding the six years that you are pretty insistent you aren't Liam Palmer?"
"Nineteen."
"That tends to be the complete-life-overhaul age," she mused, "so who are you now?"
"Ezekiel Peregrinus."
"Peregrinus, like a pilgrim."
"Cervantes, like the poet."
"El Príncipe de los Ingenios," Lavinia replied. There were the tiniest hints of pride in her voice, in her smile. She was disarming, when she needed to be. Which helped a great deal, because here was this gorgeous woman in Zeke's front seat who went very quickly from terrifying to appealing. "So, why was it that you rang again?"
"Hmn?" his mind clearly had wandered.
"You lit some candles, drew some circles, insisted and I showed up- why?"
Zeke rolled his eyes, "it's a little more complicated than that."
Lavinia snorted and gave him a long, hard look. he kept his eyes on the road, though feeling that little bit of displeasure from the distance made him grip the steering wheel a little tighter. This was coming to the difficult part, the part where he could be giving himself just enough rope to hang himself. He sped up a little, just enough that it was starting to peek over the speed limit on the highway. If she stabs me, we'll both go careening off the highway, he thought has he looked at the gauge.
"Let's assume I'm over simplifying," she starts, "I still need to know the why."
"Just a quick question before I answer- have you ever done this before?"
"Done what?"
"Shown up at a random place because you had a feeling something was calling you there?"
"Sort of, but not like this. When you did it, which by the way is a dick move, it was a spiritual imperative. Usually, it's just a feeling that I need to go. Less compulsion, more intuition."
He made a little sound of affirmative. He looked pensive. "I had to test some evidence. Given that you showed up, it kind of throws a kink in my case."
"Good kink or bad kink?" she asked incredulously.
The blond man laughed, "fucking excellent kink."
"So, are you going to tell me what kind of case this is?"
"Can't, traditional business," he replied with a smile that wasn't at all apologetic.
Lavinia rolled her eyes, "Ugh, I hate dealing with Hermetics."
"What gave it away?"
"The propensity for having secrets, complicated traditional business, and a weird fascination with names."
"Says Lavinia Cervantes," he laughed.
"So, what are you, a lawyer or something?"
"Junior counsel for the defense in an ongoing investigation."
"So a Hermetic and a lawyer," she put her hands on her face and tried to hide from the sheer degree of this is terrible that was washing over her, "do you have any redeeming qualities?"
"I make fucking fantastic crepes, but you'd have to stay the night to find out."
She peeked over long enough to see a grin on his face. And he caught her eyes just long enough to see her cheeks turn bright pink.
Lavinia had been insistent. More than a little insistent, in fact, that she take her time to ride with the blond man who seemed very intent on paddling himself up shit creek without a paddle. Oliver could drive himself, or at least follow. The Chorister pushed her seat as far back as she could in the charger. She had to hand it to him, he had a nice car. Or, at the very least, a car that was nicer than most of the town probably drove. Lavinia propped her feet up on the dashboard, untying the laces.
"Nice car," she said.
"Thanks-" he looked over for a moment, his eyes flickered over to the woman in the next seat. Lavinia had very little care about whether or not the skirt she was wearing happened to creep further up on her legs. The blond looked immediately at the road again. "Could you not do that?"
"Do what?" she asked curiously.
"That."
"So specific," he could hear her rolling her eyes.
"Stick your feet on the dashboard."
"Are you worried that I'm going to dirty up your pretty car?"
"I'm worried we're going to run off the road because your skirt is trying to become a belt."
There was an awkward silence, only punctuated by the fact that the Chorister was spending her time straightening things out. Feet back on the ground (grudgingly) and skirt coaxed back into a position that only showed expanses of tan thighs instead of hinted at whatever underthings she was wearing. She cleared her throat, and was content to ride for a couple miles in silence before conversation could begin anew.
She studied his profile. Straight nose, blond beard trying to come in but kept at bay by a conscious effort to keep close-shaven. When she looked at his hands she noted the differences. He looked like he was more accustomed to carrying the pen than he was the sword. It made sense for some people, but despite what the saying insists it is incredibly difficult to slay the forces of the unholy with well-written poetry. He was clenching his jaw, and his eyes were so dead set on the road that he could have very well been avoiding looking at the sun as he was looking at the woman beside him.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Hmmn?"
"Name. Like, I'm Lavinia Cervantes and you are..?"
"Liam Palmer," practiced, smooth, a non-answer.
"How long have you been Liam Palmer?"
"I haven't been Liam Palmer in five? Six years?" he pondered.
"So, you're giving me a name that you haven't used in six years," her voice is flat, "I might as well tell you I'm Vincent if we're going to play that game."
He laughed, "you don't look like a Vincent."
"Doesn't answer the question- how long have you been Liam Palmer, excluding the six years that you are pretty insistent you aren't Liam Palmer?"
"Nineteen."
"That tends to be the complete-life-overhaul age," she mused, "so who are you now?"
"Ezekiel Peregrinus."
"Peregrinus, like a pilgrim."
"Cervantes, like the poet."
"El Príncipe de los Ingenios," Lavinia replied. There were the tiniest hints of pride in her voice, in her smile. She was disarming, when she needed to be. Which helped a great deal, because here was this gorgeous woman in Zeke's front seat who went very quickly from terrifying to appealing. "So, why was it that you rang again?"
"Hmn?" his mind clearly had wandered.
"You lit some candles, drew some circles, insisted and I showed up- why?"
Zeke rolled his eyes, "it's a little more complicated than that."
Lavinia snorted and gave him a long, hard look. he kept his eyes on the road, though feeling that little bit of displeasure from the distance made him grip the steering wheel a little tighter. This was coming to the difficult part, the part where he could be giving himself just enough rope to hang himself. He sped up a little, just enough that it was starting to peek over the speed limit on the highway. If she stabs me, we'll both go careening off the highway, he thought has he looked at the gauge.
"Let's assume I'm over simplifying," she starts, "I still need to know the why."
"Just a quick question before I answer- have you ever done this before?"
"Done what?"
"Shown up at a random place because you had a feeling something was calling you there?"
"Sort of, but not like this. When you did it, which by the way is a dick move, it was a spiritual imperative. Usually, it's just a feeling that I need to go. Less compulsion, more intuition."
He made a little sound of affirmative. He looked pensive. "I had to test some evidence. Given that you showed up, it kind of throws a kink in my case."
"Good kink or bad kink?" she asked incredulously.
The blond man laughed, "fucking excellent kink."
"So, are you going to tell me what kind of case this is?"
"Can't, traditional business," he replied with a smile that wasn't at all apologetic.
Lavinia rolled her eyes, "Ugh, I hate dealing with Hermetics."
"What gave it away?"
"The propensity for having secrets, complicated traditional business, and a weird fascination with names."
"Says Lavinia Cervantes," he laughed.
"So, what are you, a lawyer or something?"
"Junior counsel for the defense in an ongoing investigation."
"So a Hermetic and a lawyer," she put her hands on her face and tried to hide from the sheer degree of this is terrible that was washing over her, "do you have any redeeming qualities?"
"I make fucking fantastic crepes, but you'd have to stay the night to find out."
She peeked over long enough to see a grin on his face. And he caught her eyes just long enough to see her cheeks turn bright pink.