Summary:Ambrose and Lena try to learn what 'friend' means. They fail, naturally. Log Info:Storyteller: {$storyteller} |
Related LogsTheme Song{$themesong} |
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Needless to say, public embarrassment through an entire flute's worth of champagne splashing on his face is a bruise that lingers on Ambrose. Even the next day, after discussing it with Talbot and being assured it was nothing to worry about, he's got the faint hint of a scowl about the outer corners of his cerulean-blue eyes. It's time to distract himself…
…and feed the Bane. The curse is scritching at the back of his attention like a rodent in the walls, impossible to ignore. It means seeking out crowds…and it means possibly a bar fight, if the Jackal finds himself pithy enough to tempt one. His travels bring him to the Chinatown sector. He can't run the rooftops here, not with their height, and the ability to parkour from the overhanging fabric awnings so popular long ago. Instead, the demi-immortal lieutenant parts the crowds by merit of his keen, bladed expression.
It's not too unlike a shark swimming into the reef: predator alert, ding-ding-ding.
He's hunting for the nearest bar at this point. In a dark leather jacket, hair gleaming and managed into loose medium-length waves encouraged back, dark jeans and boots, he's not someone to take home to Momma.
*
Depends on the mama - but that's for another time. Finding bars in New York is about as easy as finding Starbucks or yellow caps; they're there, spit and you'll hit one. With a connection of darker places, and just knowing where to go given age and experience, it's not difficult for the Bane to find what he's looking for. Almost instantly, he can sniff out a dive bar and the blood already flowing within.
Once the door is opened, a wave of smoke and booze in the ozone assaults the senses. People are yelling, arguing, scrapping. One like Ambrose doesn't even need to wait for an invitation should he choose not to. In the middle of a throng of people are two men, both rather sizable and inked to the eye-balls. Fists are crashing, teeth are flying, bets are being taken. The life here is electric, fat and ripe for the taking.
*
Indeed. Like a snake uncurling from its slothful poise on a limb, the ancient Mesopotamian curse unerringly steers its host to this particular place. It's off the main drag, away from where tourists might wander (unless they really do want their wallets stolen). He pushes open the doors and his breath catches in his throat; bloodlust closes it off. For a second, he's a silhouette with two winking carmine pupils where his eyes could be hazarded.
Teeth appear in a Cheshire Cat's grin, a touch more sharp yet. Slinking through the crowd, he simply…lets the Bane free. To anyone with magical Sight, it appears to spread out like liquid garnets, undulating in melted gem-like collections of sheer life-draining force. It melts into and through people, leaving lethe in its wake. Very quickly, even as Ambrose leans himself on the bar, his skin is electrified with the stolen life-force.
"«Sake, warm, three,»" he calls out to the bartender in rough Shanghainese. An idle glance over at the brawlers has him smirking thin-lipped before he puts fingers beneath his tongue and wolf-whistles, out to encourage chaos and screw everyone else.
*
The faint weakness from a life drain is one thing, but that ill settling weight in one's belly can be passed off as just the affects of a heavy drink. The fight continues. Drinks are set out behind the man, three shots in small, shallow bowls, each lightly steaming and warm of biting rice wine.
A figure looks up and down the stretch of the bar to see the man in black lingering there. There's annoyance on their expression, almost instantly, but even so the figure lingers. Knocking a shot back, she takes a breath in, holds it, and exhales smoothly. There was enough noise here to blank out anything being said, so her dealing with her inner thoughts is nothing of interest to the fray. Maybe, it's because of the fighting, she wishes to pick one of her own.
Dressed in busted up black denim, boots and a ratty band top, the less goth princess and more just punk, moves up closer to his side. "You're an amazing thief," she begins, voice apathetic and just above a whisper. She's not facing the fight, instead, she faces the shelves of booze behind the counter.
"You attempt to steal my pride. My sense of security, and now you're stealing my fashion sense."
*
By the time Lena shows up at his side, two of the sake shots are gone. Ambrose throws back the third and slowly licks his lips. His tongue lingers beneath his cupid's bow as Ambrose hears the familiar voice and with delicate, exaggerated care, he sets the final chipped fake-china cup back onto the bar top.
"Your fashion sense was de rigueur in the early eighties in America, with the advent of 'hair metal' and what was claimed to be 'music'," the master-thief says in a smooth manner, loudly enough for Lena to hear over the buzz of conversation and the ragged cheers rising like waves while the brawlers continue on in their corner. "You cannot claim it as yours — nor do I claim it as mine. It is comfortable and functional. Is your navel cold, perchance? Or just your nom-de-guerre?" She gets a sharp smirk before he taps the countertop again to gain the bartender's attention and holds up three fingers. More sake, apparently.
"But oops, here I am speaking to you. Whatever am I doing," the Jackal muses before leveling a cool squint at her again. "Do remember that it's 'Lord Entitled Prick.'"
*
A number of things roll through her mind. Things to say, insults to lash out against the dark figure by her side. At length, the girl simply looks tired. Her dark lips thin and she nods, only casting a glance down at her exposed mid-drift. "No," she finally comments. "I'll never forget."
A press back from the bar, she looks into the man's features and there's a hit of light against her pale eyes. A shimmer, one he's seen before. With a flaring of her nostrils, the girl corrects her posture. "I've just come to tell you that the truce is over. I'm not staying away from your shit if I like what I see. I'll reconsider the very idea of helping you 'ease your curse' as soon as you cease being a cunt." Pause, "I don't see that happening anytime soon. Enjoy the sake."
*
Ambrose lifts his eyebrows even as he lips part in a scoff. Another scoff breaks to a bout of chuckling just shy of outright laughing. The sound would be inviting, warm, if it weren't for that edge within it. When he seems to catch the tail of his own hilarity, the master-thief sighs and gives Lena another sliver of a grin.
"If you choose to break the truce, it is upon your head, little bird. What you chose to take as an insult at the gala was a chance to show your prowess. The blonde herself was no doubt another thief of a moderately-high calibre — like attracts like, don't you see?" he notes, so sweetly venomous, like the taste of antifreeze. "It will be your loss should you choose to go against me again. I will forgive your thrown champagne because you are young."
He pauses as the new round of sake arrives and shoots a cup of it before continuing. "And I am not currently, as you call me, a 'cunt'. That is another brand of magic entirely you have not seen that I am choosing not to employ at this time." A cup of sake is pushed towards her with a finger. "Drink a ruddy cup of sake and do lets move beyond your bruised pride. I need someone to cheer for me when I'm drunk enough to wade in on the sotted rotters bloodying their noses in the corner."
*
"It wasn't a show of prowess. It was two assholes placing a bet on what I could or could not do. I make my own fun, I do not cater to yours. I also do not need an ounce of your forgiveness, if anything, you should be asking it of me." Eyeing the drink, she blinks and then looks from it to his face. "Are you tempting me to send you hoping smelling of something else? Granted, I want nothing more than to break the cup and shove it into your pretty face."
Her face twists up as her brows furrow deeply. "You don't need a cheerleader. You do a good enough job at wanking yourself off as it is."
*
"I am perfectly capable of enjoying myself," Ambrose agrees, now in a standing lean against the counter, his elbow rested and forearm across his torso. "But again, little bird, you are confused. Listen." This word he breaks down into crisply clear syllables. The master-thief holds her eyes. "The wager was for all of us — myself, the blonde, and you. If we had wished to make an example of you, it would have been less obvious until far later. There is an especial delight in retrospective realization by an antagonizing chit."
The second cup of sake is tossed back, leaving Lena with the third and last of his second round ordered. "Break the cup as you like, but know that I will not pay for it in any manner."
*
"So you'd still consider making a fool out of me." She nods, taking away the worst of the situation and no doubt about it. He can see her jaw tightening, that anger still resting there, rolling over and the burn flooding her eyes and stretching across the bridge of her nose. She eyes the cup, then back down at her feet. "If it helps, you…have already made a fool of me. Guess I'm just getting out while the getting is good." Reaching out, she pushes the cup closer to him, the shallow beverage still warm. "Enjoy the fight. Big guy's going down in about two. He's coked off his ass."
*
"Mmm…if he's already inebriated and set to fall, I'll have to wait for a new brawl to start — or perhaps begin one of my own," the master-thief muses. His cerulean-blue eyes travel through the crowd, hoping to catch someone staring at him if only to flip them off and entice them over in insult.
"But really, don't take the wager to heart. I could not hazard at the level of prowess in the blonde. We do not know each other at all save for the instance you saw…and no, I did not take her to a closet, mind your train of thought." An infuriating little grin appears regardless. "But if you must leave, I shan't stop you. You are your own woman after all."
Then, without further preamble, he takes up one of the empty battered sake cups. With a flick of his wrist, as if he were taking a line shot with a basketball, he arcs it across the crowd…and bounces it off the bald skull of a very broad-shouldered biker. When the guy turns and glares in his direction, Ambrose simply waves and salutes with the cup Lena's apparently not going to drink. The sixth cup of sake is downed even as the bruiser shoulders his way over.
"Mind the shards of the barstools," the master-thief suggests lightly as he sets the cup down and turns to meet his opponent.
*
"I don't care if you did." Perhaps a little, but there's at least enough truth in her voice to suggest she honestly didn't, not in a serious manner. Her thoughts jumble as she considers something more to say, but then he simply allows her to leave should she wish to. There's a spark there, fresh annoyance at the man, somehow, getting the last word in over her. Running her azure tipped fingers through her hair, she turns and faces the bar keep directly. With a nod of her head, she orders a drink.
*
|ROLL| Ambrose +rolls 1d10 for: 4
|ROLL| Ambrose +rolls 1d10 for: 2
*
The bruiser comes in swinging, face a curl of bulldogged fury. Ambrose ducks, but the widely-thrown haymaker cuffs off his shoulder to send him stumbling a step to one side. He snarls back in turn, audibly, deeply in that eerie manner of his, and then swings back. His fist lands squarely in the other man's bicep and seems to deaden upon impact, as if the musculature were to act as a shield in itself.
Bruiser laughs once. "That all you got?"
Ambrose retorts, "We've only just started, my good cueball," making his accent all the more clipped and insultingly precise. It enrages Bruiser as he expected and he laughs in the man's face as another punch is thrown. It takes the master-thief in the chest and sets him to stumbling back against the bar.
"Do try the sake, it is worth it," he quickly quips at Lena, nearly close enough to breathe in her ear, before Bruiser has grips of his jacket and is hauling him up and away to toss him bodily into a clear space.
*
Lena Snart turns around to see the pup's body fly her way. Sitting up on her stool, she takes a shot of her own poison of choice. The voice across her ear causes her eyes to cast away, only to return as leather stresses and Ambrose is pulled away. One shot, and then another, she breathes in and licks her lips of any residue. For whatever reason, she was staying.
She was also pointing up toward a rather solid bottle with a thick bottom.
*
|ROLL| Ambrose +rolls 1d10 for: 4
|ROLL| Ambrose +rolls 1d10 for: 6
*
Ambrose rolls through the tossing with an uncanny looseness of joints, ending up backwards in the motion, and then comes to his feet with the lithe ease of a long-standing fighter, a mongoose thrown but not frightened off. His pupils glitter towards Bruiser and it brings the man to halt momentarily in his upraised fist, the steps coming to a stuttering halt. He stares.
The Jackal narrows his eyes and sniffs, his smile growing icily. Leveling an absolutely anatomically-impossible insult goads the Bruiser into attacking again — and turns his face a lovely shade of purple. Ooh, someone who goes apoplectic, one of Ambrose's favorites.
Another swing is all power and the Bruiser misses, only to get a hard open-handed cup-slap to the side of the head. It leaves his ear ringing and he stumbles back while Ambrose grins. "Come now, you're going to let a little clangor stop you?" While Bruiser recovers, Ambrose shucks his jacket, revealing his own lean, lightly-tanned musculature in the process beneath his fitted t-shirt and beyond its sleeves.
*
Lena Snart nods, speaking with the tender and passing bills across. She takes up the bottle, weighing it in her hands, giving it a toss and catch. She watches the fight for a moment longer, downing another shot as the duo keeps rolling. The other fight in the corner was well and truly over, leaving both drizzling crimson from almost every hole of their heads.
"Lord," she calls out at length. "Finish it or I'm finishing it for you." Comes her one and only warning to Ambrose.
*
|ROLL| Ambrose +rolls 1d10 for: 10
|ROLL| Ambrose +rolls 1d10 for: 1
*
Bruiser recovers from his ear-clap quickly enough and barrels in like a bull. Ambrose waits until the absolute last second…
…and then side-steps like a matador, even wifting his jacket up and away in mockery of the sport. Bruiser slams straight into one of the tables and not only winds himself with its edge to his gut, but bounces his forehead off of it hard enough to be heard — a sharp crack of sound. He holds his face and woozily steps back with a groan.
"And with that, I hand you off to another interested party!" The Jackal announces even as he enacts the self-same grip-and-toss of Bruiser towards Lena. It puts the man in easy swinging range of the heavy-ended bottle even as the bald guy stays on his feet, stumbling with his back towards her.
*
"Can't even finish his own game." She tsks, watching the body shoot out in her direction. Boot up injust the right hook, she crushes it against the towering figures groin. This all feels wonderfully familiar to her, granted with far less smack talk. One shot down, she grips the bottle by its neck and crashes the object across the shaved dome of the biker.
She cracks him once, then twice, not exactly shattering the bottle but sending the man to the ground. Well, she had already paid for it, so a flip around and she uncorks the top, taking a drink from the source.
*
"WHOOOOOOOOOO, FUCK YEAH, LITTLE MOMMA!!!" This from a younger grouping of guys in the corner who have been watching the various brawls and drinking from their collection of beer pitchers — one for each of them.
"Goddamn, bitch can throw," says another, waggling his eyebrows at Lena.
Ambrose simply gives her his infuriating sliver of a smile and saunters back over, making a point to step over the fallen and unconscious body of Bruiser. He's seeing Tweety Birds, after all.
"You pass muster, little bird," the Jackal comments as he leans against the bar once more.
To counter the flat glare of the poor bartender, he pulls out a fifty dollar bill and slides it across. "For your troubles."
*
Lena Snart pays them no mind. She just drinks and sets the bottle on the counter top. "So that's just you, isn't it? You like playing with your prey before you end it?" Looking the man's direction, she gives him the once over and then looks down to the man still carpetting the floor between them. "You could have done that better." She decides, taking another drink and offering the bottle out here way. At least she was sharing.
"Quick question before I keep digging myself in your direction - do you do allies, Ambrose? Friends? Though, believe me, I use that term lightly."
*
The bottle is taken and Ambrose pours across the collection of sake cups. He's solidly buzzed at this point, so there's some minor sloshing, but thank god it's only minor. Lena's bottle is then pushed back towards her with the master-thief mindful not to touch her fingers in any manner. After all, the Bane is still lingering just beneath his skin in that distracting pins-and-needles tingle, brought up by the brief fistfight.
"You ask many questions," he notes nonchalantly. A cup of the liquor is thrown back and he smacks his lips before wrinkling his nose. "Firstly, yes, I do. I see no reason to let anyone foolish enough to engage in fisticuffs with me free without a lesson. Secondly, I do appreciate allies. They are effective connections throughout the city and useful contacts when need comes forth. Friends…yes," he continues, his eyes sliding and lingering on Lena's face. They gleam in the low light. "But they are few in number. I am not to everyone's tastes."
*
"I think that's a coping tactic. Some…shield? I don't now, you can't be a complete ass all the time, can you?" A sip from her bottle, she sighs and gives it a shake, checking its contents and just how much is left. "If you are, your partner is far, far more forgiving, and patient, than I am." Another drink, she almost finishes off the serving. Instead, she offers the last out to Ambrose.
"You're hopeless. As much as I'd like to be your friend, I'm not sure if that will ever actually happen. You've had ages to grow sour, bitter, and I've never had time not to be. Is that failure before anything has a chance to happen?"
*
Lena's commentary actually brings the master-thief to a full pause. The small chipped demi-tasse lingers at the level of his chest and he mouths silently at her for a second before his lips thin. Cheekbones dance high as his jaw tightens. Visibly, he smooths his own ruffled feathers and clears his throat.
Ambrose's voice goes utterly polite. "When you have been alive for nearly a century and a half and seen what humanity is capable of, you may commentate on becoming bitter. I am, in fact, not a complete ass all of the time. My partner would educate you as such."
He takes the shot of liquor he intended to and then another one yet, his scowl averted to the bartop.
*
"Fun. Show me that sometime and I'll believe you. Words are one thing, actions for another. Someone with your…wisdom would know that." Slipping off the stool, she steps on the man below, not seeming to mind much that he was her floor for the time being. "Life's too fucked not to be nice sometimes." Shrugging, she reaches out and gives his back a pat in passing. "To me, you're just some other ass lording himself over people like me. You've seen humanity, what it has to offer, guess best I got is asking you to understand why I'd hate something like that."
*
With an extended exhale sounding like a frustrated groan, Ambrose remains leaning his elbow heavily on the bar's counter. Fingers massage at his temple by his eyebrow as he mutters a few things to himself in Farsi before turning to give Lena a narrow look.
"Define your fun then, Miss Cold, or I will have to make an educated guess through my long years of existence. By your demeanor, I doubt you would appreciate this."
*
Silent, making a face at the exhale that passes his lips, the girl's lips purse before she takes a step back. That step back at least takes her boots off the man on the ground. "How about we talk later. I'm tired of looking at you right now. I'm also tired of pissing myself off by even talking to you like I am." A pause, she then assures, "This is not my definition of fun. It's the complete opposite." Lowering her eyes, she feeds her hands into her pockets.
"I'm sorry I misunderstood what you and the bombshell were talking about." A beat, "I'll leave your shit alone." She decides before turning to start heading for the exit.
*
"I appreciate your magnanimity in matters pertaining to my shit," the master-thief replies in the same forced polite tone. "And there is no need to apologize. We all err because we are all human…whether we'd like it or not."
The last bit is added in a growling undertone, as if Ambrose might spit on his own life experience. He then takes up the vacated barstool and the near-empty bottle gets poured out over the rest of the cups. Apparently, someone's going to definitely be stumbling home tonight.
"Be well," he adds distantly, now staring half-lidded at the rest of the bottles on the back wall.
*
Lena Snart stalls in her steps. Breathing in, then out, she bites at her lower lip and turns to look his way once more. He wasn't moving and there's a horrible hit against her heart at the truth of that. Her face wrinkles, her hands ball up into fists, and in a fluster and movement, she walks back to his side. A hand out, resting atop his forearm, she looks at his face and that scowl meant for the world entire. That flirt with bottles well in arm's reach.
"Come with me." She asks, voice soft an almost all too young. It's lost that chill, often natural to her tone. Apathy has shifted to aching empathy. "Please, just walk with me."
*
The sudden pressure of her palm on his forearm has the Jackal subtly flinching in place. His scowl absolutely turns from the gleam of the wall of bottles, hazy through the smoke, and lands upon firstly her hand. Then it rises to her face, his mouth twisted at first in contempt.
Then, like a cramped muscle slowly relaxing, Ambrose composes himself into something again polite.
"…yes, Miss Cold, I will escort you to where you wish to go. It is unwise to be out in this neighborhood late at night by oneself." One more shot of liquor and then he rises unsteadily from the barstool. "Go on, lead the way. I call myself a gentleman and I must act as such." A limp-wristed gesturing at the door does indicate Lena should lead the exodus from the bar — but only after Ambrose slips another fifty dollar bill to the bartender.
Bruiser, still out cold, is stepped over rather than stepped upon by the lieutenant's combat boots.
*
"You're not walking me anywhere. I'm taking care of you. With powers or not, you're pissed." She murmurs, hands out to catch his unsteady form should he allow her to. At length, the pair exit the bar, both being hit by a battering of cool breeze. It smells horrible but feels heavenly. A hand to his back, ready and waiting to lead by support, Snart starts walking down the alley and toward the main stretch of sidewalk.
"You don't have to be a gentleman. I would't know how to react if you were. Maybe, once upon a time that was true, now you're just a man." Beat, "And that's ok."
*
It's a bit of an awkward catch, given Ambrose tries to avoid it, but the young woman's efforts can be counted in keeping him from bouncing off another patron (and probably starting another fight, even if their own brief bar fight was nothing to sneeze at). He doesn't quite swat at her hands, but they manage to get out the door scot-free.
The air is bracing and Ambrose blinks hard once or twice before rubbing a hand down his face. Shrugging into his coat again takes concentration as they walk and it makes his reply stilted.
"I will always…be a gentleman…gnrrf…until the day I leave this world…ugnh…gods be damned, this fucking ruddy sleeve," he growls before finally getting the arm properly through it. "Because…well, because." And so there, the Jackal apparently implies as he zips up the leather jacket.
"You may remove your hand, I can walk without assistance," he then assures her with a sharp side-look. "And I can become completely sober whenever I ruddy well feel like it."
This is accompanied by a smirk.
*
"So you were making a fool of yourself on purpose?" She asks, hands down and in her pockets as the pair walks. Even with his confession, she keeps her sights on his gait. She counts his strides, trying to pick out when he may trip up, counting again.
"I'm just saying it's ok if you're not all the time. You have manners, good, you don't use them all the time. Cuting someone down with words alone? I'm…not sure if that makes you a gentleman or just sharp-tongued." Smirking now, faintly, she swallows down and glances around the lack of foot traffic they pass.
"Pancakes." She then says. "Waffles, too. Or burgers that slop everywhere. Shakes." She keeps thinking for a moment. "That's fun to me. Sneaking into movies. A brawl here or there, lifting ice-cream because it seems more innocent than a stick up?" A glance his way, then back forward, she continues. "The chase. That's what I find fun. I've never enjoyed the act for the simple 'tee-hee, look what I can do' glitter of it. I do it because I already know I can. I'm good at the game and lately, I've only been thieving for reasons." Something she was sure Mick wasn't too happy about.
*
"Not once was I a fool," the master-thief counters with a sharp sniff. "We all have our vices."
His pace is steady enough even if he does lean left and right here and there, as if just recently returned to land from a long voyage at sea. "Sharp-tongued." The agreement comes as Ambrose kicks a crushed can off to one side out of their path and manages to keep his balance. His hands have firmly disappeared away into his pockets as well. At least the cold air is bracing!
"So you are claiming your vice is the act of stealing itself? Or that you have become bored with perfecting the art of it?" He snorts before continuing. The words come more hesitantly. "Movies were a wonder when they first appeared in modern society. I do like some movies. I am no fan of pancakes, but waffles…they are acceptable. Stealing ice cream is far too easy." It's not a hard argument on his part however as the Jackal glances over at Lena.
*
"I don't think so. I was always good at it. It's a means to survive and, in the end, it's pretty much all that's left." Why? She could never explain why, it just was. "If it doesn't go well, I'm often disappointed in myself. I missed something somewhere - my mind doesn't forgive that." She keeps walking, counting, each beat his boot falls and meets unsteady ground, her hand slips out and rests on his back, steadying him. For the time being, she has his mark.
"I would have liked to have seen that happen. The transition and progression of film. Soda and popcorn can be a wonder." A pause, "And Snocaps." Then she chuckles, "It's not the fact that it's easy, it's just how sweet it tastes afterward."
*
"Ah, the sweetness of it. I understand now. I am reminded of my youth in this. It was trifling to lift dried fruits from the stalls of Basra," the master-thief relates to Lena as they continue. With a sudden stop of realization, he groans and runs a hand down his face.
"Gods, Atherton, you cannot be doing this…" he mutters to himself. Then clearing his throat, he turns to look at Lena. "Since we are being honest with one another and you do not deserve to endure what generally comes of those brave enough to entertain friendship with me: do understand that life is unkind. One thing it has taught me well is that people who linger around me die. My mate is immortal, as myself, and even he has been taken from me before. Understand, Miss Lena…" Hands clench and relax as the Jackal fights down a surge of emotion. "Understand this before you begin to bond to me. I have been a soldier, a gentleman, a thief — I have been the blade called down in the dark at the word of my mate — I have killed many in the name of war and crown and my own bloody selfish reasons. I have enemies whose descendants still hunt me across the oceans."
His throat moves in a hard swallow. "Do you understand me?"
*
"Atherton?" Lena questions, coming to a stop and turning to face the sloshed gent. She stares, eye to eye and doesn't move a muscle. Her expression softens as the term 'you do not deserve to endure' sweeps through her ears. He? That makes sense now…At length, and once he's done, she stalls in silence. The world around them still moves, shifting about here and there - the night was young, after all.
"Sure," comes her underwhelming answer. "Do you want to be my friend or not?" She counters.
*
Admittedly, Ambrose might have been drawing upon untold decades of social mastery and some elements of the thespian in his brief monologue. He seems to jerk minutely back at the brief reply and moreso yet at her question to follow. The hand returns to wipe down the opposite side of his face and he quarter-turns away from Lena, muttering away rapidly to himself in Farsi.
Then, the air draws tight around him — electrical — briefly flickering across Lena's skin exposed to the front like a gossamer drag of spiderwebbing. The Jackal inhales sharply and holds the air, his chin lifted and poise gone breathlessly still…before he sighs again.
A comfortable slouchy roll of his shoulders and when he turns to face Lena again, there's not an ounce of the glaze-eyed lassitude to be found in him. Sober, snap: just like that — thanks, Bane.
"I could not continue this conversation intoxicated, it was a hindrance," he explains. "Yes, Atherton, it is my surname — and be your friend? Miss Lena." His dark brows knit before he laughs once, a note of bamboozlement in it. "Why in the seven hells would you want me as a friend?"
Then, a curt cutting gesture off to his side along with another chuckle, this time weaker. "Yes. Yes, Miss Lena, let us be friends. So be it. You are no ward of mine, you are your own woman."
*
"Neat trick." She mutters watching after him and all the otherworldly things he does to goes stone cold. Shifting her hips, one side to another, she eyes down the alley way, perceptive of their surroundings, before allowing herself to settle back on Ambrose.
"I don't now yet," she answers honestly, her slender shoulders lifting in an half-hearted shrug. Then, he keeps talking, and that twitches a softer look across her visage. "You…wanted me as a ward?"
*
Ambrose makes a quiet sound like a frog after a three-story drop after her next question. His eyes visibly widen.
"Oh bloody hell, no — and that is not intended as an insult. You would not wish me to entrust you as my ward, Miss Lena, no — no and no again, no. I am not entirely responsible." Even if he appears to hate to admit it, the Jackal will apparently be candid on this point at least.
"We keep no pets at my abode, not even a goldfish. If I cannot be expected to keep a goldfish alive, you being my ward is a thing of folly." He laughs again, his smile awkward and even slightly apologetic.
*
"Oh." She responds, growing somber at the clarification. At least she doesn't seem mad - so it wasn't an insult. Her hands move up, brushing against her arms in an urge to warm them, even if they were not exactly cold. Maybe, she just needed something to do before she started fidgetting.
"So, now what? I'm not scared off? We're friends but I have no idea what that means for people like us." A smile, she lowers her gaze toward the ground. "At least I understand why you weren't flirting back." A pause, her head moves up. "Does he know what you are? What you do?"
*
The master-thief really does want to run a hand down his face again, but now that he's sober, it seems excessive and transparent behavior. Instead, he steps backwards a step or two to lean his spine against the nearest street light before lightly crossing his arms.
"I was not flirting, no — charming, yes, and there is a difference," Ambrose notes in his personal opinion on matters. "Insofar as my mate, yes. Of couse he is aware of my habits. He has been aware of them for nigh on a century. He is intimately aware of what I am as well, yes, in my accursed state. We would not be a pair as such without this clarity of understanding."
Which no doubt makes Talbot a force of nature unto himself.
*
"Yeah, I get the difference. Hence why I was saying you weren't…Nevermind." Taking a breath, she nibbles at her lower lip, chewing for the sake of yet something else to do. "I think I've already messed up tonight more than I aimed to. All I can say is I'm sorry about that. I'm not sure what comes after…making friends. Do we just try again later?"
*
Ambrose arches an eyebrow.
"I am, in fact, attracted to both sexes. My mate simply struck first," the Jackal clarifies drily. "Though…no, I take this back, I did shoot him first, I believe — but did he attempt — ah, right, first blood was mine, yes." He finishes muttering to himself and his eyes shift back to Lena.
"My suggestion would be to sleep on it as well as sleep off the liquor in your own system. Morning may bring with it an especial wisdom."
And a headache, potentially.
*
Lena Snart shakes her head, "I didn't say you weren't…ok, I said nevermind. So nevermind it." Then the girl finds herself standing silent once more. Only after a moment or so, she starts laughing. "At least you're pitiful at this like I am. Alright, fine. I'll leave you alone. I guess we'll see how this goes."