Summary:Ambrose and Lena manage to have a perfectly normal conversation without an argument breaking out. Pinch yourself! Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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Lena Snart was going out of her element. She was stretching, running, jumping, not thinking and just doing. Tonight, for example, Ambrose is given invitation to one of the Ice Queen's safe houses peppered throughout the city. The situation was spartan, some shack of an apartment that was blessed enough to have one bedroom all on its own. It took walking up a set of iron steps to reach the window she told him to use as an entry point.
Inside sits Lena, her attire simple and summerish given the chill in the air outside. Short-ratty shorts hug high on her thighs and a loose tanktop, red with a lightening bolt in its middle on a circle of white is fit to her torso. Her hair is up in a messy tail and a set of goggles is on her eyes. She sits, hunched over a table, tools in hand and what looks like her weapon on display. Sparks fly and die down, the TV runs white noise in the backround, some show she's forgotten all about.
Up the steps he comes, soft-footed as an alley cat, dressed nearly as darkly in the process. Ambrose slinks to the window and lingers, peering inside. His black scarf, long and wrapped several times about his neck and one about his face, blends nearly seamlessly into his thermal-linked jacket and black fatigue-pants.
He's patient as the night is long, lifting up the window while sparks fly and distract, and equally as careful to slide it shut so the outside air doesn't draw attention. A shadow crossing the room now, the master-thief is certain to curve around behind Lena — now disturbed air moves past her as he's quick during a flaring sparkle of the soldering tool; it leaves behind cologne she might be beginning to recognize at this point.
When the sparks fall to darkness, there he is, standing opposite her across the table. Slowly, he reaches to pull down the scarf from about his face. "Perhaps a sensor at the window to alert you," suggests the Jackal mildly.
Sniffing gently, she girl tenses until the smell settles at something familiar. Easing, she keeps to her work, only stopping once he's standing across from her. "Nothing here to take, so no need yet." Tools down, she turns her head upward and looks his way, eyes still blocked by rounded, azure lenses. She's just a girl now, or so it seems, showning of comfort, normality, and that scar around her throat is on full display. Reaching up, she slides the eye-gear back and pulls the gloves off her hands, tossing the fabric down and onto the table.
"You look frozen. Want a drink or something?"
In the distance, faint for now, Ambrose can hear the easy, steady sounds of someone breathing, snoring.
"I will take a drink, yes, if you've gin or bourbon," the master-thief replies. He does note the sound of a sleeper nearby and shoots a curious if distantly annoyed look towards the bedroom. Eyebrows lift promptingly at Lena.
"And that must be your other half, I assume?" His voice is pitched more quietly now, as if he'd hesitate to wake the sleeper. Kent must be instilling some manners in him after all over the decades of coexistence. Still, the Jackal floats away and towards the television, apparently looking for the remote. The volume is turned up a few notches more to cover their conversation and keep the sleeper asleep.
"Sure." Slipping off her stool, she pads toward the kitchen and presses up on her toes. Reaching up, she drags down a couple of bottles. Setting them down, she pours the man some gin upon request and brings it over to him, holding it out in his direction. Eyeing down the hall, then to the TV, she comes back around to Ambrose.
"Mmhmm. Don't worry about him, he'll be out for awhile. Weather goes cold and he turns into a bear." Smirking, she moves around to flop upon the sofa once the glass is out of her hand. "You know, you'll have to meet him and work with him if our group project works out, right?" A look his way, she smiles. "You remember that big guy setting shit on fire at that gem exchange? The driver after I punched that pretty face?"
Ambrose is careful to take the highball glass without brushing Lena's fingers; tonight, he arrived sans gloves, so the Bane lingers like low-burning coals beneath the long-practiced control of his consciousness. It scratches at the back of the Jackal's attention towards the sleeper, but he pushes the curse back into the depths of his bones with a promise to assuage it on the way home.
Another idle glance is given towards the bedroom. "Yes, he seemed a charming sort — prone to the use of flames at the drop of a hat." A subtle curl of lip falls flat again in order for him to sip at the gin. It doesn't require an ice cube…not that Ambrose would want one right now, still annoyed at how the tips of his ears are cold.
"He's charming. Loves fire as much as I love ice. It's only more disturbing the longer I think about it." Shrugging, she keeps her pale gaze on the man beside her. Her brows knit briefly before she relaxes and pulls the goggles from her head completely. Setting them aside, she shifts and folds her legs under themselves, turning into a lanky lotus. "So, been a night and some time, you still feeling right about making a group like this?"
Silent bootsteps bring Ambrose to wander about the small and barren apartment, as if tracing its walls would familiarize himself with it and aid in suggestions for bulwarking in the future for the bolthole. He moves the drink in a small circle to entice a wave to curl up and about the walls of the glass as fidget. At his chest height, he continues holding it.
"I personally do not see why this idea cannot come to fruition. I have seen far less aptly-matched beings manage cooperation under duress." A mild smile passes over his lips as he glances at Lena. There must be a story there. "It will be nice having others of our hobby not stepping into my own business. You are aware of what happens when someone does. I do not think we should draw attention to ourselves in any manner, however. You and I — Kent by proxy — we have family to keep safe and away from the spotlight or seeking noses."
"I know. I got tired of having my ass handed to me by people that..stopped being people a long time ago." A pause, she watches after him and nods. "Right. Family. Even Mick," she glances down the hallway. "He has a way of making legit money. Lisa, too. So, if I can keep them away from this," another shrug, she hugs her slender legs up and against her chest.
"If you think we can do this, we'll do this. I don't like feeling weak, or even showing it. I'll need help. You and Kent know what you're doing, and even if you don't, you act it very well."
Ambrose tilts his head in conjunction with a nonchalant lift of his shoulder. "We have been around for many, many years more on this earth than you, Miss Lena. Experience is in our favor," he demurs with a little lift of his drink to the concept. Another mouthful of gin wets his palate. "When we share our thoughts on matters, we rarely do so lightly or without consideration. You should know…"
Soft chuckling begins and fades out on a sigh. "We have been alive long enough to see time spent at the very tip of a grand city's underworld — the top of the shadowed echelon, where men took to their knee before Kent and I, at his side, enforced his law when men failed to heed his word. Kent even appears to like you, which is…" His smile is edged yet. "…admittedly a difficult thing to accomplish. He chooses his company wisely. I think…consider him the more level head between the two of us. I am for seizing opportunity against impossible odds, but then again, I am very, very difficult to kill. Ask Kent. He will tell you so."
"Your boytoy likes me? Why in hell would he like me?" Lena questions, having listened to the darker figure looming in her living room with interest. "I mean, I'm sure you guys have stories. Good ones, bad ones. I like stories, but I'm still getting over myself and this whole…letting others in, thing. I'm not sure why you give a shit about someone like me, but I'm not dumb enough to throw it away so readily." A brush of her arm, she swallows and then stands, moving to get herself a drink. Ambrose knew by now that connections were something that set Lena's nerves off
"May I ask what you want to do this for? Besides personal reasons?"
"While I can claim to read Kent's mind, I do not root about it all of the time." The Jackal watches Lena rise and move towards the kitchen with its collection of bottles. He doesn't shift from where he stands, tall and indeed dark in his current garb, warming up in the atmosphere of the bolthole apartment. Another sip of gin is appreciated.
"Why do I want to do this…if not for personal reasons," Ambrose amends his own thought in a musing tone. "Hmm. To keep myself in knowledge of the latest technology, rapidly evolving as it is — no doubt others will have heard where appropriate marks are for my own interests — to stave off boredom." His tongue clicks off his teeth as he grimaces. Such a thing, boredom.
"You have such low self-esteem for your age," Ambrose then notes in the blunt manner of his personality. "Does your significant other not provide you sufficient support?"
"Still not telling me why." She mutters, claiming her drink and returning to her seat. "But if he likes me, well…sure. Whatever." A sip of some darker fluid, the girl drinks from a glass bottle reading IBC across its front. For once, he's not seeing her drink anything alcoholic - the smell of the bubbly liquid is a smooth vanilla.
"I guess that's good enough, too. I never thought what life would be like if I just kept on living." Another sip, she stares for a moment. "Hey, don't talk shit about Mick. He's fucking perfection. Me feeling the way I do is all on me." She warns, glaring more so at herself than posing any threat to Ambrose. "Funny…Mera asked the same thing."
"Then this Mera is perceptive — and I am not speaking badly in the least of your Mick. I presume he is supportive of you and this, in turn, should feed into bolstering your self-esteem." Killing the rest of his drink, Ambrose walks to fetch the bottle of gin and refill his glass. While in the kitchen, he speaks over his shoulder.
"And your question as to 'why' he might like you is for Kent to answer. It is not upon my head. It was merely an observation on my part." This time, the Jackal wishes for an ice-cube for his drink, but chooses to forgo one for now as to better slink back over beside the table. "Attachments are a part of human nature. We bond. We show affection. I know, it's disturbing…" A subtle quicksilvery wending of tease slips through his words.
"Mick can sweet talk me all damn day, but me accepting it, like I said, is on me." Swallowing more of her soda down, she slips back and lays on the sofa since Ambrose had not taking up space beside her. Prone, fingers lacing atop her belly, she relaxes and allows a breath to pass her nude lips.
"Sometimes, well most of the time, I hate human nature. It's ugly."
Presuming to remain standing, Ambrose lingers by the table yet. "Sometimes, yes, human nature is also profoundly ugly. Kent and I know it well. What time we spent outside of sanctioned wars was spent fighting our own. It takes so very little to topple one's safety and sanity if the attack is aimed at the correct weak crack in one's core being…" His voice goes distant as he sips at his gin.
"But should you linger on this, your view becomes distorted — your lenses smoked and foggy and little shines through. I would know. I spent a large portion of the second World War wearing just those particular lenses and came out of the War praying Karma would not step in to weight my heart against a feather on her scale. You claim me bitter, which I will acknowledge from time to time. You…" And a finger uncurls to point at the reclining young woman. "…are on the very same path, Miss Lena."
"I know I'm bitter. I'll never claim otherwise." She answers gently, giving a glance back down the hall as something seems to thud. She listens, silent for a time, before seeming to let it pass. No cause for alarm.
"So how did you get over it? All the shit you've seen for so long and you're still just…you have your moments, Ambrose. I've seen it, that's why I called it out. I think part of me was hoping that someone like you could help me."
An eyebrow arches. "Bloody hell, you wish me to help you?" The other joins its brethren in lifting high. Lena has taken him off-guard. He can tell she's earnest enough in her opinion as to his aid. His mouth remains parted for another second before he shuts it and hmphs to himself.
"I suppose… Let me consider what wisdom I may have to offer." Mulling through reams of 'wisdom' has the Jackal pacing yet again. He gives the cracked bedroom door another suspicious look as he pads past it and swing around, lips pursed.
His cerulean-blue eyes land on Lena solemnly. "Kent aided a great deal. I was without the ability to touch another human being for nearly twenty years before I met him. My…power would not allow it. Was it love? In time, yes. This, and…learning that no human being is the paramount of perfection. We are flawed, as a species. We hurt for delight and kill for the simple reason of claiming resources as our own. Am I guiltless? No." Ambrose shakes his head and sighs. "Am I redeemable? Yes. We all are. I have seen in it Kent himself, he who could still but lift a directing finger and I would stoop to a target. Does he? No, not unless in defense of our family."
Another long sip of his gin. "And I am perfectly allowed to be bitter. It is my right as a human being."
"Well, you don't have to." She whispers, cheeks flooding pink as the girl starts questioning the stupidity of even asking. Rolling over and onto her side, she stares at the TV, still playing whatever the program had become while they were speaking.
She frowns and just rests her head down, curling up on the sofa and even groping out for some blanket to drape over herself. "I'm sorry you couldn't touch anyone for that long. I'm…glad you found someone to help you out. It all sounds like things I already know, though."
"You know about all the shit happening and how people are. You've seen it over and over and over again. You have Kent, that's good. I have Mick, alright. So then what? What do people like us do? Does it ever go away? That knowing of how wasted and disgusting life can be?"
"Is ice cream wasted and disgusting?" the Jackal asks benignly, his expression reminiscent of Kent at his most sage.
"The hell is that suppose to mean?" Lena quirks a brow in his direction.
"You're allowing your lenses to tint your viewpoint upon the world. Despite my inebriation, I have memory of you expounding upon ice cream and how sweet it tasted after lifting it from the truck or stand or wherever you chose to wrap your sticky fingers about it. Is that ice cream wasted or disgusting?" Ambrose repeats patiently.
"It's neither. It's simply gone." Lena answers. She knew the memory well, but her mood did not allow it to bring any sliver of joy into her mind. At least not visibly. "Is this a 'use the good to combat the bad' kind of things? Is that what you did? Do?"
"Yes. It is that simple. One can philosophize until their brain has melted from their ears like a plate of cheese in Moroccan sun about it, but if you cannot find something worthwhile in the day, then absolutely. You will remain bitter as the underside of a codfish's gullet."
Half of the gin in this glass remains now and the master-thief's fingers are beginning to comfortably buzz. "Now…everyone has their delights, yes, and mine has evolved over the years to become less…sanguine. I take delight in knowing that there is not a single revolver aimed between my shoulderblades on the street — that I may indulge my power in a crowd without leaving death in my wake — that I may dream if I so choose — that my daughter is strong and grown now, sure to hold her own against what life chooses to throw against her."
Lena Snart frowns. Not in rage or hate, just a softening of her lips as her face takes on a rather youthful innocence. From all the words he's said, the wisdom he's shared, when the man speaks of his daughter, it seems to chip at the frozen shell of the girl on the sofa. Cuddling back down against her pillow and blanket, she returns her gaze to the screen and simply stares.
"It's a good dream." She murmurs gently. "Keep it."
A small creak from the table is proof of Ambrose seating himself on its edge. He's not blind: long-lived, the master-thief caught the microtells of one of his points landing home.
"Yes, I do have a daughter," he murmurs, glancing up from the reflective surface of his gin. "Her name is Kazimira. She does not mind being called 'Mira'. She has my eyes, darker yet, brilliant as tanzanite, and my family's freckles…and her mother's skin and hair. She is my living gem." A sigh can be heard. "If you think me incapable of great love or violence, merely consider my daughter. She is indeed a good dream to keep safe. I think you will find your dream one day, Miss Lena, though it may take time. Be patient yet."
Lena Snart blinks, attempting to keep something back, even as her pale eyes gloss and fat tears gather against her lashes. "I didn't think you were incapable." She murmurs weakly, curling up all the more as a pain rips through her core. She's not looking at him, nor anywhere near him, but she knows he's close. So much for hashing out 'crook club' ideas.
"I respect you a bit more," she confesses. "You're a good dad, so…that's something."
Again, a little sigh, and Ambrose scratches at the line of his jaw as he glances aside, as if averting his gaze from Lena might give her time to compose herself.
"I do not know if I would claim to be a shining example of fatherhood, given I weigh in on very little with Mira grown, but…I do attempt to at least retain the title, I suppose," he murmurs, gone quieter yet.
"You give a shit, that's a shining example as far as I'm concrened." Sniffling, she grumbles and rubs her eyes. Now annoyed with herself, she sits up and swallows. "Sorry." A sorry instead of a regular 'fuck you' to the emotional shift. Reaching for her drink, she takes a few sips and lowers it down.
At first, Ambrose doesn't reply. The sound of him setting aside his empty glass is followed by a retreat into the kitchen and then a return with one of the dish-rags hanging. This is offered to Lena by gentle sling over the edge of the couch, as if — as always — he dare not brush skin to skin.
"You need not apologize. I am not the asshole to carry handkerchiefs, after all, so that will need to do for now," he says with a nod towards the ratty towel.
"Scared to touch me?" She teases, even knowing damn well what that would be like already. She fed the thing once, after all. Taking the rag, she clears off her face and gives a blow of her nose to clear it out. Folding the fabric, she sets it aside and away from them both. "I bet Tal, does." She points out - one of them had to have that amount of class, after all.
"Kent indeed continues to carry handkerchiefs because he was raised in an echelon of class even above my own." Ambrose grins wryly. "That, and in some mannerisms, he is 'old school'." Oh man, air quotes.
There he goes with his glass and there's another serving of gin poured for himself, at least three fingers. The Jackal isn't weaving, not yet, proof of a long acquaintanceship with the liquor. "And you know full well why I do not lay hands upon you. Tsk, Miss Lena, such taste in jokes with your Mick snoring away as a bear not one room over." A finger wags from its grip about the glass.
"I'm trying to shake this funk off myself. You start talking about loving your daughter and boom - I'm worthless." She smirks now, starting to reclaim a bit of her self.
Glancing off toward the bear, she scoffs and sits back. "Hey, he can talk about the hot fish one, I can talk about the hot guy from the desert." Fair was fair, after all.
"Oh, puh." And such an aggrieved eyeroll to follow her claims.
"You did not wish to be my ward and again, as we have discussed before, I am fully aware of how irresponsible I would be as a tutor. We do not have goldfish, remember?" Ambrose's eyebrows lift again in accent even as he takes a gulp of gin. "That, and my daughter is grown. Ruddy hell, do you expect that she listens to me half of the time? I have little wisdom to offer her these days."
A beat and then the Jackal smirks coyly. "Kent would agree with your claim, however. I am quite hot."
"Oh so, I'm your ward and listening to you. You want me to call you 'daddy', too?" She prods, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. "No, no, I meant…we met someone from another world. Atlantis, she says. Her name is Mera and she's very beautiful. Thus, the hot fish one." Reaching up, the girl brushes away some of her loose sweeps of dyed hair.
"Anyway, I'll take what I can get and I'm sorry for unloading on you like that. I don't know what to say and to who most times."
Ambrose gives the young woman a flat look. "No, you would not be my ward because you do not listen," he fires evenly back with a sniff to boot. "Though this other Mera does sound fascinating if she is indeed from Atlantis. I do remember the stories from my youth."
His shoulders shrug yet again. "Again, you need not apologize. You are young yet. I do remember being young," he says with a quiet laugh before he tips back the rest of his gin in a few gulps. Wow.
Lena Snart settles once more, a hint of confusion on her face as she looks out toward the TV. "Sorry, so I'm not your ward. Right." There's a hint of disappointment there. "Right, being young and what not. Anyway, I'll see if Mera wants to meet more people sometime. Trying to get her use to the surface world is a bit challenging. Fun, though. Special." With a shake of her head, the girl signs. "I need to get back to Jadis. You can stay as long as you'd like. Hey, we got into a conversation that didn't end in a fight for once." But it did not end in cheer, either.
"Mmm…yes, I shan't linger. I did not expect to be here as long as it has been." Now empty, his glass is considered with a sigh. "I will be able to return home without issue, however, which is to everyone's blessing." The Jackal's eyes rise to Lena again and this time, they narrow.
"…we will discuss why you continue to wish to be my ward at another time, I think — that, and this Mera, yes, if she is as rare of personage as you claim. I shan't let you down next time, however: surely I am able to end the next conversation in a rousing lifting of voices." He laughs again, this time a little louder, before turning to walk towards the window.
"Hey, don't worry about it, Ambrose. I'll stop wanting to be and you don't have to think about it." Smiling, letting it go, she slips the goggles back atop her head and walks after him toward the window - she has to lock it after all.
"Be safe out there, alright? I'll die if I have to host Kent because you don't get home."