If you could see her through my eyes, you wouldn't wonder at all

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

 

*For a few days, Amrita could barely feel her feet touching the ground as she worked her shifts downstairs at the Leaky. She couldn't believe her luck, meeting (or re-meeting) Remus: he'd somehow taken a horrible day and spun it into something good, something hopeful. But it's been awhile since they met—in that very booth right over there, which her eyes keep flashing to worriedly--and she's long since started to doubt that he'll owl at all. The pub's near-empty most days, like much of Diagon Alley, so she's been spending a lot of time brooding and washing out glasses that don't need to be washed out, oscillating wildly between hope and despair and inventing less-and-less plausible reasons for the delay until she's driven herself half-mad with it for no particular reason.

It's foolish, but she can't help it, and tonight's no different. The early promise of the night—patrons, laughter, tips—has turned into achy feet and endless one-more-rounds for the only customer in the place, a regular who's neither charming nor a particularly good tipper. Still, she puts on her best smile for him as she refills his drink again and again. Behind it, her mind helplessly worries at itself like a well-picked bone: maybe he'll owl tomorrow morning. Or the next day. Or never. Best give up now. Oh, don't be ridiculous. Maybe he'll owl tomorrow morning.

This is what's galloping through her head like a centaur on uppers as she smiles prettily at the regular, waiting for last call, or for him to leave, or for her headache to simply kill her—whichever comes first.*

Comments

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

Oh, no! It's perfect, thank you.

*Her answering smile is hard and brilliant as crystal, her eyes just slightly overbright. She looks down calmly at what's on her plate, then, and concentrates on not cramming it directly into her mouth with her hands, bone first.*

Looks good.

*Somehow--somehow--she manages the knife and fork properly. More than properly: perfectly. At the first bite, she almost weeps. The slick striations of muscle sliding down her throat are beyond bliss.*

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

*He almost forgets to close his mouth as he watches her eat, the meat so raw it must be cold in the middle, and how it drips with blood, how its texture must be more flesh than food inside of her mouth. His own hunger has moved rather lower in his body. He has to force himself to look away, to his own plate, the medium rare duck breast now laughable and pathetic covered in a dark splattering of cherry reduction.

He almost envies the bovine chosen to die that it may enter her mouth.

They eat in silence for a long minute, Evan watching her out of the corner of his eye as hungrily as she watches her own plate.*

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

*Try as she might, she can't even remotely manage conversation along with with this thing of beauty she's trying not to...well, wolf down. So it's a long silence broken only by the dull clinks of flatware on plates before she tears herself reluctantly from her plate, now empty but for a little puddle of blood.

She looks up a little dazedly, feeling anchored by the meat, strong and hale and full of vigor in a way she wasn't, exactly, before. The way he's looking at her is equal parts frightening and hilarious, pitiable and exciting: half Destroyer of Worlds, half toddler.

She's charmed by it, and feels rather excellent besides, so she does one better: tracing a finger absently through the blood on her plate, she puts it to her lips. Her manners have been flawless up until now--and besides, she's not quite ready to bid farewell to Monsieur Entrecôte.*

How was your duck?

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

*The duck lies, sad and cooling and only half-finished, on his plate. He looks down at it again, utterly bewildered that there is anything at all on this earth that isn't that steak and her mouth and blood red wine disappearing from the glass between her lips and her finger tracing its way through the blood on the plate--and, alarmingly, his trousers don't fit quite as well as they did when he sat down. It is disconcerting to find himself completely captivated, and to literally find himself again, to wake up from this reverie. Still, he can recover smoothly enough.*

It was excellent. No complaints on your end, I see.

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

Certainly not.

*She grins then, almost crookedly, her heart hammering in her chest. It feels better than good: it's wonderful, exhilarating. She takes the cloth napkin from her lap and pats at her lips with it, leaving it ever-so-slightly bloodstained on the table. Brightly, she takes up her wineglass and takes a hearty draught--a gulp, really. Her mood has improved at the slight detriment of her manners.*

Really great place, Evan.

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

*She may have been pretty enough before, but now she is beautiful. He wonders if this is what it must feel like to be completely ruled by the ring in his pocket.

He refills her glass, and then her own, finishing off the bottle, and then lifts his glass toward her.*

To great places, then, and excellent company to share it with.

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

Quite.

*She grins again, watching him over her glass, and makes a slightly rueful confession. The heady mix of wine and his eyes on her and fresh blood in her stomach is pleasant, but she's getting just a touch silly with all of it.*

I'm really having a lovely time. Thank you.

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

Me too.

*He takes a long sip, relishing the vintage, and recognizes the warmth of everything in his stomach--and his mind--and how flushed both of them have become with it.*

Dessert? Or port? Or both?

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

Port, I think, don't you?

*Honestly, the idea of chocolate or some kind of well-drizzled Napoleon nonsense couldn't be less interesting to her.. The ideal dessert, of course, would be another steak--or an eyeball or something--

The thought is so bizarre, so out of nowhere, that she giggles, slightly horrified at herself.*

Yes. Port.

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

*He flags down a waiter immediately, almost disturbed by how willing he is to do her bidding, and orders two glasses of an absurdly expensive and ancient vintage that appear readily.*

You never finished telling me about India. I'd love to hear about it. Were you born there?

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

No, right here, in St. Mungo's. You too, I imagine?

*The port is criminally good--and Amrita knows port. Absently, ridiculously, she wishes she had extra mouths in case she ever returns.*

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

Midwife, actually, at the estate. No idea why my mother did it. She sometimes just gets these ideas in her head and runs with them, and the idea she got was a midwife, having me at home. Father just about killed her for it, but there were three healers and one midwife right there when it happened.

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

Better safe than sorry, wouldn't you say?

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

I suppose. Although I wouldn't really have known the difference if something had gone wrong.

She said the only thing that made the pain tolerable was Wagner, full volume. I guess that's where I get my taste in music.

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

*At that, her eyebrow quirks in obvious interest.*

We'll talk about music sometime, won't we? But not tonight.

*The reasoning behind this is solid: she's far too all-of-a-flutter to go into her long-forgotten piano theory--or her singular hatred of Wagner, for that matter. So instead she simply finishes her port.*

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

*The misstep jars him a little, but he inclines his head and matches her, finishing his as well.

He doesn't want to, but everything on the table has been cleared or is empty, and the check comes smoothly into his hands. He counts out Galleons as unobtrusively as he can.*

May I take that as acceptance of my invitation to another date at some other point in the future? At your leisure, of course.

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

*That hadn't been what she was getting at at all, but she rolls with it: only a little flustered, just the least bit blushing.*

Oh. Well--yes. Of course!

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

*He watches her blush as the check and its hefty tip is taken and decides, for a moment, on honesty.*

You know, if it weren't completely ungentlemanly and if I weren't certain you'd turn me down, I'd invite you back to my flat tonight. I have some lovely mead I've been loath to open without company.

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

*If Amrita's face goes a bit blank, it's understandable: it's distracting, the bright flashing like one of those horrible advertisements in Witch Weekly: SHOULD I-- NO--SHOULD I--NO--SHOULD I—NO-- BUT CAN I ANYWAY--NO

Eventually, reluctance wins—but ever so barely, and she presses her hands to her flaming cheeks.*

It's a good thing you're such a gentleman then, isn't it.

Another time, perhaps?

*She isn't cruel with it; in fact, she's fidgeting like a house-elf, and it couldn't be clearer that most of her is regretting it as soon as it's left her mouth. But in truth, it's all coming on rather fast as it is.*

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

*The debate is plain on her face, and it makes him grin only a little wickedly.*

The mead's kept for about fourty years. It'll keep a while longer.

Would you like me to walk you back to the Leaky?

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

Yes, I'd like that very much, please.

*It feels like they'd sat down only seconds ago, and in what seems like only an instant longer she's back in her cloak and leaving the place with a peculiar pang of regret. Her breath steams instantly in the frigid air, and she warms her hands in her pockets.*

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

*Cloaked and cold again, he offers her his arm as they stroll back to the Cauldron, leaving the warm and enchanting hustle and bustle of Rinard's behind. The street is cold and truly dark now, and the hour is later than either of them could have anticipated.

Reaching the side door, he releases her arm but catches her hands, drawing her a closer in the shadows of the alley than either of them might come on the street.

When he speaks, there's a bit of rough need in it that he can't disguise, a tiny speck of desperation and want.*

When can I see you again?

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

*She does a little quick math: certainly the strangest situation in which she's had to do so. She's working nights at the Leaky the next two days, and after that--well. She won't be seeing anyone but the inside of the sub-cellar. A few days to recuperate, and that left...*

A week from tomorrow.

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

*His crooked finger finds her chin and tilts it up toward his face, gently.*

That's awfully precise.

Seven again? I have a place in mind, if you enjoy Italian. It's a bit further away, but not too long. And we can always grab a Muggle taxi if we don't want to walk.

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

*He's far too close, the taste of blood in her mouth too lingering. She's outright trembling.

SHOULD I—NO--SHOULD I—NO.*


I'd love to.