Du Même Tonneau - [Closed: Delphi]

[Lyra d'Aiglemort]

The elevator dinged, resulting in a shuffle of bodies as two were disgorged from the metal jaws of death. Lyra bit her lip, chiding her sense of melodrama until the man next to her dug his elbow into her ribs for the third time; then she began practicing her breathing exercises and mentally pictured the elevator closing on his arm.

These were not charitable thoughts. Lyra should have felt shame, or maybe alarm, instead the irritation simmered. None of these people were at fault, they were just too close, each sniffle and exhale scraping at her nerves like a comb pulled backward through a cat's fur coat.

She ground her teeth but at the next stop Mr. Elbows finally departed and she was left sharing the space with only two more bodies. Lyra smoothed at her skirt, standing straighter and watching the lights blink as they rose higher. You’d think such a tall building could afford multiple elevators.

Finally disgorged herself, she tucked an errant strand of hair behind one ear, the rest pulled back in a bun, and walked as if she knew where she was going.

Which she didn’t. Because no one had seen fit to tell her any details about her job. She was lucky she had the name of the building.

Lyra very carefully did not make fists, but she did resume her breathing exercises. It wasn’t that big of a deal. This was a simple errand. Get in, get the files, burn them. Hope no one digitized them yet because Lyra’s skills did not include sneaking around in computers. Easy.

That Father hadn’t said anything when Mr. Williams brought up his indiscretion (and the law firm that had gotten ahold of photographic evidence on behalf of his soon to be ex-wife), hadn’t even looked at her while Mr. Williams threw out how helpful it would be if this mess could disappear, that was what had her heart clenched so tight it missed half the beats.

She supposed she should be glad no one had brought up that it was easier to make Mrs. Williams disappear than it was to erase evidence of something so colossally stupid and public. But Lyra couldn’t even take that as reassurance because neither of them addressed her during the entire conversation.

The entire conversation!

Barring Mr. Williams nervous glances which hardly counted.

And all of that would have been fine – Lyra would have understood, Father was in a bad mood and wanted to make a point about something or other, alright – had she not had actual work today. At her job. Where she was employed to show up during normal business hours and not to skulk around a law firm looking for pictures Mrs. Williams rightly deserved.

(It wasn’t Lyra’s place to judge. Or to think, apparently. But that evidence would make Mrs. Williams rich should she bring it to court and richer if she just blackmailed her husband. Which was the least she deserved for having put up with him for 15 odd years in Lyra’s opinion.)

Growling under her breath, Lyra frowned at the office numbers and arrows which served as this horrible building’s dumb directory. Had she taken the wrong turn? Or did that arrow mean straight ahead as in up the stairs?

Gathering her composure, if not her dignity, Lyra opened the double doors at the end of the hall and stepped inside a fancy office suite. Thin fingers adjusted her nametag, the word intern written in blocky letters that Lyra frankly thought a bit overkill, not that Chelsea Salazar was the sort of person to rage against the injustices of the world. Or so Lyra assumed – but then again, weren’t young people a lot angrier these days? Father mentioned that sometimes.

She hadn’t had any time to research whether she was a paid or unpaid intern so luckily the harried confusion fit no matter what, as did the glossy smile as she caught sight of the secretary’s desk. Lyra made a beeline for the desk with all the desperation of a post-college graduate with no job lined up yet.

[Delphi Renaud]

Today would be a better day than the night before. This was fact! It was always better when she got to dress up and put that winning smile to work, teeth so sharp she could cut through wire -- not chew, simply close her mouth and rend matter in half. Anything dark within those sparkling teal eyes were neatly compartmentalized, to be approached and unpacked amidst a haze of blood and screaming - hers - the next time she lost herself. It was an inevitability! And if the inevitability was that your days would always end in torment, that just meant you had to make the most of your mornings. Lunch could go either way.

That was the mentality she had approached todays distraction with, hair up in an uncharacteristically smart bun that still couldn't help but shower the back of her neck with errant hair that would never behave for her. In this respect it was as much a ponytail as her intention, framing the frame of sleek glasses that sat studiously upon her nose. Much more controlled. They wobbled every time she wrinkled or scrunched her expression in playful faces at the other workers that passed by, falling into categories of confused, amused or strictly ignoring her antics. They had no place to tell her that she couldn't be here, that they knew of, and with the executive position of assistants labeled on her lapel she must have some pull. It wouldn't be smart to cross her, lest Mr. Lemming take issue with someone befouling his pretty, pretty secretary.

She had yet to meet Mr. Lemming or anyone, for that matter, other than the stray partner that didn't have time to wonder when she had been hired. Law firms held a notorious amount of bustle and frankly she could hustle with the best of them. It's what led her to blend in in her stark pink pantsuit, a darker - more sultry - shade than the the bright splash of her hair, brought together by chestnut brown heels and the aforementioned spectacles with very fake lenses. She looked the part and she had the aplomb to play the part, and there wasn't a poor paralegal here who was going to risk being reprimanded or falling behind in their work to question more than that glance.

She toyed with the phone she had commandeered from the previous secretary: who she had just sent on break per Mr. Lemming's apparent orders for her, Delphia Smarting, to take the floor. Notes were stacked in neat rows, stickies that hung from the hidden enclave of the desk detailing calls to return, meetings to follow up on, orders to get out; all arranged in a specific and chronological order. She started to move them around, swapping places and scribbling new ones for outlandish requests. Don't forget to dial 202-456-1111 to confirm the president's coffee order. It was very entertaining for her, free hand aimlessly tapping away at the keyboard to her side she didn't bother to look at more than correct the language she was typing in. She so loved her international trips, really, but she used English far less than her others and she was desperately missing Pari -- no, this was good. This was where she needed to be.

She had a lot to live up to in her new position. Every call that rung in got parked, not bothering to ask their permission before they were sent to the indefinite void of their hold. If would be the peak of arrogance to think they wouldn't have to wait so, really, it was just the fair assumption to call with. She was meeting expectations! She yawned, toothy, canines glinting in the light between the stretch of her cherried mouth before she could smack it closed. Pop. She only now thought to look around for a candy bowl of some sort, opening and closing drawers in the process. Anything would do; she'd take skittles, taffy, lollipops... hell, a fucking twizzler would be enough to hang from her lips.

It was then that she looked up, mid-frustration, and her vision doubled, unfocused. She could already hear the hissing from the one accouterment she never left home without. She dialed back in, meeting a familiar face staring back at her. She tried not to fall over, right hand splintering the bottom of the desk she latched onto. It took one, two, three moments for her to collect herself, opening her mouth once, closing it, then thinking better and splitting a predatory grin, tongue sneaking behind her giddy countenance. "Well, hello there. You must be the new intern ... miss Salazar. Well, darling, it's wonderful to have you on board."

Her eyes flashed. "What can I help you with?"

[Lyra d'Aiglemort]

Lyra stared. Her expression never shifted even as her eyes ran the gamut from shock to acceptance. It took her a second to decide that yes, she was, in fact, staring at the same woman she had met recently in Paris. It wasn’t a figment of her imagination or her spotty memory.

Smoothing at her neat skirt, Lyra tried on a polite smile. Her vision strayed to the nametag on Vix’s lapel. Something very strange was going on but she could only continue the charade. To be caught out now would cause a lot of embarrassment and Lyra prided herself on getting the job done cleanly.

“Thank you so much.” Lyra gushed, wobbling forward with the confidence of a limpet. “I’m sorry to bother you. Uhm, Mr. Garcia sent me to get the newest files on the Williams case? I’m not sure if I’m in the right place, but ah, he said to come here.”

She trailed off, glancing not so furtively at the post-it note stuck to her palm. “Er, but if I’m in the wrong place please just let me know!”

Lyra might have been in the wrong place, but not for the evidence she was trying to get. She had no idea what Vix was doing here, and in hindsight, that sounded more an alias than it did a proper surname.

There was very little to her nerves that had to be fabricated, the anxiety homegrown and well-polished, as Lyra peered up through her bangs at the secretary. And potentially the biggest obstacle to getting this job done before lunch.

[Delphi Renaud]

New Game + playtime 0:01.

The Vixen of Lyon let Lyra's response hang in the air as she watched her, eyes alight, twinkling. She pushed her chair forward slowly, rolling against the wood, and planted her elbows on the desk in front of her. They stabilized that smile, fingers lifting and splaying under her chin in a net that caught the relaxation of her head. "Oh, Ms. Salazar, of course. Chelsea - can I call you Chelsea, darling? -, in my capacity as the head assistant here at... uhm... Lemming & Parker? ... Pratter? Piper? Pepper?" She shrugged, glancing away and up in her musings before focusing forward. There was a puzzled look from a single rushed paralegal, but they hurriedly lived up to the box Delphi had put them in and continued on their way without aplomb. No one here was going to serve as any obstacle for her. "Well, regardless, Mr. Lemming and Peter Parker are out. It looks like you have to contend with having me to swoop in and save you. I'm sorry that I don't come with any webbing," she purred, fluttering her eyelashes with a grin that was far more sly than flirtatious. "I liken myself to a fox more than I would a spider, anyway."

"The Williams case, was it?" Her movements were methodically slow, watching Lyra for the span of time it took to drag her hands from her gleeful expression and tap them at the computer next to her. She barely glanced at the screen. "Ah, yes, I believe we are working with that client. However... hrm, very strange, very strange indeed...," she was muttering, louder than as if it was an actual consideration. She was playing into the role, an accent taking over her contemplation. "It doesn't appear as if we have anything new in the system just yet. It must still be waiting to be filed." She swiveled in her chair, turning her neck, arms lifted to her sides in presentation with her as the main event. "I'm sure I could go and sniff it out for you. I would be more than happy to get you the information you and your Mr. Garcia need. That's why they call me Employee of the Universe's Eternal Euthymia."

She twirled her hand into her hair, spinning cotton candy until it was caught on her cone and she released it with a toss. A spectacle, always. "However, productivity might be very low before lunch today. Really, I read in my horoscope today - I did, I really did - that I shouldn't excite myself too much before I've eaten, I'll just lose myself in the chaos. And with like, climate change? The world's dying, Chelsea. It's dying." She nodded like her words meant anything. "I have to look after myself too."

[Lyra d'Aiglemort]

“Parker, ma’am,” Lyra interjected softly at the right moment.

Nodding in an effusive manner that quickly strayed towards quizzical, she blinked once at the onslaught that was Vix. She didn’t get the joke. Would Chelsea get the joke? Ah, but Vix was talking again so Lyra shoved the concern aside for later.

“You do have rather vulpine bone structure,” she offered up again, tentative enactment complete with a sudden blush as Lyra averted her eyes to the shiny surface of the desk. Before she could apologize Vix brought up the mission and Lyra began to nod again – relief at the change in subject writ large across her face.

She straightened her overly starched shirt-cuffs, rising up on her tiptoes as the suspense built. Somewhere in the back of her mind Lyra wondered whether this was the moment Vix would call her out. It was undeniable that Lyra had been recognized. Then again, Vix appeared to be enjoying herself.

The shoe did not drop so much as it rescheduled its arrival.

“I see. Yes, that is very interesting.” Fortuitous. Suspiciously so. Lyra hadn’t been raised to deny presents; even those prettily wrapped and screaming of implications. Especially those.

Another joke that she missed – Lyra tried on a bashful smile, consoling herself that Chelsea would surely be struggling just as much in this scenario. She committed the strange title to memory and promised herself she would look it up later.

Vix was like a whirlwind. Rushing in stirring everything at once and that made it easy to lose track of the granular aspects of her presence. Lyra didn’t want to miss anything. Even if it was only in retrospect Lyra wanted to know what Vix meant.

“Aa… That sounds unfortunate. Yes! Of course. You have to look after yourself. You’re the only one who will.” She nodded vigorously and then appeared to realize that magazine self-help quotes were not workplace appropriate for all that they were catchy fillers in turbulent conversations.

“Oh! Ah… Well. I’m sure Mr. Garcia can wait until after lunch. He was just heading out to an appointment, actually. Uhm – perhaps… might I find you during the lunch hour, Ms. Smarting?”

Lyra hid her wince – that last bit was hardly natural phrasing; it spilled out before she could craft the thought. A desire wholly her own.

[Delphi Renaud]

Lyra played the game better than anyone else; a pleasure within a pleasure. Most people would have stumbled by now, fallen over, hugged her leg hoping she might just slow down long enough for them to catch back up. Lyra didn't have this problem -- she kept tempo in a way that made the game feel more like a dance, and Vix did love a good ball. It helped when her partner in this instance seemed entranced in a way that entranced the candy-coated devil right back, licorice tongue flicking around marshmallow teeth. They had a bite to them, a wiggle to her little button nose as if she was sniffing out Lyra's interest. "You really think so, darling? Why, Ms. Salazar, I think we'll get along just fine." A purr, batting the other around in proverbial paws.

"Yes, I can't imagine why we haven't penned away the files you're looking for," fingers played at the cusp of her chin, framing a grin all-too-eager to partake in their fun. "It's going to reflect badly on our company, and as a proud corporate - federal? legal? Really, I fit all the important criteria - employee I'd hate to know how that'd look for our diligent little worker ants." There was a flash of teal, swimming at the shore of an ocean she was begging to drown the other in. She met gazes. "Never you mind that, sweetheart. I know they'll be in good hands when we round them up -- yours, and Mr. Garcia's, of course." Pop.

She straightened herself in her office chair, legs primly crossed and the skirt of her pantsuit riding up her thighs. Really, every other intern that had crossed by didn't know what to do with themselves. That's what made her darling Lyra so much more interesting. She wasn't an ant. She wasn't a mouse. She was a wolf in clothing that brought out her eyes, and Vix only wanted to cultivate how hungry they looked. She didn't presume to know Lyra's true intentions - did it matter, it didn't, it wouldn't - but it was within her power to make a spectacle of it, so this was her welcome to the fairground. I hope you've enjoyed the cups, how about a ride on the Ferris Wheel?

"Alas, yes, yes, you're very quite right. One day, perhaps, I'll have someone else willing to look after me... ah, what fun that would be. The kind of things I could get up to without the burden of personal responsibility." A giggle, rolling her lips over her teeth before flashing a new smile. A certain genuine taste. "Why, I do believe my lunch break is nearing," tapping her cheek, "so maybe you'd like to continue our inquiry over tea and - oh my god, Chelsea, they have these little finger sandwiches down in the cafe. Absolutely sublime, the cutest little things I've ever seen. Other than you, of course." She moved to stand, brushing down her skirt and arching her back in a stretch. "Shall we? Don't worry, it's paid." Probably, right? It was with her at the helm, anyway.

[Lyra d'Aiglemort]

She understood, of course, that Vix was speaking to Chelsey Salazar right now and not Lyra, but that couldn’t prevent the brief trill of her heart at being commended. In most worlds this encounter should have been terrifying – unexpected and rapidly falling from her control – and yet Lyra didn’t have to work to coax her small smiles into place.

Fear had nothing to do with this moment. Perhaps before, Lyra had upset Vix, had spoken too openly about things that were none of her business. But today she had another chance and this time she had the advantage of her past failure.

“I’m sure that’s standard procedure. I wouldn’t want you to worry though, and I have a lot of free time…” Lyra broke off with a blush, fidgeting as her eyes slid off Vix and then snapped back. “Ah, I’m new, so they haven’t set up my desk yet. I’m mostly just running errands for now – which, I mean, it would be easy for me to digitize the records after I get them to Mr. Garcia!”

She exhaled slowly, tension bleeding away to reveal a sheepish smile. “If that would be helpful, I mean. I wouldn’t mind doing it.”

Watching the fluid gestures as Vix rose to her feet, Lyra nodded in a hushed manner, struck dumb by the hypnotizing movements. Analytically, she had to give Vix points, the other woman was a master at drawing attention precisely where she wanted it.

“Yes,” she squeaked, clearing her throat quickly to repeat herself coherently. “That would be… I would appreciate that, Miss Smarting. Only if you have the time, though, I wouldn’t want to be a bother – and I can always just come back later if you’d prefer.”

Young people were so awkward before they found a social structure to adhere to. There was a strange form of politeness to their anxieties, belabored as it was, that had Lyra feeling a rare kinship with this Chelsey.

[Delphi Renaud]

Delphi - Delphia - waved a hand, stifling a yawn that was as honest as it was part of the play. Not every act had a script, and not every line was improvised. "Chels, darling, really, you worry far too much. If you're being a little bad," coy eyes flickered to her face, traced her features, meeting back up at the stare that was returned. There was a turn of something wicked - not evil, but perhaps dangerous - within the glittering pupils that focused as if they could look into Lyra's very heart and pull out its strings alone. "Who am I to judge? You know what they say. All work and no play makes for..."

She took a step out, a hand brushing Lyra's shoulder in a touch that might not have ever been there to begin with. "...Well, let's just hope not to find out, yes?" Her lips popped. The scent of cherry and lilacs, something fresh and clean and tempered. An angry sizzling within a dulled gem at her ear, no petals lost to a fate that she would happily pursue. There was nothing to be angry about. You've had your fun, sweet flower. I get this. This belongs to me. She coiled and uncoiled the fingers on a hand as if to test this, to confirm - and she was proven right. It was her hand, her body. At least for now, this dance would be hers to take.

This is why the aforementioned digits would flutter down to reach for Lyra's when she turned to guide her away, yet still stop short mere centimeters from meeting skin. She saw red hair, blue-grey eyes, a bright smile, rain without clouds; and she tensed. Time seemed to slow to a crawl and freeze her in a liminal space of her thoughts where the only thing left was that image. The skip of her heart ended as quickly as it began and she simply dropped her hand without ceremony, continuing in her half-turn to walk while she talked. "We have people for that, Ms. Salazar. It is Ms., right? Not Mrs.? Nothing dragging your lovely visage down, I'd hope?" A look out of the corner of her eye to make sure the other was following, as if she didn't know with certainty she would be. She had left her desk with a handful of assorted papers she passed on to the closest paralegal's when they crossed it, heading to the elevator. "Really, you're out of their leagues. Everyone's, I mean. Personal, professional..."

She turned before they got to the elevator, moving instead to the "emergency" stairs. "Well, hopefully not all personal. What would I possibly do if I didn't have a chance? Chelsea, really, it'd break my heart if you thought I wouldn't do right by you." A hand settled on the handle, thin fingers wrapped around cold steel before she turned the rest of her body to face the other girl. Red lips over white teeth, an intoxicating breath of frisky candy coating spilling from between them. "If nothing else, I'll always make time for you. You know that, don't you, my dear?"

[Lyra d'Aiglemort]

“Ah…” Lyra stared wide-eyed at Vix, every inch the overwhelmed intern caught up in a web of honey. She blinked once or twice, quickly like there was no universe in which she wanted to take her eyes off the secretary.

In contrast, her nod was careful and slow. A dazed agreement, hardly legally binding, but repeated several times over while Vix played around.

There was something calming about spending time with Vix; no matter what persona she had wrapped herself in the beating heart of her play remained the same. Awe and an enthralled fascination were standard reactions – in that, the line between Lyra and Chelsey blurred.

Today Vix was the industrious spider; spinning a web that took shape all the sudden, creation and motion where none had been expected. You could startle at such a marvel, but most would freeze, bewilderment shifting to amazement. No matter how hard you looked you never caught the genesis mid-progress.

It was a type of magic, and one could be excused for trailing after Vix like the fly walking directly into the trap. There was no escaping our natures.

Chelsey was a normal girl. She liked numbers and was worried this internship was too much for her. Her favorite color was green. She had spilled coffee on herself that first day and was studiously ignoring the memory because anxious ruminations weren’t helpful.

It was Chelsey that stumbled through Vix’s stutter-step path towards the stairs. Trying to smile and walk at the same time and making little noises of understanding that were patently false. Chelsey who spoke up, all fluster and animation, “N-No! I’m too young to marry. Well, I have to get a job first, you know… I want to be settled in my own life before I look for someone else.”

It was Chelsey who blushed so brightly her cheeks turned to burnished bronze. Chelsey who said nothing in response to the overt flirting as if by not responding the awkward situation would resolve itself.

It was Lyra who watched Vix. Lyra who saw the closeness between them, the aborted gesture, and then the carefully maintained distance. She wasn’t surprised – there was no room for shock over something so familiar. Of course Vix wouldn’t want to touch her. (Lyra had gotten too used to this thing of casual contact – had grown entitled.)

She ached in a way she chose not to interrogate. Pain hurried through the seedling stages until it bloomed into lackluster acceptance. But no plant could survive long without proper roots.

The constriction in her chest surged into sudden desperation – it was only inches that separated their bodies and yet Lyra feared. She wanted so badly she couldn’t breathe.

This thing – this joke – this illusion that didn’t belong to her – Lyra wanted to pretend, to spin out the truth until it was a possibility. Fragile as a spider’s legs. Plausible until proven wrong.

(She wanted Vix’s approval to be more than a game. Just for a few minutes. Just for today.)

And so it was Lyra who maintained the precise separation Vix had created. Lyra who tilted her head back, catching Vix’s green-green eyes, with a face too soft for Chelsey. Lyra who parted her lips, who stared at Vix as if nothing else existed. The paralegals far off constellations in this galaxy Vix had pinned in place.

“That’s more than enough. I’m glad… I’m grateful, for all the time you’ve given me. It's more than I could ask for. I hope that I can pay you back. I know that’s not possible, there is no equivalence, nothing of equal value that I can offer, but I would like to try.”

[Delphi Renaud]

“You’re wrong.” Vix spoke before she thought. It was unlike her - her voice following instinct before her hands could. Her body betrayed her where her words never could, but this time… this time, how soft was her soul to be made so pliable by a pair of eyes gazing back at her? The uncareful way she’d step out of her veneer of playful antagonism, her brand of villainy, her brand of make-believe. This time her mouth seemed to move on its own accord, entranced. Her hand, having been aching to do the same, instead deviated from its path on the way to Lyra’s hair to mime tucking a strand of her own behind her ear as if anything had been out of place. Anything but her. “You give as good as you get, ma lumière. You always have.” A turn of light, a sea abashed with gold.

She surged forward a moment after catching herself, blowing out air in an over-exaggeration of dismissing her sentiments. It was followed by a laugh just as airy. Her hand pushed open the stairwell and she walked in, promptly and without slowing, knowing that the other girl would be right behind her. Was that what depending on someone was like? Knowing their willingness to follow you, wherever you went? Did that make someone dependable? Was this really her being able to depend on another person (someone outside of this globe, shaken to the effect of scattered petals) or was it just the causal result of playing the game too well?

She couldn’t help but sneak a look back at Lyra when she turned to drift down a set of stairs, hand playing like piano keys across the banister on her way. She realized then she couldn’t imagine her as prey. She could, however, imagine something else imagining her as prey - and a sickly acid teased the edges of her teeth, biting down on each other to still a silent growl of frustration. Lyra was no fly in her web, this she affirmed, but the nature of the thread she spun carried mutual destruction if she spent too long fucking around to find out what the other could be. So we take another bow, we start another dance. We stay on the floor until we collapse: and when the first smile plays on sweat-drenched faces, we run as fast as we possibly can.

One step, doux, toi. “What made you want to intern here, Chelsey? The 180 hour weeks?” Vix lived for her needling, and it was all too fun to poke fun at Lyra’s guise. She couldn’t care less why she was here - how much more exciting it made her time, that was a certainty - but what was the point if she couldn’t make it clear that she knew that she knew that she knew. “The gamble between being unpaid and scraping wages off the boots of middle aged men? I find it hard to believe you’re not overqualified for such an entry position.”

The gleam having caught the bulbs above illuminating their none-too-hurried forms was a wicked, wicked grin, as if Vix had schemed a thousand years for this moment and the hero’s demise was now within her grasp. “I could make you a partner. Non-equity to start, I’m sure, but give me a few more days and we’ll see about equity. Named, even. Lead? Do you want your name on the door, Ms… Salazar?” A tug of a canine on plush red lips, released with a pop and a slyly lifted brow.

[Lyra d'Aiglemort]

“Oh… Ah, thank you.”

Vix pulled away, the physical motion snapping the gossamer-thin thread that held their gazes. Lyra lowered her eyes, careful to keep her shoulders straight and her posture that of the overwhelmed and bright Chelsea. She did not dwell on the moment that had spun out between them, all air and sugar, invisible so long as neither commented on those feelings tucked away out of sight.

Lyra was not a skilled conversationalist. She preferred silence to speaking, when at all possible. Preferred to let her actions speak for themselves, when it was her words that always tumbled and twisted, laying themselves out bare like a kindergartener’s art project. The sort of thing to elicit forced praise, pity glossing the words trusting to a child’s overeager confidence not to notice.

That was precisely why she enjoyed her roles. Enjoyed taking on a rote performance with a prescribed script and nothing in the way of personal character to inject or poison the play.

Lyra knew how this worked. She had been doing errands like this for years now. Decades, even. It was rare for her to stumble on the job. Even when she felt guilty about her role, it was easy to set that aside, to remember that it wasn’t Lyra who did these things.

And yet Chelsea couldn’t possibly understand what had just happened. Chelsey didn’t know what it meant, for Vix to move like that, to lean in and then away, with those eyes so very blank. Chelsey lacked the context for that endearment, breathlessly given in a way that seared coal-bright against her eyelids.

So, she adapted. Lyra swept the moment up in a net and bundled it close. Wrapping layer after layer around the words, she held it to her chest and let it fall deep deep down. Later. Later, when there was a later, when there was a Lyra, she would pull it all out and consider.

(Just why it was that those words, spoken with the same ebullience that shone in Vix no matter her role, scraped against her breastbone and sunk into her heart like slivers of shrapnel.)

Chelsey missed all of that, but she was not wholly inept, and her subconscious caught on to the tonal shift and tried to match it. All worry and nerves about keeping this brilliance within sight and not disappointing her superior. Chelsey had never felt the pain of pushing too hard, of watching someone dear to you shut down because you had asked for too much, had presumed more than was right. She didn’t know to fear overstepping the silent boundaries Vix had drawn.

She was a child in many ways. And fear was not always the best tool.

Trailing after Vix, moving slowly and then speeding up when she realized the distance between them was slightly too large and potentially weird, Chelsey panted slightly. Heels and industrial stairwells were not made for one another. She should have practiced this more before coming to work instead of looking like a fool in front of someone so poised as Vix.

Watching her feet, as if they might rebel the moment she wasn’t paying attention, it took Chelsea a few seconds to catch the teasing tone being sent her way. She flushed, softer than before, her skin stripped dull red under fluorescent lights, and needlessly brushed her curls away from her eyes. “Well…”

“It’s a good job,” she said. Prickling with both embarrassment and something akin to defensiveness. “None of these internships are paid, anyway – you know? But Lemming and Parker are well known, if I impress Mr. Garcia then he’ll write me a recommendation and it’ll be worth it. And, I like helping out. Learning things. Everyone has to start somewhere, right?”

She smiled, earnestness peaking out from behind a timid naivety as if to say she was well aware of the system she was engaged with and still believed she could do good.

“Uhm, may I ask – do you like working here, Ms. Smarting? How long have you been here?” She felt dizzy, clutching onto the handrail, trying to wade through the secretary’s over-the-top flattery. Her smile widened, pinned to her face. She didn’t want to make a bad first impression with someone so well connected.

[Delphi Renaud]

Vix’s movements slowed as they made their way down the stairs, counting each step with a tap of her fingers across the safety banister. She looked over the railing to the spiraling floors below - ten or eleven of them - and had a wistful moment that surged overwhelmingly within the brief moment it took her over. Jump. Escape. With just one misstep, one simple tilt of your body, plummet over the side and disappear like a star in the night sky: consumed entirely by the darkness of the poorly lit corridor. Her hand tensed on the edge, as if she just might propel herself off with the thought.

But, no. How silly of her.

The idea drifted from between white knuckles as soon as it had materialized between them, catching her eyes away from the emptiness and onto Lyra once more. The lilt of her head sent the messy up-do into a silken cascade over her features, candy-coating one eye so the other might enrapture her singular attention. It sparkled. She was observing her so fiercely - so directly - just to determine how much of that blush was part of the game and how much was truly Lyra’s. For two entirely similar yet wholly opposite creatures, she had a hard time elucidating the exact nature of the other girl. Someone she liked. That’s what Lyra was to her.

What was she to Lyra? Did she want to be anything? Of course she wanted - but - no, she can’t -- she can’t. They were playing. They were dancing. A partner in this fantasy, that’s all they were to each other. Her throat didn’t betray the dry air in her lungs. “Is that what you want?”

Her words were starker than she meant, lacking the normal overly-indulgent tenor she normally sang with. “I just mean to say…,” and she backpedaled, working in the pealing sound of her laughter. The edge of her tone fuzzied once more. “If there’s ever anything more you need…”

A smile, as true as any. As thoughtless and empty as the stupor she induced over her intrusive spirit. She was still down there, in the shadows of the fluorescent signs. Exit. Exit. The outline of her soul pulsed with the red light. “If there’s ever anything you need, let old Delphia know, won’t you? Idioms say a vixen is no belle of the ball, but I work quite well for myself. And my friends.”

A flash of teal caught under the shadow of a stairway above them, smothered, hidden. “And we are friends, aren’t we, Chelsey?” She was practically purring, as a predator was meant to do. As she was.

As she was.

“Do I? Hmm… well, it’s hard to say.” She didn’t bother lowering her voice; there was no conspiracy to this next line. If anything, it was drawing its own. “I’ve only been here for the day - oh, eugh, I don’t know, three hours? Four? - and I do already practically run the place, so … well, you know.” She waved her hands, a presentation, her shoulders shrugging with a lighthearted shift. “It’s okay. Can’t imagine I’ll be here for long. The fun will run its course soon, I imagine.” Searching for her eyes in turn.

“And you, chère? Are you planning to stay awhile?”