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“If that’s all,” Nisha waves a hand as she turns, mind already veering back no doubt to her duties for the rest of the night. Catching both her train of thought and her wrist, Circe brings them to herself, her mouth on the sliver of Nisha’s skin between glove and sleeve which is exposed when her fingers are bent back.
The night’s easygoing atmosphere slams to a still, falling silent enough Circe can feel the human’s pulse where her lips meet radial artery. A two part tide, blood moves, lub-dub, and the cobblestone below their feet, the sewer system below that, swell with it, compelled by a force far nearer than the full moon overhead. She can feel Nisha’s pulse, her skin rising in temperature at the proximity, at the sweet and soft brush of lips where cold teeth could’ve dug. When Circe raises her head, her expression neutrally polite like she just bestowed a gracious farewell, she finds her shoulder blades slamming harshly against the alley wall. Full lips fierce upon her own in the instant after that.
Nisha pulls back, the deep tint of her shades obscuring the lovely warm brown of her eyes as well as how wide her pupils have blown beneath a wash of red. Under Elysium’s coloured ambience, with its gaudy velvets and beaded curtains and perpetual hookah haze, the informant and the hand behind the operation of North Haven’s premier vampire lounge fits right in. Out here on the streets after dark, their only illumination the occasional car headlight as it flashes past the mouth of the alleyway, Nisha’s leather and lace and shades getup looks a little silly if Circe’s being honest. Like wearing sunglasses indoors.
As Nisha forces her breathing under control, Circe resists the urge to pluck those glasses off her face. Because then Nisha would really get mad. And she promised herself after Lazarus that she’d stop doing that, acting as if her past mistakes could spare others the same. Instead Circe smiles, smug and content, as she studies the flush crawling over Nisha’s face just beneath the skin, the wonderful angles of her furrowed brows. Shortly, a hand finds her chin, tilting it to the side. Circe drinks in the rabbit quick beat thrumming around them, an almost dizzying auditory feast. For certain individuals, human or supernatural, power hits like a drug. And it wouldn’t be the first time she’s been accused of enablement.
When Nisha meets her again it’s firmly, but not without warmth. The hand on her jaw moves to the back of her head; Circe feels the other on her waist, warm leather weight seeping into her dress. Nisha smells of cigarette smoke and deer hearts and the night. It’s lovely, familiar, and it is only by decades of practice at living among humans that Circe doesn’t unconsciously reach out, touch her back. On the worst evenings they aren’t friends, on the best, not lovers. Denizens, the city considers them regardless. The desperate scrabbling urge to find a category, a bin, a label for something, is so achingly mortal. And perhaps it’s Nisha’s disinterest in the idea shadows need to take form to exist that allows them overlap in liminal hours like these.
By the time Nisha steps away, satiated, her momentary disarray has slid back into neatness with an edge. Still, colour lingers on her cheekbones, lightness in her step. If nothing else, the hormone rush will smooth the rest of her shift, ideally. Swallowing, Circe makes to part ways as well. “I suppose the night hasn’t entirely been a wash after all.”
“If I didn’t know better I’d think that was a compliment.” Adjusting her shades, Nisha raises a brow.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she says, fingertips beginning to morph, “Or do. Wouldn’t mind seeing what happens with the place. Begin by tearing out that awful green carpet.”
The soft chuckle of Nisha’s laughter lingers beyond the brick as a fluffy dark shape flies homeward bound.
The lights are on in the office downstairs. Forgoing her room, Circe lands upon the window sill, tapping not so lightly with a clawed wingtip. There comes a shuffling of papers, one or two curses, then the glass and the blinds slide up. Shooting through the gap before it widens even a quarter of the way, Circe flies directly into the face of a rather tired looking Edgar.
Weariness gives way to flustered surprise, and her partner in case work only barely manages to avoid swatting her to the ground by pure instinct. Shifting out of bat form, she waves her hand in a little flourish, the barest suggestion of a bow.
Latching the window and dropping back into his desk chair, Edgar runs a hand through his messy brown hair, the other on his chest. “The door still exists, you know. Despite your personal grudge against them. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”
There are shadows under his eyes, new wrinkles striating his shirt. Circe settles in her usual spot on his side of the desk, facing him and verily obstructing his work along with half his view of the computer screen. A decade ago her disregard for the concept of personal space would’ve had him chastising her. Nowadays she has to try harder to throw him off kilter—which is fine, she's never minded a challenge.
“Did she have any information?” Edgar sighs. “No real leads on my side of town.”
“Mmm? And who’s this ‘she’ you speak of?” Circe blinks, all big eyes and innocence.
At that, a mild amusement touches his features. “Givenchy, her go to. Shade’s 15 years discontinued.” Making a mock swipe of his thumb over his face, Edgar watches her mirror the gesture and study the smeared remnant of the clue, dusky rose on her fingertips.
It’s delight which buzzes through her chest then, soft zaps so natural to her time with Edgar, her coworker and oldest human friend. When they first met 20 years ago he was fresh out of college having graduated a semester early and all in all a well dressed mess. Nowadays, having grown into a handsome man, he’s mellowed, become a rather reliable partner, his anxiety, like anger, reserved for special cases. His years look good on him, Circe admits as she studies him back, one of her legs tapping sideways into his. With him sitting and her standing they meet at near perpendicular, a momentary, tangential intersection. “What fun would it be if it was entirely a waste?”
”We can’t have that can we?” Edgar’s knee pushes back lazily. The gesture is familiar, low energy despite what lingers in the shadows of the street outside, a darkness the warm light of his desk lamp barely seems to ward off even on rare clear nights in North Haven.
Hooking the desk drawer to her left, she fishes out a tube of lipstick, touches up her makeup as she flicks through the night’s events. Despite the slow start, there is a lot to sort, parse, decide upon. Edgar’s eyes, honeyed with lamp light, watch her with a fondness belying observation. If Edgar is to her a source of boundless mortal delights, a furry creature to poke until it snarls, to tickle until it squirms, Circe knows she is to him a puzzle box, intricately carved pieces inlaid with gems and sharp silver filigree which cut at the fingers that shift its components. No hard feelings. It is simply their natures. Circe knows he hasn’t completely given up on the idea vampirism can be undone. Sweet even in foolishness. Their legs are still touching. The perpetual tension in his shoulders relaxed, he’s left himself vulnerable, open to attack, to having his throat ripped out. She leans in and presses a kiss to his cheek bestowing a sharp red mark not unlike a cut upon pale skin.
Whatever theories he was piecing together scatter. There’s fun in that too. Without the chance to dry, her lip lacquer has transferred nearly completely. It’ll likely stain, she thinks. Not that a faint pink smudge would be distinguishable from the brilliant flush spreading across Egar’s face. With how utterly sun-starved and pasty he is, blushing shows up more vibrantly than on Nisha. There’s something gorgeous there among the scattering of freckles, the wobbly line of his pressed together lips.
“Wouldn’t want my favourite to feel left out,” Circe murmurs in his ear, her voice low, smooth, compelling even without compulsion. His breath catches. The office clock slows, each tick suspended in thick syrup. Then she steps back, stretching an arm above her head in a yawn, and the haze perfuming the air dissipates. “Don’t stay up too late today, we’ll have to dig in our heels tomorrow in earnest.”
Before she can head up the stairs to her apartment, Edgar’s fingers close around her sleeve. Despite the weak hold, she pauses. If it’s work it’ll have to wait. Between running around town, Abraxas breaking in, and the entire Nocturne situation, she’s had her fill of work for the night. She won’t just compromise, not even for Edgar. Well, unless perhaps he begs particularly sweetly. It's been a while since their last day time outing now that she thinks of it.
“There’s…” He clears his throat, not quite meeting her eye. “A discrepancy then. In the…” If he trailed off hoping she’ll finish the thought and spare his pride, it’s in vain. Circe doesn’t do that, not with Edgar. Not when it’s important. And this is. Too important to risk messing up.
If he had round ears they’d twitch. If she had a cat’s tail it’d swish slowly back and forth. Circe bites back the instinct to run her hands through his hair, press her nose to the hollow of his throat. Join the pads of her fingers to his chest and sink them in, in.
“…evidence,” he finishes with the effort of peeling back ribs to expose the wavering organs of the pleural cavity.
“Well then. I suppose we’ll have to reconcile the books.” She raises a brow.
”Right.” It’s only a few beats longer before his hands find the bottom hem of her corset and Edgar draws her in until they’re sharing his chair.
Red are the marks she leaves on his face. Red, the colour of her eyes, the eyes of vampires who subsist on mammalian blood as if there aren’t synthetic alternatives. It is the reminder of those infuriating purple irises that finally brings her hands to rest lightly splayed upon his back. It’s barely a touch, but will have to suffice. For both of them. “Think we’re square?”
”Lost count,” Edgar grins sheepishly, she can only tell from the curve of his mouth against her collarbone. In lieu of her body he’s clutching fistfuls of the loose fabric of her dress. Circe once considered it might be unpleasant for humans to come into contact with the undead, but for many, there’s a thrill to the temperature mismatch, excitement in the taboo. Always delightfully abnormal, Edgar’s heart rate has the tendency to respond in the opposite manner. She can feel it now, slowing gradually the longer she sits there, an anvil in his lap.
“To be sure then,” she peppers a few more across his brow, the bridge of his nose.
“Satisfied?” He asks, breathless despite the light contact against his face and not his mouth.
“Yes.” Circe lies, stilling in his half embrace like she really is. Like a vampire can ever be.
”That makes one of us.” It was never a question of if, only when. Unfortunately, it seems getting to know a friend better is a two way development. She lets the second opening he’s created tonight pass, the silence speak for her. After a beat, Edgar relents. “Circe, after this case, we should take a break.”
It’s that, not the capitulation, which is the surprise. Especially considering his greatest nemesis is the state of the detective agency's finances. “A second honeymoon?” It's bravado on her part, the easy mask of jest wrapped in flirtation. Their first post-acquaintance courtship period was her teaching him how to properly hold a blade, mock sparring sessions for nights on end in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. An era of play pretend and clumsy imitation of her mentor that ended with Edgar plunging a knife into her chest, his tears mussing up her favourite blouse. A grand prelude to any long-standing relationship if there ever was one. After Thorne Investigations opened, they ate and drank at the Golden Cat nearly every night. They were busy, but it wasn't that they didn't have fun or spend time together between the work. (In fact they spend so much time together Edgar, pushing middle aged, still hasn’t found himself a girlfriend). She remembers his toast on their anniversary night, the soft flush of alcohol in his cheeks, and waits.
“If you have to call it that. A couple weeks, a change of pace.”
It’s easy for her to give as well, easy when it’s Edgar. Which is on no small level exasperating. ”They say the trouble follows the sleuth.”
”Willingly, I hope.” He adds, “if she’ll accompany me.”
“I suppose it can’t be helped.” Maybe he’ll use the time to catch up on the seemingly unending paperwork. Maybe he’ll finally pay off his sleep debt. Edgar without eye bags… then he might truly be the most eligible bachelor in town. Though there’s plenty charming even when his shirt’s rumpled, face three days unshaven. “Hydrangeas are in season. We could gather up a nice bouquet.”
“Yes. Yes…” He leans back in his chair until she can no longer feel his stubble on her skin, and when he smiles again, there’s a lax amusement to it which makes what he says next feel like a rephrasing. ”Afterward, I was thinking a little traveling.”
Circe blinks, briefly sets the back of a hand against his forehead. Fever free. She can’t remember the last time she strayed far from the city’s limits. As dreary at times and fault ridden as North Haven is, she’s a skilled hunter, a seasoned detective, and she wants for nothing she can’t find here. Yet, at Edgar’s interest, the wanderlust she thought died with her maker stirs. And when she turns eyes round and dark and bottomless upon him, she finds only soft sincerity. He’s grown bold. Her delightful little mouse.