Rhea has decided to wait for Henry on her front porch. She is sitting criss-cross on the stone steps, dressed in an unconventional sort of arrangement: baggy denim overalls faded almost threadbare, a tank top, and her hair is swathed in a simple headscarf, bundled at her nape. She has a wide assortment of paint dotted here and there, and her feet are bare. The house itself is lit up inside but seems otherwise empty, all that stone and luxury looking silently behind the vampire eagerly awaiting her guest.
He buzzes in at the gate, dressed more casually than she's ever seen him--t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, his hair in a higher ponytail to actually protect it from the potential of paint. He smiles, once he sees her. "Hey, doll! Swanky digs you got here."
She bolts to her feet, clapping once Henry arrives. "Henri! You came!" She closes in on him and stands on tiptoe to peck his cheek, taking one of his arms in both hands. "Come on. I will give you the Tour. I love this house."
"Of course I came! What, I was going to text you like that and not show up? That'd make me a real heel." He allows his arm to be seized, and follows in her formidable wake, like a waterskier behind a luxury cruise ship.
"Oui, and then I would have to find you, and it would be so ugly," she tuts, grinning. Rhea leads Henry through a huge, ornate foyer liberally crafted of shining wood. They pass a huge sunroom that's dominated by huge glass windows, floor-to-ceiling; that room has no furniture except three long folding tables completely covered in little greenhouse trays of seedlings being nutured to life. Rhea takes a left upstairs, ducking into the first room - what looks like some kind of bedroom - that's been emptied out. The walls look as if they've been scraped of wallpaper, and Rhea is halfway through one wall; she's painted it with a very glossy, very bright shade of white. "See? It's whiteboard paint!"
"Huh! Go figure. Are you planning on only doing this wall, or any of the others as well?" He walks closer to the wall, sniffing the paint as if that'll tell him anything, then looks at her quietly. "And do you got a spare roller or brush or whatever, so I can help out?"
"I'm going to paint all four walls," she explains, gesturing with both hands as she does. "Oh - yes, mon ami, the roller are right there. Oui, all four walls!" She points out the different walls as she relates her plan. "I like to have a great deal of space when I write, and I need it to be very big and visual, a little notebook just doesn't work. Many years ago I had a greenhouse, and it was my practice space - I would simply write on the glass. Then, those things or ideas I have that seem grounded in practice, I will copy into my grimoire."
"Grimoire? What's a grimoire?" He's very not a Crone, and it shows, as he looks over his shoulder at her, before claiming a rolled and getting started on the other end of the wall she's begun. "And, uh. What sort of things are you writing?"
"I'm building my own tradition of witchcraft," Rhea explains, beaming at him. "Oh! A grimoire is a book of a witch's practice. Spells, recipes, practices, beliefs. Basically, anything worth passing on to another witch, or future witches."
"Oh. Right, you're into all that. And I'm sure there's a lot you've got that's worth passing down, huh? Given how long you've had to pick up spells and practices and everything. Tell me more about it?" His curiosity seems genuine, even if he clearly doesn't know his asshole from a ritual chalice.
She laughs warmly, plucking up the other roller to get back to work. "Oh, oui," she confirms. "I have several grimoires, so many years of wisdom. Not my wisdom, of course - not all of it. Things I've picked up over the years, and oh, Paris in the eighties - Victorians can keep their London, we had an explosion of the occult in Paris! So many great minds. I remember I would dress in disguise and sneak away to attend meetings and dinners." She sighs wistfully. "Such good conversation. Oh, and the Salon de Rose + Croix!" She sighs again. "It was heavily Catholic, but the salons were the best places to find intellectuals."
"Mmm, you don't mean the 1980s, do you? A bit before my time, and I never did make it out to Europe. You'll have to tell me stories about it all. Every last detail." He gestures faux-threateningly with the paint roller before his attention returns to the wall.
She gasps, clutching both hands to her chest. "Ew! No! The Eighteen-Eighties, of course. And never been to Europe!? Mon cher, where did they imprison you!" She turns back to painting as she chatters at him. "Well, I was born in London, but I escaped that dismal little country as soon as I could. Took my inheritance and ran to Paris, and never looked back."
"I grew up in New York, but was made unwelcome there, and only had enough good favor built up to make it here--that was 1978, that I arrived in Philly. Paris...is it as wonderful as everyone says?"
"Oui," she affirms, nodding. "Well...oui, it was. Anymore it's just...loud, and stinky, and dirty. I mean, don't get me wrong - it was dirty back when I was there, too." She grins at that, wagging her roller at him. "And no, not because I was there. What about New York City? Is it the center of the world, as New Yorkers seem to think?"
"It mighta used to be, at one point." He smiles. "There was a time when it was a city that wore secrets like the jewels in a necklace. Anyway, I think I fit in better here. I wasn't ruthless enough to be a member of the Invictus in New York."
"I am glad you fit in here," she agrees, nodding. "Cities become a...a...entity? All in themselves," she muses. "I remember when the gaslamps flickered in the first nights in Paris. Now it's called the City of Lights, and I would bet most don't even know why. But seeing all those lamps at night, it was....magical. Like nothing we had ever seen." She smiles at him, her nose crinkling. "But you asked about my practice, no? It is rooted in the traditions found in ancient Greece; they had a practice referred to as pharmakeia that I hope to reconstruct."
"Pharmakeia..." He repeats the work and blinks owlishly through his round, slightly-too-large glasses at her. "What's that all about?"
"It is their word for witchcraft," she explains, "sort of. There was also a term for scapegoat, a ritual sacrifice for the community, but that is pharmakos. Still, pharmakeia suggests there was some sort of ritualized witchcraft or magic. And they had a Goddess of witchcraft, the bright-haired torchbearer Hekate." Her expression turns fond; she touches two fingers to the center of her brow, her lower lip, and her breastbone. "And her priestesses are discussed, and are known by name even today - Circe, for instance, and Medea."
"It all sounds pretty complicated. Lots of ritual stuff? Do you worship Hekate, yourself?" He watches her gesture, paint dripping onto his shoes--luckily, he's traded out his dance shoes for sneakers.
"Mon cher, your shoes," she points out gently, nodding. "Oui, I do. I assume that it was highly ritualized practice, oui - but it remains to be seen. I must do more research. It can be complicated - but it is like a dance, no? Reaching the correct formation, the pose just-right. There is nothing like it, oui?"
"Well, I suppose I know a little about that." He swiftly returns the roller to the pan, and uses a corner of the dropcloth to wipe his shoes off. "About precision, and doing things in the right sequence. And...being deliberate, in all of it."
"See!" She turns toward him, spreading her hands. "You understand. I knew you would." She dips her roller, taps, and lifts it again to roll across the wall. "Intent matters too, of course. But it is empowering, touching that thread of ancient power. It is a practice that got me through...very dark times," Rhea admits; it's almost as if her mouth simply runs ahead of her mind, and while she hesitates for a moment, she still confides this truth. "I think perhaps that is part of our life, that we find ways to endure."
"We sure as shit do. I mean, everyone does, in their own way. Your sister interrogated me about mine the other night." He lets out a soft huff of laughter. "I think she'd make me a project, if I'd let her. But she clearly means well."
Her laugh in response is filled with affection. "Oh, my sister," she replies fondly. "I love Eyrgjafa. she means well for every single person she meets. She makes anyone who encounters her a better creature, simply for entering her orbit." The words, while flowery, are intensely earnest, even passionate. Rhea is quiet a moment, painting, and then: "She mentioned that you had asked about me," Rhea notes, her tone light.
"I wanted to know how much of what you were up to was flirting to flirt, to get attention, to be seen. No, more than that, to be noticed. And how much...wasn't. She said you'll flirt with anyone, so..." He shrugs, and doesn't look at her for a moment.
Rhea mulls that over, the only sound the sticky sound of the roller against the wall. "I do like to be noticed," she murmurs, her tone earnest. "I like to be seen, but specifically by those I find interesting. I don't flirt nearly as much as Eyrgjafa believes. It's not..." She turns to face him, gesturing with her roller as she speaks. "I like feeling close to others. Sharing a seat with someone - I know it seems silly, but it makes me feel connected. I don't like to feel connected to just anyone, and of late I've also learned to be respectful - not everyone wants to be my perch!" She offers a small smile. "I flirted with you because I liked flirting with you."
"Rhea, if you want to sit in my lap, you're welcome to, anytime." He glances at her, and offers a sheepish little smile.
She lifts one shoulder to rest her chin on it, giving him a delighted little smile. "Good. That's the answer I wanted; now I won't have to pout." She turns back to the painting, glancing sidelong at him. "I assure you, it is a truly devastating pout." She rolls the paint a few moments. "That woman that was rude to you. I'm sorry she died. Unless it was a relief for you, in which case I am not sorry at all."
"Commissioner Cordray? Mmm. It makes matters more complicated for me, that's for sure. Sir Phillips has been tasked with discovering what happened to her. Steward Wright, with figuring out what happened to her money. Me, no one expects me to turn up anything useful." He shrugs. "They never do, and I'm not jumping through hoops to prove them wrong."
Her brow furrows; puzzled, she turns to face him. "What? Why wouldn't they expect you to turn up anything useful?"
He tilts his head to one side. "Oh, you don't know. You're looking at Player Moynihan, the absolute most useless member of the Invictus to walk the night."
This comes with a bright smile and a demonstrative gesture, showing himself off like a prize on The Price is Right. "A stupid, unambitious layabout who just wants to dance."
Rhea cocks her head to one side, one brow slowly curling upward. "...I don't understand. Is that...what they tell you? Or what you think? Both?"
He laughs, and goes back to painting. "Remember what you were saying, about 'ways to endure'?"
"Oui," she murmurs, nodding a little; she studies him a moment, arms folding. This is yet another way of getting paint on herself. She sets down the roller and slinks toward him, expression curious. "Tell me more, how do you endure?"
"By not being the nail that sticks up high enough to get hit, like Commissioner Anna-Marie Cordray was." He smirks, and stands a bit straighter under her scrutiny, dropping some of the meek act and looking right at her.
Rhea drifts closer, giving him a leisurely perusal from toes to eyebrows. When she's done with her inspection, Rhea's gaze drops to his; her smile is radiant as a result, lower lip catching between her teeth. "Aha, see? I was right. Very interesting."
"You were right about what, doll?" He reaches out to wipe a drop of paint off her shoulder gently.
"I picked the right lap, of course!" She grins up at him, wriggling her bare toes against the dropcloth. "If you don't like it in the Estate, why don't you leave? Does it...is it fulfilling, this game you play?"
"Fulfilling? Rarely. But at this point, I've been in it so long, leaving would look bad. Instead, I'm waiting for them to toss me out on my ass. And then, someday, I'll show them what I'm really about, once they think they've cut loose the dead weight."
Rhea purses her lips thoughtfully, gaze rolling toward the ceiling to think on that. She turns back to the wall and plucks up her roller, getting back to work. "What sort of things will get you tossed out?"
"Dunno yet. Clearly they don't mind me hanging about being useless too much." He shrugs. "My family's good by me in the meantime. I think it pisses Harold off that I'm running around working for Carthians like I am."
Rhea nods slowly, brow furrowing; her painting slows to a stop. "But...you're not in danger, oui? If they toss you out, it's not...I don't know. In four different bags or some such violence?"
He doesn't answer for a long moment, or look at her either. When he finally speaks, it's quiet. "What a way to go that would be."
Rhea drops the paint roller. It clatters loudly against the pan and bounces onto the drop cloth. A stream of french cursing ensues as she hurries to contain the mess, crouching over the pan to set it to rights.
He moves to help her right away. "Hey, you don't gotta worry about me. Alright? I'm still going to be around for ages, yet."
Rhea lifts a hand to stop him, but thinks better of it; she sets the roller in the pan and catches his hands, her expression curious. "Do you mean such a thing? You are that...are you so melancholy?" Her tone seems laced with genuine concern, a single little crease in her brow.
He looks at her quietly. "I'm just...tired of playing the same part for so long. Sometimes, it's hard to remember that they don't know me, that their dismissal is of this face I've put on for so long. It's my own doing, but I can't stop now. So my life is...all just a sham. It's hard to feel like any friends I have matter or are real, to feel like anyone sees me. I'm just tired of this all, but I'm going to keep at it anyway."
Her brow furrows, a thumb smoothing over the back of his hand. "But," she begins, and then presses her lips together. "Why not find a refuge? Or people who want to see you? If only so you can keep at it, so you can..win the game, no?"
He opens his mouth as if to say something, then stops and closes it again.
Rhea makes a noise of objection; her eyes widen, and she lifts a hand to raise a scolding finger. "Ah ah! That's cheating! I say all kind of things, you do not get to button your lips!" She affects a grave expression, eyes mournful. "We painted together."
"Will you see me, Rhea?" This is whispered, a secret request shared only with her, that not even the walls can have.
Rhea's expression softens; she inches closer, cupping Henry's face in her hands. "I would like that," she affirms in a low, soothing murmur. "I will hoard the sight of you, keep it safe until you need it back. Oui?"
He leans in slightly, and closes the gap between her lips and his. Which is close enough to a 'oui', isn't it?
For once, the Daeva doesn't have the last word! She does beam gleefully against his lips, though, arms coiling languidly around his neck. "I will give you a secret first," she assures him, a wisp of spoken words before resuming her affections. "I can pay anyone to paint this room. I am just irresistable in overalls."
"I could have taken you out to a jazz club, but I wanted you to myself, at least once. To talk. To see who you are when there's not a whole room to put a show on for. I wanted to know who Rhea is, when she's at home. And damn, you're a fine dame..." He claims another soft kiss.
Rhea reciprocates eagerly, pressing close. "It's true, oui," she agrees, grinning. "I am. You can have me to yourself whenever you wish. But! There are far more comfortable rooms to talk in; come and see the back patio." She surges in for a quick, greedy kiss before untangling from him. Once she's on her feet, she crooks an arm at him in invitation.
He follows eagerly, lightly placing a hand on that arm like a gentleman. "Whatever you'd like to show me, Rhea."
With significant effort, Rhea steers Henry downstairs and through the kitchen; they pass that room that seems to be functioning as a greenhouse. She leads him through that room and a set of french doors onto a slate patio. The patio itself is enclosed, something like a sunroom; granted, it's night time, and the glass roof and walls provide an excellent, sheltered view of the grounds and the starry sky. There are no lights to mar the view, and the patio has several little clusters of luxurious couches and chairs...and beanbags? There are two giant beanbag chairs, the sort that two or three people can form a pile in. "I am very particular about comfortable furniture," Rhea admits sheepishly. She sidles into the little sanctuary, unwinding her headscarf to toss aside as she goes.
He looks around the room, then claims one of the beanbags, gently brushing off his thigh in a manner that might very well be an invitation.
Henry clearly knows the way to Rhea's affections. She clenches both fists and raises her arms in triumph before rolling herself into the fuzzy confines of the beanbag nest. It takes a little dexterity, but Rhea eventually ends up facing Henry, astride the offered thigh. "All right," she announces, clapping her hands together once. "There. Much better than flailing on a dropcloth." She studies him with a faint smile, her chin cradled in her hand.
He pauses to take his glasses off, and drop them over to the side of the beanbag--they don't seem to affect his vision, his gaze on her as sharp as before, as he holds onto her gently. "I don't know, it was pretty fun watching you paint."
She makes a face at him, turning her chin in against her shoulder. "I'm not very good at it. Luckily walls are flat, the roller can only work one way. When I throw a tantrum over having a room that is entirely a whiteboard, I will call you; you can come and watch me throw paint at the walls again."
"And join you in making it look how you want again. Colorful? Put the wallpaper back up? Do art on the walls in paint instead of whiteboard marker?" He laughs. "Whatever your whim."
"Wallpaper," she echoes, aghast. "You monster." Rhea nestles in against Henry with a delighted sort of humming, curling a dark lock of his hair idly around one finger. "They change. Well, some change. Some of my whims become lasting. Do they stay whims if they become permanent?"
"Do they still bring you whimsy and delight in the same way?" He closes his eyes, relaxing under her touch.
"Mm...I think so," she murmurs thoughtfully. "I try to find delight in everything, though. Keeps me from becoming a crotchety old hag. I have to fight against becoming a crotchety old hag, Henry. It would look horrible on me."
"I can't imagine you ever becoming one. I can imagine you becoming jaded, bored with all the glamour, but not crotchety, Rhea. Never that."
"You are kind, and probably right," she admits. "I have been jaded, oui. I was just telling Eyrgjafa that I find some aspects of my business so incredibly boring, anymore. I love to dance, but the constant..." She furrows her brow, thinking on how to describe it. "Is 'peacockery' a word? I'm not sure I can be considered a peacock. But the...show, like you said. I get tired of the show."
"So show them something they haven't seen before, Rhea. Something that's very real and deep and intimate and true, instead. Show them something raw and personal." His voice is a low murmur.
She curls in a feline stretch, turning slightly so she can gaze up into the night sky. "I do," she admits. "The show - it's a kind of test, like yours. The intimate truths of me are that raw, personal thing. I don't know who can be trusted with such things. My sister, of course. Henevi too. They know almost everything about me."
"I figured that your sister would. Henevi, I've only met maybe twice, I hardly know her. But she seems...really wholesome. A good person." One hand moves to scratch gently at her scalp in little circles.
"Henevi is a goddess. If any of us could be a true immortal, I think it would be her." She turns her attention back to Henry, peering at him; one brow rises. "You're distracting me."
"Oh. Should I stop?" He doesn't, though.
"No, you're very good at it." She grins at him, sneaking in to press her lips against his jaw. "I want to see you, remember? Beware my expert skills at interrogation, Player Moynihan." her tone turns oh-so-threatening. "Ask Eyrgjafa. I can make anyone spill the beans."
"Do your absolute worst, Rhea." He pulls his hand back, finally, a grin written on his lips.
Rhea sighs, drawing herself up so she's sitting; sliding one leg over his hips, she straddles his belly. Leaning in, her gaze turns smoky and inscrutable in the dark, fingers smoothing over his hair. She skims his nose, his jawline, over the fabric of his t-shirt; spine curving, her hands press flat to his chest...and then bunch his shirt into her fists to haul him half-sitting. "Tell me every dark, dirty secret, Moynihan," she growls, doing her best impression of a dirty cop "interrogating" a suspect. She adopts a ferocious expression, giving him a little shake when he fails to cough up the goods.
He laughs. "I think you're absolutely beautiful, both when you're a languid nymph lounging across me, and when you seize control. Not that that's really a secret, now."
Her expression is of a cat in cream, complete with her little humming noise of delight. She smooths his shirt neatly. "Well, that worked out for both of us, sir." She retains her perch on his belly, smiling as she tucks his hair behind one ear. "Is Henry your name from life, too?"
"It is. Henry Michael Moynihan. My brother and I were associated with the Irish mob back in the 1920s--he was with a rum-running operation, I ran a speakeasy for them. That's why I was Embraced." His hands move to rest on her hips. "What about you, Rhea?"
Her expression sobers, the cheerful mask slipping. She seems to come to a decision, squaring her shoulders. "No, Rhea is the name I chose for myself. After the mother of the great Olympians." She rests her hands on his, light touch ensuring that presence. "I was...how is it explained, now? Assigned, I was assigned male at birth." She tucks a lock of her hair behind her ears, lifting her chin; she radiates a sort of independent ferocity at sharing. "I would rather not remember that name, but...now you know, it was not Rhea."
"Huh!" He doesn't seem put off by her being transgender, but doesn't make a big thing of it either. "Well. You've only ever been Rhea in my eyes, and Rhea's how I like you. So there."
"Rhea is who I was born to be," she drawls, curving her arms and spine into a queenly pose. She rewards Henry with a radiant grin, settling her hands back over his. "What was it like, to run a speakeasy? It was in New York City?"
"Oh, it was a grand old time. It was joy and fun and the sense of getting away with something, you know? Like...what we were doing had an air of danger, even though there was a lot of that sort of thing going on..." He laughs. "Yeah, it was in New York. Believe it or not, my sire was heavily pro-Prohibition, and kidnapped me to try and slow my brother and his crew down."
"No!" She gives him wide-eyed, earnest attention. "Did it work? Did he kidnap your brother, too?"
"She, and naw, it worked well enough, but then she had to figure out what to do with me. And eventually decided to embrace me." He chuckles. "Into the Invictus."
Her expression turns curious, head tilting. "And she..was a good sire? Or..what was she like?"
"She was a hardass, and absolutely hated how I didn't seem to want power like all the other Invictus. I got kicked out of New York before they tried to pull a coup, because they thought I was more trouble than I was worth."
Rhea settles against his chest, cupping her chin in both hands. "What did you want? Instead of power, I mean."
One of his hands settles in against the small of her back. "Connections. I like mortal society still, a lot. I like people. Being on a packed dance floor, my skin brushing against a stranger, hearing people talking, tangling, muttering secrets to one another, seeing how they clump and group and interact. I'm a member of the Shepherds bloodline, though I don't brag on it much."
Her smile warms her features, even settling into the faint laugh-lines about her eyes. "I like people too," she confides, a happy murmur. "I genuinely just...enjoy being close, seeing them live. Happy that I can pass among the group and soak up their vivacity."
"Well, I figured you might be into people, opening a business to attract them for a night of wonders and horrors." He winks at her.
She adopts an amazed expression, eyes widening. "Mon cher, I am impressed. I knew your powers of observation could be counted on." Planting her hands just above his shoulders, Rhea lazily strafes her lips against his, perhaps as payment for her sass.
His hand slips down from her back to lightly cup the curve of her ass, giving a gentle squeeze as she kisses him.
That pleased humming noise emanates, a positive signal of approval. Rhea drags herself free of her enthusiastic affections, licking her lips. "Do I see you yet? Do you see me? You can see anything you like," she murmurs, gaze thoughtfully searching his face. "I would show you."
"I want to see what you have to show." This is whispered into her ear, as he sits up slightly.
She tilts her head, considering, and then leans in to give him a quick peck on the cheek before rising. She even manages to get off the beanbag without any flailing. "Wait here. I'll be right back." She slips away, padding through the dark; the snaps on her overalls click and rustle as she disappears.
Oh, he waits, lying back against the beanbag and looking up at the ceiling. "Gods, if you're out there...please, don't dangle this and just snatch it the fuck away. Please?"
She does take her sweet time, but eventually, Rhea comes back! Without a trace of makeup, her hair parted down the middle and left unbound. She's wearing a sheer piece of fabric that has a single clasp at each shoulder; it's billowy, perhaps linen or a cotton gauze. The important part is that it is remarkably transparent. Rhea also carries a little lamp; she sets it to one side and flicks it on, the lambent glow limning her in gold. Hips swaying, she advances on the beanbag and stops just shy, stretching her arms above her head. "Can you see now?"
He gasps softly, sitting up to stare at her, and then to reach out, stopping short of actually touching her.
Her lips twitch in amusement; she coils and untwines her arms above her head as she moves, very slowly, in a circle. "Is that....yes, you can? Or...perhaps you are disappointed?" Her tone is gently teasing.
He pushes himself off the beanbag, stepping right into her personal bubble as her back is turned to him. "No, there's nothing at all about you that's disappointing. You are a glory unto yourself, dame."
"I'm glad we agree," she replies, a delighted smile curling her lips. She takes a swaying step back, closing the space between. "You can do more than see, you know." She twines her fingers around his, lifting them to her hip in encouragement.
And he sways as well, pressed in against her closely, holding both her hips. And then one hand trails up along her side, the gentlest touch of fingernail through the fabric, perhaps a test to see how ticklish she is.
The response is almost instant. With a surprised squeal Rhea flails, twisting away from his fingers; eyes wide, she looks up at him in dismay. "Oh, merde. No tickling!"
And he lets out a warm laugh, and starts in with the other hand as well, stepping forward in an attempt to close the gap. "Or what?"
"No tickling!" She shrieks with laughter, twisting in his grasp with renewed enthusiasm. "Mercy! We all have a weakness!"
And he laughs, leaning in to kiss her where her neck meets her shoulder. "And this is yours? Mmm, it's too tempting not to exploit, I'm afraid."
"Now I know," she complains, twining her arms back around his neck, "You are Invictus, finding my only flaw to turn against me." She sighs. Manages a single sniffle.
"I think I can make it work for you, as well." This is a promise whispered in her ear gently, before he reaches under the folds of her makeshift dress, and we draw a curtain on these two. Who proceed to do some very, very skillful dancing, first upright and then probably on the beanbag. Henry's clothes are discarded at some point.
Everyone wins! Except the beanbag.
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