[Susannah Sutherland]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 7
[Susannah Sutherland] Outside the store front is welcoming if subdued. A brownstone building, the two upper floors looking like they could easily be apartments or an abode for the owner. Large windows attempt to drink up as much of the winter sunlight as possible, set with heavy glass in multiple frames that gives the store an immediate feel of days gone by. Above the front door a mortar and pestal are engraved into the wood, beneath a triangle as unassuming and forgettable to most as it is meaningful to others. A bistro-style stand-alone chalkboard sign reads the days specialties in tea selections. [Snowfire: bing cherry and ginger black tea; Gingerbread Crème, in black or green; Botswana Blossom Rooibos with its hints of citrus, apple, almonds and vanilla.] Upon opening the door one hears a distinctive tone, not a bell or a buzzer, but a small set of chimes on a bit of twine, their tone a clean, light, metallic vibration. The shop, at first look, lacks pretense. There are no rustic or psychedelic trappings of pseudo-mystics; no gaudy, mass-produced dreamcatchers. Neither are there any trendy displays touting the latest fad in miracle berries; madonna-kabbalah red string bracelets; selections of books approved and endorsed by PETA. If anything there is a sense of walking into an Apothecary - the pharmacist of old, from back before medication become nothing more than the doling out of little capsules of chemical concoctions. It is neat and tidy though rather Victorian-old in its feel. Shelves of assorted wares; shallow bins of fresh produce; selections of the tools of the trade for the conscientious masseuse, acupuncturist or homeopathic doctor. The left side of the store is devoted to modest settings for those who wish to indulge in tea or coffee, mismatched but well kept and comfortable arm chairs and sofas; low slung tables with cushions for those who would deign to lounge on the carpeted floor.
Normally a customer would receive a pleasant greeting of some sort soon after entering the shop. Today, however, the interior is quiet except for a distant sound of a water accent at some hidden nook. A woman stands atop a ladder against one shelf, an old-styled affair that rolls along the length of one wall. At first glance it might seem that she is arranging merchandise - essential oils from where she stands - but she stands still, her forehead almost resting against the nearest shelf bottom, her eyes closed, eyebrows drawn taught together, fine lines set more deeply in strain. At the foot of the ladder a grey striped tabby, barely out of its adolescence, mews when the door opens, both inquiry and notice. She stiffles a sigh - she'd been hoping to close up early - and begins a cautious descent. Once firmly on the ground she massages the digits, knuckles and palms of her left hand slowly rising up the barest hint of calendula and mint. The cat snakes around her ankles as soon as she touches down on the wood floorboards , purring with glutenous abandon, enticing a faint chuckle from the woman, breathy and faint, there and then gone again. "A regular whore for attention, you are," is her aside to the feline as she makes her way towards the front of the store, her mellow voice lightly accented with the lowland Scots of her youth, softer and more lilting than the well-known Highland brogue and tempered by years spent in the States and England and any other number of places.
She doesn't look like a hold over from the 70's and with her patent leather boots it is doubtful that she would begrudge the Colonel any kind of genetically altered poultry. With her dress and well kept style she could just as easily be a woman from his office, dressed for a casual bit of late night or weekend work. She is neat, presentable, lovely; svelt and lean of build, fairly tall for a woman and taller still in her boots. With hair the cascading facets of ripened wheat at sunrise and a pristine alabaster complexion she is a winter creature, the promise of spring in the light blue of her eyes, the faint kiss of blush at her high, bold cheeks. A woman in the part of her life where her years become a evocative dance of uncertainty - in one light she could be barely in her 30's; in harsher florescence the fine lines of time would better show. The deep red of her boots offsets the cream ivory of her dress, a design that is simple though well made in chasmere the colour of aged ivory, with full sleeves and a cowl style neck that reveals the lines of collar, the full sweep of a long, slender neck, tender as the base of a calla lily.
Where her eyes not downcast - distracted [pained. strained. struggling.] - she would recognize him immediately. As it is she moves... deliberately. Not with any overt display of injury or ill-being, but with a steady, mustered force of conscious precision, at odds with the easy, thrown-back stride he might remember. As it is it is only at the last moment - as she pasts the last of the shelves near the front counter, as she blinks and settles a smile on her lips, tired and tight at the edges - that she lifts her gaze, seeking out the unknown customer, settling on him. Blinking. "Jarod?"
Tentative.
Questioning.
Surprised.
Guarded?
[Jarod Nightingale] When one had the kinds of exacting and peculiar tastes that someone like Jarod Nightingale did, it could be difficult to find local businesses that catered to your desires. In particular, when those desires craved something that was not quite so fashionable in the United States as it could be in other parts of the world. (Well, no, that wasn't entirely true. Tea was certainly fashionable these days, but in the same way that fashion itself was ever-temporary and fleeting. There was no history, and no true understanding of the art. Not here.) So he was ever-constantly vigilant of the possibility of finding a place that held the tea leaf in as reverent a position as he himself did.
The kind of shop he might have found in London, or in Beijing. This... was that kind of place. Or at least, it had that feel to it. Nonetheless, he was skeptical as he walked in the door, and his eyes turned to wander the shelves and the decor with aloof curiosity. Perhaps even judgment. He looked first at the wares, and thus, did not notice the woman as more than a physical presence in his peripheral vision. Anyone who didn't know him might assume that he was haughty. (Plenty who did know him would assume that.) Jarod was the sort of person who demanded perfection, both in himself, and in everything that he associated with himself.
But then... he heard what sounded like a cat. And dark blue eyes flicked towards the feline, and then... its owner. They traveled up, from hips to hair, and would remain fixed upon her with wintery curiosity until Susannah turned to face him. He was dressed as he often was, fashionable and tailored, in a black prada suit-and-tie. The weather tonight was unseasonably warm, and he'd left his coat in the car outside.
She recognized him, and he smiled. And it was a slow, beautiful thing. Not entirely warm, but neither was it false. Merely... reserved. Still, there was a bit of a glow in his eyes, because yes, he remembered her too. "Now this... is a surprise. How are you, Susannah?"
[Susannah Sutherland] "I'm well..."
It is a lie, but just a small one to flow along in the greater wellspring of small day-to-day lies we all speak with varying degrees of success. It is the expected lie; the anticipated lie. How are you? is a query that usually takes the function of a greeting. It is polite. It is neutral and sociable. A man like Jarod Nightingale can be beautifully sociable when it so suits him - the mitigating factor of all of his decisions or so most any would judge. She says she is well because it is the role to be played at the moment; the accepted acknowledgment of the first step in this dance of human interaction: A Waltz called Reacquaint. The steps familiar, the partners distant.
If he is a man to look for such things he may see the shadows of heightened reserve in azure eyes; speculation that borders on pointed. It's only been a few years since last they saw one another [fresh linen; roses and amber, jasmine and myrr; intensity made all the more brilliant for its brevity; companionable farewells without any traces of possession or claim.] and she is as attractive a woman as ever on her good days. In another life she might have followed a profession much like his: She certainly has the bones for it, that bold mixture of striking features that could be disastrous on most faces but comes together just so to make her stunning when she shines. Today is not, however; a good day. That tightness at eyes and wide mouth lingers; the hint of sallowness and delicate care with which she moves like her bones were replaced with glass and she might shatter did she try to move too fast, too sudden, too easy. For one split moment it may seem she regrets that it would be him on a day like this. Regret. Displeasure.
...then it vanishes. She speaks her response and looks him over. And when her eyes are done traversing what is familiar and what is not they make their way back up the height of him to his almond eyes and she laughs, softly, a sound like her old acceptance; a sound that embraces what is with a breathy warmth and she shakes her head - if slowly - before stepping forward, bridging the gap between them to let her long, slender fingers alight on his shoulders; the paleness of her a stark contrast against his suit so that the sheen of her skin seems almost to glow, the blue of her veins a pronounced network to her core. The wide lips take on a shadow of that saucey lilt of old, sly as a cat eyeing yarn, before she moves to kiss him, once on each cheek; a European greeting for a very European shop.
"I'm sorry. You took me quite by surprise. Are you well, Jarod? You seem to be..."
She's released him. She keeps a hand from smoothing hair that needs no such attention. Her jaw twitches, the smile faltering slightly as some spasm clenches some part of her unseen, but the battle is minute and tightly reigned; a stillness as the pain absorbs and she soaks it in. She breathes out and it passes... she turns away. "If you don't mind, I'm just going to set the lock... I think you'll do for the last costumer of the day. Fancy a cuppa?"
[Jarod Nightingale] [Per+Empathy - you alright? (secondary ability, -1diff)]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 9, 9 (Success x 2 at target 5)
[Jarod Nightingale] [Life 1 - scan - coincidental, diff 4, -1(focus)]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 5, 6, 10 (Success x 3 at target 3)
[Jarod Nightingale] Sometimes, being around someone like Jarod could be downright frustrating. He revealed very little, and saw much. It was a one-sided relationship, and not one that everyone found very tolerable. He made up for that, though. He had a way of making up for just about anything, when he put his mind to it. Now... he studied Susannah. There was a curious quality to his long, intense gaze that suggested he wasn't simply watching her, but attempting to read subtle cues.
And when she leaned forward and pressed two small kisses to his cheeks, he used the moment to reach out with senses most people didn't have. One touch. One simple, brief touch, and the details of her pattern, her life, her heartbeat, were as present and real as the tangible press of lips on his cheek.
His hair smelled faintly of orchids and some kind of exotic spice. And he was clean and perfectly put together. He was always clean and perfectly put together. There had never been a moment in the past when she had not seem him that way, but for the temporary chaos that was always invited with physical pleasure. (That was, in fact, the only time that he could ever really let down that wall of icy perfection that so often surrounded him.) And he reached out briefly to brush his hands down the sides of her arms, when she stepped away. A gesture of familiarity, and, subtly, of comfort.
"I would adore some tea right now, thank you. Dragonwell?" And then, after a pause, his voice came more quietly. Something just a little more human. More caring. He could be that, on occasion, this winter predator. In small, delicate moments. "When did you get sick?"
[Susannah Sutherland] When did you get sick?
There is a quickfire dart to his eyes when he speaks the last; his query just a touch more human. Caring. Connected. A solitary man; but by no means a hermit. A man she oft mused would be just as solitary surrounded by the clawing-cloying-pawing-adoring-backstabbing masses at Fashion Week as in the midst of the Sahara without even a lone Bedouin as a guide. An assessment she accepted almost as soon as it was made; years ago, back in England, back when things were.. easier. Happier. She was practicing medicine. She had a partner-lover-confidant-mentor. Her family. Her friends. Her health. Her occult abilities, petty though many a Magi might consider them. In her contentment had always been a willingness to see people for what and who they are, flaws and all [perhaps the flaws more than anything else. it is the flaws that remind us of our humanity], then take the good with the bad, eyes wide open.
Which is to say that the small, delicate moment does not evade her perceptions.
And when she searches his oft-aloof gaze she sees there that shimmer of connection he usually reserves for physical trysts.
She smiles, a wan turn of her generous lips, a ripple of tightness over features shadowed with the strain of a constant ache. "Two years ago or thereabouts... it... I cope. Some days are even quite satisfactory now..."
It is what she doesn't say that is, perhaps, quiet and subtle testimony of the horrible, unrelenting pain of other days.
Drifting apart but not running away: A small blessing in that she does not expect Jarod to be the sort to weigh her down with pity. So she moves away from him with deliberate motions, moving more slowly than she might like and perhaps letting he absence of eye-to-eye contact hide away vestiges of regret or self-consciousness. She never spent time pining for the younger man, that much was blatantly true: They'd parted on amiable terms, each getting what the other sought from their dalliances. That was all. She was not the sort of woman to confuse such unions for more. All the same, she is human and a red-blooded female once used to a healthily steady supply of sensuality [sexuality] in her life. Now, face to face with an old, brief lover -- he still in all his glory, she now less so... it is a lump to be swallowed.
"The best of Lung Ching, is it? Coming right up... take a seat. Tell me what you've been up to these last.. three years is it? Four? Goodness..."
[Jarod Nightingale] Assuming that Jarod managed to survive the ever-pressing dangers of living in the awakened world (and considering his nature and particular skill set, he might very well survive for quite some time), he would some day achieve a level of mastery in the arts he practiced that would effectively allow him to remain young and beautiful for years and years to come. One could easily imagine him frozen in time, that way, like a work of art rather than a real, human person. Even now, without the benefit of magical manipulation, he'd aged well. Jarod was almost thirty, but he didn't look it. Well, that wasn't entirely true. It wasn't so much that he looked young as that he was... ageless.
But when he looked at Susannah now, he wasn't looking at her flaws. He noticed them, sure, because he always noticed those small details that made people who they were (for better or worse), but that wasn't where his focus lay. He didn't see a middle-aged woman who was partially crippled by a physical ailment that science and medicine knew very little about. He saw Susannah, a one-time acquaintance and casual friend, whom he liked and respected, and whose company he enjoyed... and who was the same woman now that she always was, but for a few additional marks caused by time and pain (both physical and emotional.)
They all became marked that way, after awhile.
"Wait a moment," he asked softly, as she turned to busy herself with the task of social ritual. It was a gentle request by vocal intonation, but whether or not she acquiesced, he still reached out to grasp her wrist carefully and draw her back in. Close. Closer. Because the span of space made her pattern less real to him. "A gracious hostess deserves a gift for her trouble, wouldn't you say?"
Even now, he was charming. He teased, and smiled, and it was probably the same sort of smile that had gotten him into her bed in the first place, years ago. Maybe she knew what he was offering. Maybe not. He'd always been a bit guarded about what he was capable of achieving, so perhaps she thought he intended only to flirt or offer a proper kiss. Then again, he was Verbena, and for all his urban luxuries, there was a very primal, powerful creature that lurked behind his wintery gaze.
[Susannah Sutherland] A careful grasp, drawing her back in. A vocalized request; a more aggressive [for all that it is gentle] action to follow. Self-confident, he touches her, long, lean digits to encircle a fine boned wrist, strong in its structure for all that the red-glow of her pain seems as though she might surely shatter. She winces at the touch, her breath catching slightly, her expression immediately one of mingled consternation and apology. Close and closer, the space between them dwindles away and he is teasing, smiling, flirtatious. Sophisticated frivolities.
The initial twinge [jolt?] of heightened discomfort is swallowed. Absorbed. She closes her eyes, her dark blond lashes richer in colour against the delicate porcelain of her complexion. Feline in her own manner, her face inclines upwards, not the anticipation of an awaited kiss, but like she might be sniffing the air about him; like invisible whiskers are set to twitch and tingle, sensitive to the air about him; warmth of flesh beneath designer suit, the scents her favours on skin and in the depths of jet hair styled just so to seem perfect without effort; remembered things and new things. The vestiges of residual pain slip away momentarily - never completely gone but enough so. For just a moment she is her old self, the play of her lips contentedly teasing in turn; the undercurrent of her stance less that of a sweet maid to be seduced and much more a knowledgeable woman who, for now [just maybe. possibly. we'll see.] is willing to play the game. Her eyes open, the complex azure of them placidly amused.
"Oh, I had every intention of handing you a cheque along with the kettle..." Her native Glasgow accent hasn't vanished over the years though it's been a long time since she's called lowland Scotland her home. Naturally softer, less pronounced than the better stereotyped Highland brogue, its tempered all the more in her years away from her birthplace but still it exists in the turn of a word here or there to separate it from a common British accent. Every becomes just barely ev'rah; kettle just a touch closer to keetle.
Her wrist in his grasp - if he hasn't let go - is suspended; momentarily gossamer as a mockingbirds wing in freeze-shot; neither resting in her grasp or resisting it. The saucy turn of bow lips [just broad and ample enough to enter the realm of some mens more pornographic fancies] and capricious glint in her eyes slips then; a somberness settling in her gaze, a grateful but subdued warmth in her smile.
"...you don't need to, Jarod. I don't ask it."
No anger. No discomfort at what she believes his intention is. But for reasons all her own it is important to her that she clarify that point. She doesn't ask for magical relief from her affliction.
She doesn't beg.
She will not be pitiful.
...and if he is good. If he is just that observant, he might see more in her gaze as well. Less obvious, but far deeper; far more primitive for all of it.
[Jarod Nightingale] [Let's see, then. Is he that observant? Per+Empathy, diff 5 -1 (because he's still reading her, and emotions have physical cues)]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 5, 6, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 5 at target 4)
[Jarod Nightingale] [Life 3 - I can ease your pain - coincidental, diff 6 -1(focus), -1(going slow), -1(resonance appropriate)]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 3, 3, 4 (Success x 4 at target 3) [WP]
[Jarod Nightingale] Sometimes he saw so very much more than he was meant to. And without even needing the assistance of magical intervention. Susannah was close, and his eyes met hers for a long moment. Lips pursed gently. Thoughtful.
"I know I don't need to. I don't need to do anything." And this was an honest statement, coming from him. She'd never known him to do a single thing that he had not himself decided upon, for his own reasons. And for all that he could so acutely sense her pain, if he had not genuinely wanted to stop it, he wouldn't have. Obligation? No, Jarod was not obligated to do anything. They were different, in that sense. The Consor might freely give so much of herself to others, but the mage... he was sparing with himself, at best. But this was easy enough. And it cost him nothing but a few moments of concentration. (And maybe he had ulterior motives, or maybe not. One never really knew, with him.)
This... this was like a dance, for him. A ritual that was something much more natural and personal than chants or talismans. He did not wave his hands or call the corners or pray to some God of man's creation. Instead, he released his careful hold on her wrist and trailed his fingertips up the side of her arm, then her neck. And soon, the other hand joined it at the other side, to cradle her face (he had pianist hands, which was fitting, since he played - but Susannah didn't know that) with a touch that was so delicate you might think she was made of glass. Then lips crossed the tiny breath of space between them, and he kissed her gently. And with that kiss, a warm, tingling flow of pleasure washed over formerly agonized nerve endings, beginning where his lips and fingers touched and radiating down through her whole body. Then that too, faded, leaving only a normal and healthy body in its wake (for awhile, anyway - for now), and the kiss turned into something deeper before he pulled slowly, inexorably away, and let his thumbs trail down the sides of her throat before coming to rest back at his sides.
"Now, I think, I'll have that tea."
[Susannah Sutherland] It's on the tip of her tongue: A teasing comment of her own brand of dry humour; an admonishment perhaps as she slips away, cagey and stalking as any wounded animal might be. Inexorability drawn to that in him that once made her all too happy to dally with him; to that which promises relief. Grace. And just as proudly urged to deny it on grounds of principle and fear. Control. Acceptance of others flaws, merits; foibles and brillance: Indeed. Of her own humanity and limitations. But to need help. To accept aid. When she feels the is little or nothing she can give in return...
...she stiffens slightly, not the same response he'd recieved years ago when he'd first touched her. Of course, then, she'd touched in kind, no shy and passive bit of woman to be coaxed and prodded all the way. She'd been as uninhibited in her sexuality as she was in her generosity, giving and taking in kind and finding her fulfillment through the act of it. Now she is gun-shy to say the least, too used to physical intimacies bringing pain, the ground beneath her shifted since last they knew one another. He is gentle. Delicate. She feels quite as fragile as he treats her at first, her skin a thin parchment over nerves on fire, muscles throbbing slow and steady, draining her energy, roiling her stomach. A kiss. His lips on hers; her mouth parting slightly in a way she remembers with a jolt of nostalgia and longing, though the memory is by no means confined simply to him. Pleasure slides over her form and at first her mind struggles to process it. A tricky thing, pleasure and pain. At the right time, with the right stimulation and willingness, one can easily dance coquettishly around the other. A body - her body - so used to this aching [or stabbing] almost balks against the sudden shift. Against his lips her own vibrate slightly, a tremour of hesitation, then stimulation... then her hands slip upwards, one moving to cup lightly at the smoothness of his jawline, long thumb brushing downward, seeking out the sensation of his even, steady pulse. The other hand settles at his bicep, felt through the fine fabric of his suit and the shirt beneath. She sighs, a breathy sound of welcome or benediction; like a faithful one who has too long been denied her place of worship. Her pulse throbs steadily, toes curling, pushing her up just slightly in her boots so that there is barely any difference in height between them. Pleasure fades, leaving normal health in its wake and now the sound tickles her throat is a marrow deep relaxation. Gratification. Someone passing by might think from the sound and the slow flex of the length of her back that he'd just managed to give her an insanely thorough orgasm. The kiss deepens and she is unabashed in her return of it, tasting him without demand but with unadulterated, lingering pleasure; appeased merely at the action in and of itself.
He draws away. She doesn't stop him. Humour hums in her throat, a sound damnably near a purr, her lips curved in a pain-free bliss, with her eyes closed and chin slightly lifted so that - for a moment - she seems like a feline basking in a patch of warmth all her own; a simple, sensual satisfaction. One eye opens, looking towards him, charmingly sly, her mouth echoing the steamy playfulness... and then she laughs, full bodied and uninhibited, an infectious sound though it isn't boisterous and it does not last overlong. It mellows out to the faint memory of bubbly champagne and she is all warmth again, refreshed. Revived. Glowing. Lifting a hand she touches fingertips to his cheek...
"Thank you," she says, her tone throaty, the words simple but carrying the weight of her earnestness.
Then she turns once more and starts to head for the tea room and the simple, open kitchen set up to begin setting water to boil, arranging loose leaf and strainers as she goes. "Tell me, then... are you living here now or just passing through on a job?"
[Editor's Note: Apparently I'm missing a chunk of the transcript here. :( ]
[Susannah Sutherland] She cuts off the kettle just as it begins it's piercing lament, handling the affair with a folded black towel as she pours the steaming water into the service pot, loose green leaf already measured into the basket. A faint clinck of china - something that reminds her of the click of bone to bone, the organic, minute scratch of real pearl against teeth: The tea- pot top nestled in place, she lifts the tray and moves easily to the table he selected. While not overwhelmingly tall by any means there is something in the ease and confidence of her stride; the almost too-pristine sculpt of her bone structure that makes the woman statuesque. Like a willow she is graceful in the breezes and gales around her; like a masterpiece in marble she is somehow timeless despite the wear and tear of the years. The hours. Life. He is flawless [on the surface, at least -- what scars li beneath the perfection?], she is not. Her chief claim to beauty has always been that her quirks and imperfections somehow work together.
It buys her time.
Arranging the tray just so. Letting the tea steep while she makes her way to the table; sets the tray down then sits down herself, folding resplendently long legs at the knee without the slightest twinge of protest from joints or tendons or muscles. She uncrosses her legs and recrosses them slowly, a dance that those who study human body language might dub a sure sign of female arousal -- perhaps. Or maybe it is simply the joy of blessed, blissful lack of ache. Either way, when he asks after her former love-interest [her mentor and partner, he knew. not simply a casual meeting of willing-aching-wanton-adoring bodies.] her face isn't turned his way; her eyes are not on his. A twitch at the side of her wide lips. A slight tension down the length of alabaster neck, so pale one might imagine being able to trace the lines of her arteries and veins and capillaries to make a complete circuit of her entire body. "No." The tone is -- reserved. Tired? No... she smiles and shakes her head, a bittersweet turn of evocative lips, an acceptance that has moved on so that the whispers of betrayal, sadness, loss and anger is little more than a ripple over calm waters.
"Alas," She looks to Jarod now, rubbing a hand along the back of her neck, snagging the bottom left corner of her lip briefly beneath respective canine before chuckling lowly, a deep sound of melancholy humour. The kind of humour that exists only because there is no more use in screaming, raging or weeping. She smiles, closed lipped, and shrugs. "He went down a path I wouldn't follow. Which is to say he's dead. Executed - and lucky it wasn't worse, I suppose."
A mewl from the floor then the tabby jumps up onto Susannah's lap, the woman scratching trimmed nails along the tender backs of its ears, behind and just under the jaw setting the adolescent feline to a steady, lusty, brazen purr. She doesn't remember Jarod as the sort to be left feeling uncomfortable after such a conversational turn -- but her own manners and niceties leave her doing the polite thing: Changing the subject before anyone has to attempt apologies or feign horrified remorse [gossipy interest]. "Still the consummate bachelor, poppet?" Like so much else she consumes whatever emotions and memories the mention of that former mentor stirred. Consumes it. Swallows it. Drowns it away completely within her so that she asks her query with a light teasing - a heady mixture of one-time sexual partner and coquette; and the affectionate concerns of a doting big sister. "Or is some long sought-after love tethering you to this abysmally cold and dreary city?"
[Jarod Nightingale] He watched her, and there were subtle cues of emotion and body language that could be interpreted in one form or another. Mostly, what he saw was the tension caused by his inquiry. It was a notable thing, that response. As telling as her actual words ended up being. Truth be told, Jarod's motives behind asking this question in the first place may have been slightly suspect. Curiosity in its most selfish form, but then... curiosity was inherently selfish, wasn't it? Maybe that was why everyone was at least slightly suspicious of cats.
Dragonwell needed to steep longer than most green teas. Its flavor was delicate, and took a couple of minutes to properly infuse into the water. Jarod left it to do just that, for the moment, as he contemplated this new bit of knowledge, and how the memory of it was affecting the woman seated across from him. "Hmm." He made a little sound in the back of his throat. Something both thoughtful and enigmatic. "Messy indeed. I should apologize for teasing you. Truthfully I thought the answer would be more mundane. I am glad that you didn't join him though, for whatever my opinion is worth."
They were such careful creatures, these two. Speaking of tragedies as if they were no more than bad weather. But whatever words were worth, there was a quiet understanding in Jarod's tone. Something more genuine than merely courtesy. Susannah deftly rounded the subject back onto himself (clever girl - that was how to deal with this one), and Jarod smiled a little at her description of him. Consummate bachelor indeed, and he even had the car and the penthouse to prove it. All the same, his response was curious.
"Mostly. The only thing tethering me here is the lease on my apartment."
Mostly. He'd said, mostly.
