another night (cyrah and clem)

[Clement Reijnder]

He opened his mouth to point out the fact that he had a thousand other ways to upset her that didn’t result in his possible sterility. Instead he put his book down again to pour her a cup of the wine. He carried it over to the table without a word, put it down, and retreated to pour himself one. That alone was off. He never used a cup. Ever. He shifted until he could sit on the counter, looking across the room at her. “Don’t play word games with me. Your body is yours. You belong to yourself and only to yourself. And while you’re protective of your other belongings, you’re most protective of yourself.” He’d been paying attention at some point. Where she might have been feeling anger, it seemed that Clem was a model of emotional stillness. He peered at her almost musingly over his cup as he took a slow sip. “I’ll charm them all. If I had two extra arms, it would be easier, but…” He shrugged. “If you want this Eypharian as a client, I suppose I’ll be forced to please you. At least 300 extra mizras to line your pockets. Charming it is.”

[Cyrah]

She watched him deposit the cup of wine in front of her like she'd never seen him before. He was being...articulate and...perceptive, and...she didn't quite know what he was after, but she presumed that Clement was always after something. An emotional response from her, a few coins, a woman's sultry smile. He always had an agenda, and that was something about him Cyrah had grown to rely on. The minute that facade was shattered, she wasn't entirely sure what to do. So she just ate her sandwich, and said nothing while she did so. Her eyes stayed on him, and she polished it off in short order, but she didn't touch the cup of wine. And when she was finished, as she licked her fingertips clean, she paced around the table and drew towards him, across the room. Until she was standing directly in front of him. “Of course my body is mine,” she said, and her voice held that steely quality that heralded deeply-routed anger, personal anger. “And you ignored that, which you knew would piss me off. And you did it because I treat you like a dog, or whatever stupid thing you said, but you did it on purpose, you did it knowing full-well that I'd react the way I did – so that's not a petching word game, Clem, that's the truth. If you want to have it out about that night, then fine, but don't hide behind whatever this smooth veneer is.” She let out a hsst at him, between her teeth, and then turned to go back over to the cup of wine; he'd destroyed the excitement she'd brought into the room. And replaced it with frustration, and annoyance.

[Clement Reijnder]

When she came up close, he didn’t shift away. He didn’t shift forward. What he did do, though, was reach for his bucket of water to weaken his wine while peering at her. He would have seemed a possessed man if it wasn’t for the fact that the flicker in his eyes as he looked at her was distinctly Clement. No one else was there. He gave a slow nod to her. “That wasn’t my intention, and I don’t want to have it out. I deserved what I got.” He shrugged, moving to pick up the book. “Lesson learned. The messenger was killed before the message was delivered.” What the petch did that even mean? He scratched his neck, just watching her move. He ran his thumb over his book thoughtfully, opening it back up as he took another sip of his drink.

[Cyrah]

“Fine.” If he wanted to play the who could care less game, fine. She stalked back to the table and picked up the cup of wine, climbing onto the bed with it. Plucked up one of her many ledgers, from where it lay on the nightstand, and flipped it open in her lap. Tucking a golden strand of hair behind one delicately pointed ear, she picked up the coal pencil in the center of the ledger and started going over the numbers therein, occasionally sipping from the cup of wine, and completely ignoring the eternally frustrating and bizarre human with whom she was presently occupying the same space. Good. Great. Let him read. Fine. Super. She scratched notes in the margins of her ledger. Brought home 600 gold mizas and barely got a thank you, or a job well done, just got whined at and then summarily dismissed. She'd remember that, and pay him back for it in due course.

[Clement Reijnder]

”Here… Listen to this,” he said quietly after a long moment. There was a sort of softness to his voice. He stood up with the book in hand, moving over until he was next to the bed. He sat down on the edge of it, keeping a completely respectable distance. The book was held out just enough that she could see the page if she cared to. That was why he was on the bed. He wanted to actually share something with her. Something more than some raunchy limerick he’d picked up at the Pillars. His finger tapped on the parchment underneath it. The book was particularly fine in its lettering and illuminated manuscripts. He was really going to hate giving it back to the owner. With a cautious glance at her he looked back down to the book. “This is the Viratassa. It’s the holy book written by Viratas… Listen to this… Spilt blood cries out to me. It speaks of life and death. It sings of sins and blessings. Every drop is precious, but not all cries are holy.” Was he… Trying to share something with her?

[Cyrah]

"Let me guess, you've met a particularly alluring symenestra," Cy drawled, sparing only a glance at the page. "And you're just dying to charm her with poetry." Viratas was not a god that Cyrah pledged to, or really even cared for. Quite a bit of import placed on things like shared blood, and bloodlines, neither of which did Cyrah have, though she knew that Clement did, somewhere -- that he had a whole family, even if he never talked about them. She could tell. She wrinkled her nose, and drained what wine was left in her cup, licking her bottom lip clean of its taste. Another quiet moment spent staring distractedly down at her ledger, and then with an irritable sigh she snapped it shut and tossed it aside, shifting in her seat to face him. Cool eyes took his measure, and narrowed suspiciously. "What is wrong with you?" she asked. "What are you doing?"

[Clement Reijnder]

”No, it just had me thinking about what it is we do… The two of us. The balance of our work and what it is that blood brings to it all…” He shrugged. “I was thinking about the connection blood brings. I mean, we share blood – You and me. Not our own, but… The blood we share is our livelihood.” There was something to be said about Clement that was possibly overlooked too often. He never treated Cyrah like she was any lesser than him for what she was. He didn’t talk down to her or dumb things up that he didn’t think she’d grasp. He figured she’d grasp it if she tried hard enough, because that’s just what she did. If she wanted it, she’d take it. She’d consume it just like she’d done the food he gave her the first night they’d met. That was just her. He looked down at the book, shutting it. There was a slow shrug at her question and attention. “I’m not doing anything. I just thought it might be of interest.” There was, however, something that was wrong. Very, very wrong. Wrong enough to scare him sober.

[Cyrah]

"If you don't want to tell me what's bothering you, fine," she said sharply, frustrated with all this flowery talk about whatever bond they might have, through blood, which they certainly didn't actually have, not any kind of bond, through anything. "But we don't share anything except...except what we have to, in order to be partners, which is what we are. Business. Partners. And you are fucking up my business sense right now. So tell me what's wrong, or don't, but stop...being...weird." Cyrah was very smart, her instincts were superb. But she wasn't good with people, especially not Clement, and whatever was happening to him had her completely confused. And confusion only made her angry. She had three settings: content, confused, and angry. They followed one another. She had very little conscious subtext, though she could sense something beneath the surface here even if she couldn't put her finger on it. She tossed her ledger onto the floor and twisted away from him, curling up on her side on the bed, her cheek nestled against one of the pillows. If he was just going to babble senselessly, she would go to sleep. And ignore it. And ignore him. And whatever knot was twisting at the bottom of her belly over it.

[Clement Reijnder]

”This is just me, love,” he said quietly, pushing off the bed so he could walk across the room. There was a cultured, measured bit of ice to his tone. He glanced back at her backside. Without her looking at him, he was free to let the hurt wash over his face. It was safe. Yes, how could he forget? They were just business partners. He poured himself a bit more wine, watering it down heavily. “This is me sober and with my wits about me… There’s nothing wrong.” She would go to sleep. He would be fine with that.

[Cyrah]

She let out a furious little growl and shoved herself up from the bed, swinging her legs over the side til her heels hit the hardwood floor. With the same kind of momentum, she pushed away from the bed and prowled across the room to him. Ripped the book from his hands and tossed it over her shoulder, snatched the cup of wine away and slammed it down on the table. And then she shoved him, hard, in the chest, and started backing him up towards the nearest wall. "This is not you," she snarled. "This is some hyper-sensitive zombie you, or some you that hasn't ever tried to talk to me before, but this is not the you that I have been sharing space with for the past two years. So if there is something wrong, then tell me that there is something wrong -- if there is something you want, then tell me what you fucking want, but don't sit and spout holy poetry at me written by a god that I could give a shit about!" At that point, she was in his face, or as close as she could get, being so much shorter than he was -- she went up onto her tip-toes, though, so that she could jab a finger into his chest. "You're brooding, you're sulking! Why are you sulking, I just brought home the biggest score we've ever had!"