VERSE EIGHT: HERZELEID

"So...you're sayin," the otter trailed off as he wrestled with his chair and climbed back into it clumsily. He'd just returned from a trip to the bathroom, wobbling more than a little all the way there and back. "So you're sayin," he repeated, undeterred, "he's...like, a demon? Straight up an evil spirit? From Hell? A literal Hell?"

It took Avinglad a moment to process what the otter was talking about. The conversation had petered off before Kaw had gone to relieve himself and the wolf was a little perplexed by the fact that it had just begun anew. He'd been too busy working his way through a third quiche, finally close to quelling the rumbling demands of his gut.

The otter, for his part, had been more focussed on libations. He'd finished off his meal sure enough, but of the two nearly-empty pitchers of beer amidst their dishes, Avinglad had only partaken of one pint. He furrowed his brow and looked down across the table at the otter in mild disapproval.

"Aye. Is that so hard to believe, lad?" Avinglad paused to wash down some pie with his beverage. "Ye've seen what he can do. What would normally kill a man has no discernable effect on that..." monster "...beast. He kills without mercy or remorse - without reason, even. It's not for money or power; he just gets off on killin'."

Kaw seemed contemplative over this, but Avinglad wasn't certain whether that was a result of his sobering words or Kaw's clear intoxication. Just my luck to be stuck here with a lush, the Scot thought to himself. He was giving serious thought to reconsidering their 'allegiance', such as it was. Then again whether they worked together or separately their goal remained the same; keeping their paths from crossing again would be almost impossible.

Avinglad sighed and took another few bites of quiche before he added: "an' there's the fact he looks the same as the day I met 'im, 15 years back. The _exact_same. He's a nigh-unstoppable, bloodthirsty monstrosity...sounds like a daemon t'me." The logic seemed sound to him. What else could Damon be? What other force could be so frightful or malefic? Certainly nothing of this world...

The lupine shuddered for a moment to recall that first encounter when he had been but a lad. The things he'd seen that day...the terrible way in which Damon had brought Hell to Earth in a Manchester marketplace...the manner in which his mother and father and brother had met their untimely ends...

And more than that, there was everything that had happened to Avinglad after. The burly wolf absentmindedly gripped the silver crucifix hanging 'round his neck and squeezed it. If it hadn't been for Damon I wouldn't have been sent to live in Edinburgh...with him.

If it hadn't been for Damon there would have been so much in the way of misery that might have passed Avinglad by in his life. If it hadn't been for Damon... But God tempered me through those hardships and made me stronger, Avinglad reassured himself. For a reason.

He had, hadn't He? Avinglad had to believe that, at least. He had to believe there was a higher purpose behind his suffering; otherwise, what would have been the point? Without Damon, I wouldn't have become an instrument of justice.

That much was true, and the thought consoled Avinglad. The wolf's hard life had set him on his righteous path, and he could at least take solace in knowing that had been for a greater good than his own wellbeing. In some ways it was thanks to Damon that Avinglad had become a vessel of divine law. But now it was time for Damon to reap what he had sown, for everything to come full circle...

"Damon the Demon..." Kaw mused to himself. Avinglad shook his head, jolted back to reality. He'd almost forgotten about the otter sitting across from him. The mustelid in question scrunched up his brow and looked at Avinglad. "Just 'cause he's got...skills...doesn't mean that he's some kind'f eldritch monster from Hell. It just means he can...do...things," Kaw assessed uselessly.

Avinglad scoffed.

"So, what, ye've a better idea of his nature, lad?" What else could he be? Avinglad was convinced he understood his adversary, even if their first encounter in 15 years hadn't ended as decisively as he might have hoped. Damon had run away though, hadn't he? I must have been close to putting him down...

"...Alright," Richard's brow was furrowed in concentration; it seemed he was coming around to Avinglad's explanation, at least. "So, let's say he's some kind of...unstoppable, hellish juggernaut: the fuck are we s'pposed to do about 'im?" That _was_the question to be answered, wasn't it?

"Well, I've already ruled out one theory," Avinglad ventured, finishing off his pint with a sigh. That made two for him, between the first drink on the house and the one he'd poured from a pitcher. There was perhaps one pint left between them after that, which Kaw just then saw fit to empty into his glass.

"Mm, your holy bulletsh?" the water-weasel wondered, setting the empty pitcher down. Avinglad frowned.

"Aye...are ye sure ye haven't had enough, otter? Ye're startin' to slur. I know I've only had one drink out o' either of those pitchers." And he was certain he could have had plenty more, besides, without being quite so far-gone as the bounty hunter.

"Am I?" Kawauso wondered. "My bad. Some more booze'll cure that, ah think." He gulped down another mouthful and set his glass down clumsily, murmuring, "hmm, or maybe a good lay..." before casting his gaze around the tavern floor.

Avinglad rolled his eyes at that while the otter's own wandered lasciviously. The wolf was losing his patience with Kaw now that they'd seen to sating their appetites and the conversation seemed irretrievably lost.

"I thought we were 'ere to talk business, lad. Or was that another white lie?" he inquired with an irritated growl. The Canadian fellow grumbled and went back to tending his drink.

"We were. Are. Ah mean...well, shit. We haven't come to any conclushuns, 'ave we? Fuck...I mean...all we've really decided is...we're gonna pool our resources an' help one another find the bashtard. Big deal. We still don't even know fer sure what we're doin' when we do find 'im. We're certainly not doin' any of that tonight, anyhow..."

"No, ah don't supposed we are," Avinglad grunted. No thanks to you in your state, you daft cunt.

"Right. So fuckin'...relax already, and we'll sort s'more o this ssshit out tomorrow. Nothin' wrong with fuckin'...cuttin' loosh for a night now an' again. 'Specially after a day like yesterday."

"I don't 'cut loose'," Avinglad bristled. The otter rolled his eyes, and that made the wolf's hackles rise.

"Right, right, man o' God an' all that," Kaw murmured dismissively.

"Ye better quit while ye're ahead there, lad," Avinglad warned. "I'm not lookin' to be mocked by a nonbeliever-"

"Awh, fuckin' give it a rest, willya, Captain Tightpants? I'm a fuckin' Catholic, y'know, eh? Christ..." Avinglad scowled at the casual blasphemy and felt one of his paws ball into a fist.

"Ye coulda fooled me, lad."

"Okay, a lapsed Catholic? Aren't we all?" the otter sighed. Some more than others, Avinglad thought bitterly. Then Kaw muttered under his breath, something to the effect of: "look who's talkin', anyhow...I'm not the one whose plans all involve Damon windin' up dead...fuckin' hypocrite."

"Ye got somethin' to say, laddie?" Avinglad snarled visibly that time.

"Not really, no," the otter grumbled, more subdued.

"Good, let's keep it that way," Avinglad grunted, relaxing with a conscious effort.

"Yeah, fine..." Kaw looked despondent for a moment, staring idly at the tavern entrance facing the street. Suddenly he sat up, small round ears alert while a stupid grin plastered itself across his face. "Opportunity's come knockin'..." Avinglad turned to see what had caught his interest: an attractive cat had stridden into the tavern.

She was tall, for a woman and a feline. Certainly nowhere near Avinglad's own height, but probably taller than the otter. Avinglad couldn't place what sort of cat she was, exactly, but she embodied the adjective 'cat-like' with her lithe figure and long, slender tail. She was dressed, fittingly, in a snug cat-suit with complementary riding gloves and leather boots that rode halfway up her shins. With one arm she held a heavy-looking bag of some sort, and in the crook of her elbow was tucked a bulky motorcycle helmet. In her other paw she gripped the strap of a rucksack slung over her free shoulder. Bearing the weight stoically, the woman made her way straight for the service area at the bar.

Avinglad turned back to look at the otter, raising an eyebrow. "Has it, lad?" he wondered without interest. Kaw nodded and rose unsteadily to his feet.

"Watch how it'sh done..."

In spite of himself, Avinglad couldn't help but do just that. He rested his chin against a closed fist, elbow propped up against the tabletop. He observed while the Canadian made his way over to the bar, pausing to straighten himself out, adjust his hair and glasses and put on his best "I'm not drunk" face. Avinglad had to strain a little to hear over the clamour of the tavern's early evening activities, but his sensitive wolf-ears were able to pick out what the otter said well enough as he approached the feline.

"Ahem - bon soir, mademoiselle-" before he could even complete his sentence, the woman had interjected.

"Ich spreche kein Französisch, Säufer," she said, brushing him off dismissively. Kaw appeared off-balance for a moment - literally as well as metaphorically. He blinked a few times and then smiled disarmingly, undeterred.

"Oh? Sprechen Sie Deutsch? Ent...schuldigung Sie bitte, er...Darf ich-" Avinglad was mildly surprised at the otter's linguistic flexibility, but he could see the impatience building in the female even as Kaw made his best attempt in what seemed capable German. The cat was winding up like a spring was coiling inside her.

"Das geht dich einen Scheißdreck an!" she interrupted rather...passionately. "Abhanden kommen." With that, she shouldered Kaw roughly aside and swung a bag up onto the bar, gaining the attention of the barkeep whether he wanted to give it to her or not. In her wake the fiery feline left a bewildered otter, much to Avinglad's amusement.

Kawauso weaved his way back to the table unsteadily and slumped down across from the wolf, who couldn't keep a smirk from his freckled muzzle.

"So that's how it's done, eh, laddie?"

"Ah, well, can't win 'em alls," the bounty hunter muttered resignedly, pawing at his goatee before he tossed back the remnants of his beer.

"No, I don't suppose ye can- Och, merci, lass," Avinglad turned in his seat, a little surprised by the arrival of another pitcher, though not ungrateful for it given that the otter had ravaged the others. Avinglad raised a brow suspiciously at its bearer, however. Not only was it not the girl who had been serving them all evening, but this woman was hardly dressed...appropriately for the task. To Avinglad's mind she was hardly dressed at all.

"De rien, monsieur loup," she exhaled along with a cloud of smoke and a sultry purr.

The newcomer was a vixen: tall, simultaneously trim and voluptuous, with the sort of figure many women might claim they'd kill to have for themselves. Her auburn hair was a well-maintained compliment to the striking patterns of her luxurious fur and her brown eyes shone cunningly.

The she-fox's makeup was just shy of excess without being gaudy, her dress too revealing, and the fanciful leather bracelets and choker she wore looked suspiciously like bondage gear. She balanced a long fag-holder on slender fingers and tapped it a few times, knocking some ashes onto the floor. "Can I get you gentlemen anyt'ing else?"

Avinglad was struck by the uncomfortable sensation that she was sizing him up like a predator before prey. He turned to pour himself another pint, shirking the unwanted attention.

"Thank ye, lassie, but we're quite alright as it is."

"Mershi mille fois," Kaw added unhelpfully. Even Avinglad's Anglophone ears could discern that the alcohol had thrown his French. "I'm just fine with this, ah think, missh," the mustelid continued, tapping the rim of his glass, which contained a tiny puddle of beer.

In spite of their insistence, the stranger helped herself to the empty seat that the collie had abandoned earlier. "Non? Ah well; do you mind if I sit with you two, then?"

Avinglad cursed inwardly at the sort of fools he'd had to suffer all day. The vixen grinned and took a long draw from her fanciful cigarette. As much as her presence irritated him it made Avinglad desire some nicotine of his own.

He reached into his jacket and withdrew his own carton of fags whilst Kaw muttered something sullen about the illegality of smoking in public places in Paris. That seemed to indicate to the wolf that the offer of a cancer-stick would go unappreciated, so Avinglad helped only himself. Holding the smoke to his lips he flicked his lighter until he was able to take his first breathe of carcinogens. The vixen smiled at them both and picked the conversation right back up after another drag on her own cigarette.

"I do not actually work here, messieurs; I just thought it might be nice to bring you two ze next round. You have been at it a while, oui?"

"Is that so?" Avinglad returned to his drink, thankful for another pint but not wanting to seem too grateful. He wasn't stupid: he knew there was some ulterior motive at play. There always is. "And what made ye go an' do that, then?" he wondered.

"Can't a girl go and do somet'ing nice for handsome men?" The vixen asked this with a shrug that showed off her bare shoulders and ample cleavage. She threw in a smile Avinglad didn't trust.

"No objections here, miss..." In spite of his earlier refusal, Kaw was helping himself to another round. The fox faced the otter. There was that smile again, and then the vixen introduced herself after another draw from her smoke.

"My name is Melodie, monsieur. Melodie Morgenstern. I would prefer it if you would call me Mel, though - everyone around here does." In talking her gaze had wandered back to Avinglad, and she leaned over to brush a well-manicured claw under his chin. The casual familiarity and flirtatiousness of the gesture made the wolf flinch uncomfortably. "Unless there is somet'ing else zat you would like to call me, hm?"

"No thank ye, ma'm," the Scotsman replied tersely. "I don't think ye'll find any business at this table." When she didn't retract her hand he grasped her delicate wrist securely in one of his thick paws and lowered it from his chin. "Thank ye for the drinks, though, lass."

The vixen frowned a little but remained coy. She turned her attentions to the rather less sober otter, asking, "and what about you, monsieur?" Kaw grinned, like a moron.

"Well, as far as thish lug over here knows, I'm Kawausho," he said in eloquent introduction. "But Kaw'll do jusht fine, miss...er, Mel."

"Kaw, zen," the vixen agreed. "I hope you do not mind my asking, monsieur...but you seem to be hitting ze bottle rather hard tonight, non?" she observed.

"Ah, yeah, well..." Kaw grumbled, and Avinglad shot him a warning glare in case the beer had loosened his tongue too much. "I've jusht got a lot on my mind, ish all," the otter concluded drunkenly.

"You poor t'ing," the vixen cooed, leaning closer, "I bet zat she-cat you were speaking to earlier did not'ing to help, either."

"Heh, not really," Kaw mumbled into his drink before he jerked suddenly, eyes wide behind his glasses. He squirmed uncertainly as the vixen leaned in closer with a toothy smirk and Avinglad averted his gaze from the sight of the vixen's arm moving covertly under the table, her paw wandering somewhere in the otter's lap. Christ.

"Poor otter," the fox sympathized. "Mel can maybe help take some of these t'ings off your mind, oui...?"

Kaw leaned back in his seat a little, clearly struggling to assess the situation as the vixen's roving paw grew ever bolder and more indiscreet. It was enough to make Avinglad nauseous.

"Oh, well...I surely appreshiate the attenshun an' all, I jusht...ah mean..." Kawauso swallowed hard, evidently fumbling with words. "I...I'm not one to, ah, hmm...to pay for that sort of thing, miss." Avinglad was mildly impressed by the otter's conclusion, at least. I suppose he's not so bad.

"Why, zat's no problem, Monsieur Kaw," Melodie grinned wider. "Ze first ride won't cost you a t'ing."

Avinglad watched, incredulous, as the mustelid mulled the proposition over for a moment. All the while, the Parisian continued to molest him brazenly.

"Wha, er...well then...why the fuck not, eh?" he bumbled. Avinglad rolled his eyes and groaned in disgust. So much for there being even one decent person in this city...

"Indeed, why not fuck, oui?" The vixen stood and put out her cigarette on the top of the table. The otter stood rather less steadily, all but leaping to his feet.

"Indeed, I, ah...Avi, watch my beer, willya?"

"Bloody 'ell, I told ye not to call me that, ye sloshed sea-ferret!" Avinglad growled, reflexively baring his teeth and flattening his ears. It was too late, however: the vixen was off with Kaw in tow. "Ah'm not takin' any responsibility for ye!" the wolf raised his voice, shouting at them across the common area. He saw one of the otter's paws wave from behind the patrons at another table as he followed Melodie up the stairs.

"Roger that!"

Avinglad turned back to the table, shaking his head to express his distaste and washing it down with some beer. "Stupid bloody whelp." But then, he _was_finally left to his own in relative peace and quiet to enjoy a smoke and a beer.

Perhaps I should be paying her...

Richard allowed himself to be led upstairs by the vixen. In truth he was relying on her to help him keep his balance, as much as anything else. The steps passed by in a hazy blur and before they carried on down the hall Richard paused a moment to gain his bearings (and balance). He lingered, wavering and using his thick rudder-tail to help keep upright. A glance to the side caused the otter to squint, and after a few seconds he realized he was peering through the crack of a room door left ajar.

Beyond he glimpsed the feline newcomer from downstairs. It was hard for him to focus, inebriated as he was, but he could see she'd slipped out of the cat suit and was wearing only a snug tank top and close-fitting shorts while she unpacked her bags. Richard wondered drunkenly how she'd managed to procure a room without speaking a word of French, or whether she'd lied about not having known any...

The otter yelped as Melodie grasped his paw and yanked him along the path to her boudoir. Doorways and ensconced lights passed by as formless blobs while they rounded a corner and made their way to the end of the hall. Richard was left to wobble on his feet momentarily while Melodie unlocked a door and then before the mustelid could fully register what had happened he was pulled from the corridor into a room.

Her lips pressed to his then, and Richard returned the kiss belatedly as soon as he realized it was occurring. The vixen tasted fruity, like sangria, and the otter was briefly thankful that he couldn't detect the cigarette she'd been sucking back earlier. It occurred to Richard that his own mouth was probably less savoury by comparison... Melodie didn't seem to mind, though, and it was all too easy for Richard to return the hunger in her fiery kiss.

Dimly the otter became aware of paws grasping at his body, fumbling with his pants. He remembered then that he had hands of his own and set them loose. They wandered aimlessly but did not disappoint him with whatever they managed to find. Even as intoxicated as he was, Richard could appreciate the supple curves of the Melodie's figure; she had enough fat on her that no matter where his fingers ventured there was something pleasant to touch or hold.

The couple broke from the kiss, catching their breath. Melodie groaned softly as one of Richard's paws found a breast, hefting it with a firm squeeze. Her top was skimpy enough that he easily slipped his grasping fingers within it, and the otter growled pleasantly as his paw-pads caressed bare fur and felt out the turgid shape of the vixen's nipple.

Melodie's own paws were wandering still, and she paused midway through slipping Richard's jacket from his shoulders. It took him a moment to realize her fingers were hesitantly tracing the handle of one of his pistols and the holster straps running across his chest. Shit. Forgot about those.

"Hm, what is zis, now, monsieur...?" the Parisian wondered.

Richard leaned back and smiled disarmingly, he hoped. His paws fidgeted clumsily with the buckle for the twin holsters before he managed to undo them, shedding the weapons awkwardly along with his coat while he tried to reassure Mel.

"Ah, pay it nnno mind, missh... Ah'm just in a dangeroush line of work, is all..." He probably would have sounded more convincing if he could have stopped stumbling over his own tongue, but it couldn't be helped. Melodie didn't seem too perturbed, at least. She even smiled.

"Well, per'aps you will have to tell me about zat sometime, non?" the vixen ventured coyly.

"No, I really won't," Richard asserted, hoping to silence her line of inquiry by leaning in for a kiss after he'd deposited his firearms on top of the dresser nearby.

It worked, at least. Melodie's tail swished noisily against the wall as Richard backed her up against it. She returned the kiss ravenously, moaning softly against Richard's lips whilst her fingers remembered their task and succeeded this time in undoing his pants. The weight of the otter's belt and personal effects in his pockets dragged the garment to the floor to pool around his ankles.

Richard broke the kiss and nudged his nose against Melodie's, panting while he took too long to unfasten his shirt. In that time the vixen had worked off his boxers, exposing the otter's streamlined member to the cooler air of the room. Her fingers deftly grasped at his circumcised cock; there was no fuzzy sheath to tease back or coax out of the way and he was already standing tall and proud, besides. Mel must have understood that Richard's inebriation had him feeling a little numb; she gave him a rather rough squeeze once she had a good hold of him.

He didn't mind.

The otter groaned in pleasure whilst the fox tugged and groped at him, flicking her thumb-pad over the tapered head of his shaft to tease a few wet drops from it. Richard was swiftly growing impatient with the vigorous attention he was receiving and, rather than try to suss out how to get the vixen out of her dress, he simply hiked up that long skirt, bunching it around Melodie's waist to get his fingers beneath it and feel around.

No panties. Damn, these French girls... Richard's paws found the vixen's ass and gave a hard squeeze; it filled out the space between his webbed digits nicely. The Parisian gasped softly and pressed against the Québécois, huffing a hot breath under his chin, just beneath his goatee.

"Mmh, you do not intend to use ze bed, zen?" she wondered, but she was already balancing on one foot while lifting a leg to hook securely around Richard's waist.

"There's a puhrfectly good wall right here," the otter replied with a smirk. When his eyes managed to focus on Melodie's face he could see that she returned the expression with a toothy grin.

"So zere is..."

Richard arched his back, angling his hips determinedly, and Melodie seemed all too eager to guide him with a helping paw. Briefly it occurred to the otter that he had a condom or two in his wallet... But then he looked to Melodie... He saw the burning lust in her eyes as she gazed up at him, felt her leg tense around his waist, felt the slick heat of her nether regions as she drew his member in between her thighs...

Fuck it.

He knew better. Even as drunk as he was he was sure he'd regret it in the morning. But hot damn... He was just hammered enough not to care. Melodie's fingers relaxed around Richard's manhood and he needed no further invitation. He bucked his hips and drove into the welcoming warmth of the vixen's body with a gasp.

Melodie gasped, too, and shifted against the wall, bracing herself with one arm while she stood on her toes and anchored herself to Richard with the leg around his body. She bit her lip and rolled her hips, taking more of the otter in with a shaky sigh. Richard grunted as he swung in from lower, rocking against the female from a better angle to drive in deeper.

It still wasn't enough. With a frustrated growl, Richard hooked one arm around Melodie's quaking thigh and hoisted the foxette up off the one leg on which she'd been balancing. Mel squeaked but readily threw that appendage around the otter's waist, grappling him securely.

Richard's aching muscles screamed in protest; he was still stiff and sore from his encounter with Damon and his choice of position wasn't helping matters any. Damned if he'd let that stop him, though. He put his arms around the vixen's hips, suspending her between himself and the wall. One more firm nudge, and as the otter stood up on his toes he sank in to the hilt and exhaled a shaky sigh where Mel's neck and shoulder met.

"Nnnh...oh, Richard..." the vixen gasped a breathless exhalation of her own.

Richard's ears perked up alertly. The hackles stood up on the back of his neck and a chill ran down his spine. It took him a moment to register why, through the haze of alcohol and physical pleasure. He paused to lift his head, gazing carefully at the vixen, squinting to focus on her face.

"Whut'd you say...?" he asked warily. He was certain that even in his current state they hadn't made any sort of meaningful introductions. Melodie smiled and grasped his face between her paws, purring like a cat while she drew his muzzle to hers.

"Not'ing, darling," she cooed, and her legs flexed to tug at the otter, rolling his hips between them. He rocked back against her in turn, working his way into the hot core of her body... "Don't stop..." the vixen growled encouragingly.

It was hard to argue with her, all things considered. Richard soon forgot all about the stranger's casual use of his given name. Mel appeared to have a good handle on things with those deceptively powerful legs of hers, so Richard shifted his paws to brace against the wall and pressed forward with a snarl, driving the fox-woman's hips back against it with a sound 'thump'.

Melodie's paws grasped at Richard's sides, tugging urgently and clawing while she returned the otter's feral sounds with a few of her own. The Canadian was more than happy to oblige his French partner and worked his hips like a piston in the embrace of the vixen's legs. They bowed their heads against one another, the both of them breathing in broken gasps and murmuring sweet nothings throughout the impassioned, urgent rutting.

Richard couldn't have been certain how long they were at it; most of the event passed in a blur of pleasure made fuzzier by the effects of many preceding drinks. He was aware, though, of Melodie guiding him along, her strong legs supplementing the force of his thrusts, slender paws gripping at his body just as eagerly as he worked himself against her, the heat of her rippling and flexing around each intrusion he made...

Almost before he knew it the mustelid found himself tumbling over the edge. With a few sharp bucks and another snarl, he stood up on his toes and pinned Mel to the wall with a hard swivel against her loins. He held there, panting brokenly, rudder-tail twitching behind him in time with the wet pulses he released into the vixen.

At length, Richard slumped against her, spent. His head lolled against Melodie's shoulder and she rested her muzzle against the side of his neck while the both of them gasped fitfully. The arms and legs of fox and otter trembled from the exertions of their romp and the lingering throes of sexual release.

With his adrenaline fading it became difficult for Richard to continue to ignore the protestations of his body, so he reluctantly assisted Melodie in untangling her legs from around his waist and set her back on her feet. He remained inside her - at least as much as he was able - for the time being, unwilling to abandon the warmth of her body even if he found himself fading rather fast.

"Mmm, hey, do not fall asleep now, oui?" the vixen murmured against one of his ears, and it twitched. Richard wobbled on his feet but he was strangely comfortable like this, propped up against the fox and the wall.

"Nnh...wouldn't dare..." he responded, although he could already feel himself falling into the welcome embrace of a sleep borne of alcohol and exhaustion.

"Of course not..." he heard the vixen sigh, unconvinced. In fairness to her, Richard found himself unable to continue staving off the inevitable. He was sure he heard her mutter before he lost consciousness, "...men..."

I wonder if he regrets what we've done.

Natasha was gazing up at Damon, who stared pensively at the wall. Smoke curled lazily from the end of the fox's cigarette and he didn't move apart from leaning over to occasionally tap some ashes from it into the tray on the night stand. Natasha worried at her bottom lip with an anxious nibble and stilled the paw she had on the vulpine's chest, which had been idly tracing the shapes of his musculature while she lay nestled by his side.

Even now looking at his well-toned build still made her blush. He was certainly easy on the eyes - and he'd been more than a little talented in bed, besides. But that's no excuse for taking advantage of him like that, she chided herself.He was lonely and in need of company and you used that to just help yourself.

Natasha's ears disappeared into her brown hair, earrings clinking lightly. The oppressive silence in which the two of them had existed for untold minutes was beginning to weigh heavily on the she-skunk. Natasha looked around for something - anything - to use as a jumping-off point to break the ice again.

Her eyes wandered to the silver rosary Damon wore wrapped round his left wrist. It had become somewhat looser in light of their physical activities. She traced a claw over the cross-seven shape that dangled from the end of it.

"You are a religious man, Monsieur Damon?" Natasha wondered. That seemed to jolt him from his reverie, at least. Damon looked around before casting his gaze down at 'Tasha, then the piece of jewelry. He smiled wanly and lifted his arm to inspect the rosary, flicking his wrist to catch the cross in his palm.

"Not really. Well...yes. Yes and no. You know, it's hard to say," he concluded with an uncertain chuckle. Natasha sat up a little bit, brushing an errant paw over Damon's bicep. Her ears stood back up and her bushy tail twitched against the bedspread behind her; she was more than a little happy for an end to the quiet. She was less happy with where the conversation turned next.

"This necklace...it was Miranda's," Damon said. Natasha's ears wilted immediately and she bit her lip harder, inwardly cursing. _Merde. Ferme ta gueule, 'Tasha!_For his part, though, Damon didn't seem too upset to keep from talking about it.

"She was the believer between us," the fox continued. "Rather, she made a believer of me, I suppose. I don't know - ah, bollocks. I don't suppose I'm any good at this philosophical stuff," he chuckled.

"We could talk about something else?" Natasha ventured. Damon shook his head.

"No, it's fine. It's just...hard to explain, I suppose? I never really thought about it but the notion of a higher power's always made sense to me. And she believed, so...we went to church together and all that. We were planning the wedding at our church. Nothing fancy, mind... But, anyway: having her in my life certainly made a believer of me. While I did, at least. Now..." Damon trailed off, and Natasha felt guilty over the look of pain and unease on his face. He dismissed it with another shake of his head though and forced a smile, turning the question back on her. "What about you, Ms. LaFleur?"

"Oh." Natasha blinked a few times, caught a little off-guard. It was something she'd never really thought about, herself. "Well, I don't know, either, monsieur." Damon smiled a little less forcedly at that, which in turn encouraged Natasha to flash a warm smile of her own.

"It's never mattered to me, I suppose," she continued. "My foster parents never pressed ze issue...it was never anything we talked about. So I don't suppose I gave it much thought."

"That would make you agnostic, then?" Damon ventured, pausing to tap some more ashes into the tray by the bedside. Natasha shook her head this time, earrings jingling as she smirked.

"Well, oui et non," she replied, prompting a grin from the fox that she returned before she carried on. "I do take a philosophy class, you see. Strictly speaking, 'agnosticism' has to do with knowledge, not belief. It comes from 'gnosis' - 'to know'. I don't know if there's anything like a god out zere. Not with any measurable certainty. So I suppose I am agnostic. But I don't have a positive belief zere is one, either, which would make me an atheist - a nonbeliever. An agnostic atheist, I think, is more accurate." Damon smiled wryly while sucking back another lungful of smoke before pausing to tap his cigarette again.

"You really are something, 'Tasha," he mused; the skunkette felt herself blushing and beamed more than a little from the compliment. It wasn't often that she got to talk about any of her academic interests with anyone who actually cared to listen. Damon turned back to her, still smiling, and wondered, "so that would make me - what - an agnostic...theist?" Natasha nodded again.

"If you believe in some kind of higher power but don't know for certain, oui. Ze terms aren't mutually exclusive. One is a stance on an assertion of knowledge and the other is one's stance with regards to belief."

"Well I suppose that sums me up," Damon agreed. "Most days, at any rate. Lately, though..." He seemed a little contemplative about that and took another long inhalation as his fag burned down near the filter. Natasha frowned a little when the fox's expression darkened. She distracted herself and hopefully him by idly tracing a claw around his left nipple, eying its piercing.

"J'excuse, Damon. I didn't mean to bring up any unpleasant memories. I...just wanted to strike up a conversation, oui? You seemed rather distracted, before..." Natasha looked up at the handsome fox while he leaned over to put out the stub of his cigarette. Damon sighed and looked back down at her again.

"That? Oh, I was just thinking about...things. The next steps I should be taking, that sort of idea. Actually, I was rather wondering how to ask..." he trailed off for a moment and Natasha perked her ears hopefully. Of course she'd be more than happy to answer any questions he might have had. Damon seemed to struggle to find the right words before he managed.

"Well, I appreciate your being helpful as far as arranging the room and all, luv, but, ah... What with me trying to lay low and all, and planning to go back to the UK... I can't help but worry about having my name in the registry. That's all." He looked sorry for having brought it up; for having called Natasha's consideration for him into question. She just smiled, though.

"Oh, monsieur," she teased, "please give me more credit zen that. I didn't use your real name when I entered you in the registry." Damon's ears pricked up keenly, his earring glinting in the evening gloom, and Natasha giggled. "I have more sense than that," she assured him, smirking.

"Ah, well," Damon blustered, "it's not that, it's just...I mean...you went through my wallet and everything, luv." He'd attempted to sound stern with that last remark, but the façade crumbled when Natasha continued to smile at him, and soon he was smiling back. "Well, thank you at any rate," he relented.

"De rien," Natasha chirped whilst her fluffy tail drifted lazily to and fro behind her. She nestled a little closer against Damon's side, since he didn't seem to mind. As she got comfortable the fox ventured to ask a question.

"Why did you do all of that, anyway?" He rolled his shoulders in a lazy shrug when Natasha looked up at him with her head cocked. "Why help me, is all I'm asking. Why take such an interest in me?" He quickly followed that up with: "not that I'm complaining, mind you." Natasha giggled.

"Do you not think yourself an interesting person, Damon?" The fox's ears flattened a little and he averted his gaze in embarrassment at the question.

"Not particularly," Damon admitted. Natasha smiled and gave a few gentle scratches under his chin with one finger, turning his gaze back to hers and favouring him a warm smile.

"Zat's what I like about my job; all sorts of people come through here. Everyone who does has a story, and I like hearing peoples' stories. That's one of ze reasons I decided to pursue histoire as my major," she told him. Damon smirked slightly, his ears standing up a little taller.

"Heh...well I've told you mine. At least, as much as there is that I can remember," he said a bit sheepishly.

"Perhaps in time there will be more to share, oui?" Natasha replied cheerfully.

"Perhaps," Damon admitted, brushing some bangs from his eyes. "I don't know that I still hold out hope for that, but who can say."

Natasha found it hard to keep from beaming a little at that remark. Earlier he'd expressed no interest in unveiling his past, but since they'd last touched on the subject he at least seemed alright with entertaining the idea. She couldn't say exactly why but she felt rather chuffed with herself as a result.

"What about you?" Damon inquired further, and the skunk-girl tilted her head again.

"Pardon?"

"I mean - what about your own past, 'Tasha? Not to pry, but...you haven't told me all of your story. Do you have any memories from...well, I mean, do you remember when you lived in Britain? You're from my hometown, after all. At least, I view it as my hometown."

Natasha's ears disappeared into her hair bashfully and she bit her lip again. Turnabout is fair play, after all, is it not?

"Well..." she began, "I do not really remember much, from before..." she frowned a little. "There are bits and pieces, oui, but... I don't recall anything before my time with ze adoption agency. Not really..." She certainly couldn't recollect the terrible events that had led to her entering foster care in the first place...

Not that she cared to.

She knew the generalities from accounts relayed to her well after the fact. Why would she need to know more? Her family's lives were ended unjustly before their time, and somehow she'd managed to escape unscathed. The past is past and knowing more won't change that.

"It does not bother me," Natasha shook her head. "I am more interested in hearing the stories other people have to tell, anyway." She noted Damon cock an eyebrow at that, but otherwise didn't see fit to comment on 'Tasha's apparent hypocrisy. That suited her fine, too; she didn't really understand it herself.

"Well then...how about a change of subject?" Damon inquired after a pause, while he reached over to turn on the bedside light. It had gotten dark enough outside that further illumination was welcome.

"Did you have something in mind?" Natasha wondered. She'd gone back to tracing idle patterns in Damon's chest-fur. He didn't seem to mind, so she contented herself with that while he pondered for a moment or two.

"What sort of music do you like?" the fox asked. 'Tasha couldn't keep from smirking at how pedestrian that line of inquiry was compared to where their conversation had begun. It was a welcome turn.

"Nothing I think you would have heard of," she responded, looking up at him again, the corners of her mouth still caught in a smile. Damon shrugged.

"Try me."

"Well," Natasha started, "my favourite artist is French."

"See, no surprises, so far," Damon responded.

"Oui, but she is not French," Natasha added, tittering as Damon knit his brow in confusion. "Her name is Marie-Mai, and she's Canadian, actually. Québécois. Most of her music is in French."

"So is that something to do with your heritage, then?" Damon asked. When Natasha raised an eyebrow at his question, he added: "I mean, skunks aren't native to Britain or anywhere in Europe as I understand it. Your roots go back overseas, then, don't they?"

"Oui," Natasha agreed with a smile. It was also nice to be able to talk to someone who seemed to have more than a passing understanding of history. "Zat is to say, like any other skunk in Europe these days my heritage goes back to the Americas. I don't know that I have any ties to Québec, though - I just like her music."

"Fair enough," Damon smiled and shook his head a little," you win though, either way. I've never heard of her."

"No," Natasha giggled, "I thought not. And you, Damon?" she wondered. The fox smiled and put one arm around Natasha. She thrilled at the gentle touch and draped a lazy leg over both of his.

"Well, I'm a bit of a metal-head, myself," Damon said. Natasha teased and tweaked his nipple piercing playfully.

"Really, monsieur? Non - between the jewelry and ze belt buckle I might never have guessed." She teased him. The studded bracelet he wore and the stylized skull-and-crossbones on his silver belt buckle might not have been directly related to metal per se, but she still couldn't say she was surprised between them and the piercings.

"Yes, well," Damon stuck out his tongue playfully, inadvertently flashing another piece of jewelry and making Natasha giggle yet again. "I'm into stuff from all over, really. A little Rammstein, a little Dimmu Borgir...rather fond of Cradle of Filth." Natasha shook her head slowly.

"I don't know any of zem, I'm afraid," she admitted. Damon chuckled.

"Can't say I'm surprised." he said.

"Do you have any musical talent, yourself?" Natasha wondered, giving the fox a curious glance. Damon blinked.

"No," he began, before correcting himself. "Well...not really, I should say. I mean...I'm in a band with my mates. Or I was, rather...just for fun, mind, nothing serious." Damon felt his cheeks heating up as he tripped over his tongue; he wasn't fond of talking about himself. "I mean, the biggest gig we ever had was a charity event for the hospital where Miranda was working as an intern, so...nothing serious, you know..."

'Tasha was watching with amusement while he tried to reign in an embarrassing ramble. Damon trailed off, silencing himself by biting down on the barbell piercing through his tongue. It took the fox some considerable effort to keep his ears from going flat against the back of his head. Undeterred by his discomfort, however, Natasha prodded:

"I thought you had the look of a musician, monsieur. Do you sing, or...?"

"Oh, no. No, no," Damon shook his head bashfully while the skunkette merely grinned. "I'd be sodding awful at it," he explained, "I'm...or, was the, ah, guitarist, rather. Miranda knew these lads who needed a fellow for their outfit, so..." It really was damned hard to talk about anything that didn't lead back to her...

"Per'aps I will have to get you to play for me, sometime," Natasha suggested, deftly steering the conversation into more neutral territory. Damon chuckled in spite of himself.

"Yeah...it's a shame I didn't manage to bring my guitar along with me. I do miss it..." he added with a sigh. Thinking back, that was an oversight concerning his escape from Manchester that he regretted. His fingers were itching for the strings of his instrument, now it was on his mind.

Of course, his flight from the UK had hardly been a premeditated affair. He hadn't even planned a deliberate escape, not really. He just recalled being so..._angry_and frustrated with the whole damned process. The accusations, the house arrest, the impending trial...all of it. The next thing he'd known, his sword had been in hand - that bloody thing - and he'd smote the wall with it, surprising himself by cutting his way to freedom in a single stroke.

Strange as the whole incident had been, Damon hadn't had the time to reflect on it. He'd seized that moment, tossing a few belongings together in a rush to make the most of his newfound freedom. He'd taken the sword almost without thinking about it, yet for some reason his guitar had gone overlooked in the heat of the moment.

It just figures, he thought. The case would have been useful as a way to conceal and transport the damned sword too, at least. Bloody Hell...

Natasha must have noted Damon's morose attitude, because she brought him out of his reverie with a change of subject.

"Well," she cleared her throat, "you shouldn't be so hard on yourself, monsieur. I'm sure you forgot plenty of things in your rush, oui? Speaking of such things, we should do something about that, non? We can sort out your clothes, at least; why don't I take you shopping, tomorrow? I have class in ze evening but I don't need to worry about work." Natasha looked up at Damon, hopeful.

"Now you bring it up, I suppose I really could do with some more clothes." Damon admitted. "I can't imagine where the luggage I brought with me has got to, and I can't spend all of my time in Paris hiding naked in this room. Even with such wonderful company..." he grinned slightly, and Natasha averted her gaze shyly, chewing her lip.

"That sounds fine by me," Damon ultimately replied with a smile and a nod. "Ah...provided there's something someone could lend me for the day? I...don't fancy going topless," the fox added with an embarrassed expression that told 'Tasha he was blushing crimson beneath that ebon fur. Natasha entertained the notion of the handsome fellow spending a day sans shirt - toned midriff and pectoral piercing on display - and found she was blushing, herself.

The mephit girl planted her paws on Damon's chest before she kissed his nose swiftly in passing as she rolled over and propped herself up.

"Certainement," she affirmed, smiling as she sat up on her knees. Damon's eyes wandered to her exposed, well, everything, but he did his best not to show it. In truth, of course, Natasha didn't mind the attention one bit. She didn't let it distract from their conversation, though. "Why don't I see what I can find for you?" Damon blinked a few times before he seemed to understand what she was saying.

"You mean, right now?" he asked. Natasha laughed as she found the discarded band she used to tie her hair back and used it to make a messy ponytail. Her hair was probably going to look like she'd had sex no matter what she did with it though, absent a brush to smooth it out.

"Well, we can prepare for tomorrow today, oui?" She inquired. "It's getting late, so I may as well see about getting us some dinner. And I can fetch a change of clothes from home, and something for you to wear tomorrow, too," the she-skunk added with a smile. "I won't be gone long," she assured him. Damon just stared at her for a moment.

"You're catering for me, again? And I should just wait here, is that it, luv?" he asked, seemingly torn between appreciation of the offer and the undercutting of his independence.

"Well, you could tag along, Monsieur Damon," Natasha teased, "in that outfit of yours." She raised an eyebrow and nodded coyly at his nude form, only partially hidden by the blankets. "I would not object."

"Point taken," the fox conceded diffidently, ears splaying a little. "I can wait here...thank you, 'Tasha."

Natasha grinned as she gathered up her clothes while hopping out of bed, pulling them on to make herself look at least somewhat presentable. No matter how becoming she might have been able to make herself, the insides of her legs were rather sore and she was...leaking, a little. I suppose I'll need a shower when I stop at home. She didn't mind looking a little 'tousled' in the interim, however. If people suspected she'd had a roll in the hay with the handsome fox from out-of-town, well, she would hardly be one to correct them.

"I won't be long," she reaffirmed. "And when I come back, perhaps we could...talk, some more? Over dinner?" 'Tasha ventured optimistically, tilting her head to one side. "Is zere anything you'd like, tonight?" Damon smiled while retrieving his lighter and new pack of cigarettes from the night stand.

"I could really go for some fish and chips...it's been a while," he admitted before lighting up again. Natasha was already bounding toward the door by the time he'd finished that sentence.

"Bon! We serve that here - I'm sure you'll like it, Damon. I'll be back soon!"

And with that Natasha closed the door soundly on her way out of the room, turning in a distracted blur to bounce her way down the staircase into the boisterous evening atmosphere of the tavern. The skunkette weaved her way through the crowded, smoke-filled space, hoping to avoid Mr. Vulpecula's gaze on the way out. Perhaps she was a little more self-conscious about looking like she'd had a good lay than she thought.

To her relief, Natasha made it through the front door out onto the street without anything more eventful than a passing 'salut' to Klisoura. Once outside she took a deep breath of the cool evening air and found it impossible to suppress a joyful giggle. She had a whole evening and most of another day tomorrow to spend with Damon!

She felt a little guilty about more or less having invited herself back into his room for the night, perhaps... But he hadn't objected! Natasha couldn't help but hum as she skipped and bounced all the way back to her apartment.

It was going to be a good night - she could feel it.