VERSE SIX: GARDE TES LARMES

With a cry, Damon sprang upright. Again. His bangs were matted and tangled against his face and his fur stuck up in tufts at odd angles. He thrashed his head and clumsily pawed some hair from his eyes, looking around frantically, chest heaving with laboured breaths.

"Who...where am I?" The fox mumbled stupidly as he rubbed sleep from his eyes. When they opened again Damon gave a bit of a start, realizing suddenly that Natasha was seated at the window nearby.

"You are back at La Taverne de Vulpin, Monsieur Damon," the she-skunk responded matter-of-factly. She was looking up from a book, which she carefully closed and set aside. Her long chestnut brown hair was tied back in a neat ponytail that left some bangs free either side of her face. "Are you alright? Your sleep did not seem very...restful."

"Natasha...what are you doing here?" the Briton asked the French girl. His tongue felt heavy and clumsy, making the words come slowly. From his pounding head Damon concluded Natasha's assessment of his sleep was likely accurate. He must have had a really wild night... Come to think of it, what did I do last night?

"You don't remember?" Natasha inquired, reinforcing Damon's jumbled, sleepy thoughts. The fox looked up at her, broken from his daze. He shook his head slowly.

"I...I left here yesterday to get my coat tailored...and...and then...I don't know..." His golden eyes closed tightly, brow knit in frustration as he bowed his head and clutched at it with both hands. "That _was_yesterday, right?"

"It was," Natasha's gentle voice offered consolingly. Damon continued to stare intently at the inside of his eyelids, but his ears twitched and swiveled as the skunkette continued. "You staggered back in here early zis morning, barely able to stand. Monsieur Vulpecula told me to help you to your room or get you to leave... He wasn't very comfortable with you - thought you were strung out on ze drugs or something. I helped you into bed and I've been keeping an eye on you, in case you were sick or needed anything." Damon groaned and scooted to lean back against the wall. He let his hands fall from his face and stared at Natasha glumly.

"All morning?" His heart sank at the thought of being so much trouble for anyone - let alone someone he'd just met. More than that he hated appearing weak and in need of help to begin with. Natasha nodded.

"Well, most of ze day. I've had to chase Monsieur Fox off twice, now." Damon's face flushed hot with shame, and while his fur might have hidden that from sight he couldn't keep his ears from pinning back against his head.

"I see..." he toyed with his hair awkwardly and stared intently at the bed to keep from having to look Natasha in her bright blue eyes.

"...I told Monsieur Vulpecula that you were not zat sort of individual," Natasha pique. Damon looked up at her curiously. "To be strung out, I mean," she added. As if you'd know. Damon couldn't help smiling at the mephit's positive outlook, however.

"Ah, thank you. I'm not," he replied. It was the truth, at least. Drunk, certainly; he had been before. Shitfaced, even. That was the extent of his indulgence in drugs, however - nicotine notwithstanding. Had I been drinking last night? He needed to brush his teeth, but he couldn't detect the tell-tale aftertaste of spirits or bile. There certainly was something unsavoury on his breath, though. Blood? Was I in a fight?

"So...if I may ask, Monsieur Damon?" Monsieur Damon looked up with a start. He'd almost forgotten Natasha was there, again.

"Right, of course," he replied. "Hold on though, I need a breather." The fox swiveled his head in search of his overcoat. Of course, by 'breather' he had meant a cancer-stick. He still had his trousers on this time, however..."...Where's my coat?" the vulpine inquired cautiously when a cursory survey of the room failed to locate it.

"Oh, here." Natasha stooped to pick it up and practically bounced back onto her feet. She approached the bedside with the garment held before her, folded neatly into a thick square. The young woman presented it with a little trepidation, adding, "I'm afraid it's not looking so good, Monsieur Damon."

Damon first and foremost rustled through the item of clothing for one of its pockets, seeking out the lighter and crumpled pack of cigarettes within. The end of the fag was between his lips in an instant and he sighed with relief as he took the first few puffs and tossed the lighter aside. After a few cleansing breaths the fox held up his coat to examine it more carefully whilst Natasha waited with baited breath.

It was riddled with a number of holes, as though a great swarm of moths had attacked it. A few wouldn't have been so bad, but it was ruined - if not by the great, gaping hole in the middle of the back then certainly by the sleeves, which were missing completely. There were also a number of unsightly stains in the fabric, though it was hard to tell what they might have been. The whole garment smelled like a back-alley gutter. Damon lowered the coat back into his lap with a frustrated sigh as he concluded his inspection. What happened last night?!

"Monsieur Damon...?" Natasha still hovered by his side of the bed, fidgeting anxiously with one of her numerous bracelets. Damon glanced at her sidelong, unable to look the she-skunk right in the eyes.

He sucked in a long, slow drag on his smoke and tensed his paws in the remnants of his coat, claws pricking his palms through the thick fabric. He'd used to have Miranda to talk with him about his...episodes. She had been his confidante. But now she was gone and Damon found himself in a strange city, completely alone. He wanted to talk to _someone_desperately, the need for it an aching desire that built up in his chest, threatening to burst it. With that ache came the acrid taste of self-loathing for being so vulnerable.

The vulpine managed to open his mouth, but the warring emotions kept any words from coming out. He tried again, "I...sorry. I don't...I don't open up to people. Not usually," and inwardly cursed his cowardice. He felt a weakling for wanting help in the first place and again a weakling for not having the strength of character to ask for it. It was a double-standard that made left Damon feeling disgusted with himself either way.

"I can leave you be, if you would like," Natasha ventured cautiously. Damon remained unable to look at her, fixated on the article of clothing before him while it caught the ashes that crumbled from the end of his cigarette. With awkward silence hanging heavy in the air, Natasha picked herself up to make to leave, stepping gingerly at though she walked on thin ice.

"No, I... I want to talk." Damon bit his tongue and squirmed a little as his stomach twisted into a nervous knot. "I need to talk," he added, finally able to lift his head and meet Natasha's hopeful gaze. He said the words as much to convince himself as anything, but he wasn't sure that had worked. The fox had broken that ice, however, and now he had to swim. "I haven't...had anyone to talk to in a long while, now and it's just..." Damon bit his lip and silently cursed his lack of articulation. "I've never been good, I mean...with new people."

"When you're ready, monsieur," Natasha responded with an effortless sympathy. She nodded understandingly and made her way back to the bed, taking a careful seat on the edge by Damon's feet. The fox cracked a nervous smile as he leaned over to knock some ashes from his smoke into the ashtray on the night stand.

"You're an exception to the rule, though. It's easy for me to talk to you, somehow..." That was true, as much as Damon was sure it must have seemed otherwise. Natasha seemed to understand, though.

"I know what you mean," she replied, waiting patiently while Damon nursed the last of his fag. By the time it had burned down near the filter he felt comfortable enough to begin talking in earnest.

"I don't remember. I don't remember much of anything...nothing farther than four years back, 'round mid-2008. Come to think of it, the earliest memories I have are of convalescing under the care of a pretty woman. Talk about déjà vu, hm?" he wondered with a nervous chuckle. Natasha giggled cutely and brushed her bangs from her eyes. Damon suspected she was blushing but her dark, almost-black fur made it near impossible to tell. He felt his own cheeks burning a little.

"So this has happened to you more than once, oui?" Natasha wondered with a cute, shy smile.

"Yeah, well..." Damon's heart sank a little, the fun of their flirtatious conversation evaporating. "Mir- my fiancée. She was a nurse. Studying to become a nurse, rather. I was never interested in going to the hospital or anything... But, anyway, she figured I have some sort of amnesia. There's not really a whole lot to be done about it, though, other than try to let my memories return on their own. It's not clear what caused it to begin with, but...every now and again I have some sort o' bloody episode. Not as bad as before - just a few hours' worth of amnesia, but...seems like it hits me more often these days..." The words came tumbling from his lips almost unbidden. His gut twisted into tighter, harder knots as he spoke, but when he finally finished rambling it felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Damon sucked in a deep, shaky breath. His eyes had drifted away from Natasha's so that the words could flow more easily, but Damon ventured to look back at her again. The skunk's gaze was unwavering, understanding, sympathetic. She did look a little surprised by the sudden deluge of information, however...and something else, too. Disappointed?

"You're engaged, Monsieur Damon?"

The ring hadn't given it away? Though in fairness, the plain silver band was hardly distinct amongst his other personal effects... At any rate, Natasha's line of inquiry brought with it another wave of nauseous anxiety. Damon bit his lip and sought to find the right words. To his credit, at least, he didn't break eye contact with Natasha this time.

"...I was," the fox managed at length. "I to a wonderful woman to whom I owed...everything, really. She...she died. About seven months back, now." Speaking it aloud seemed to breathe life into those words, and the nausea didn't abate. Damon felt a lump rising in the back of his throat that had made the last sentence difficult to finish. Natasha was taken somewhat aback, and seemed unable to keep her rounded ears from splaying outward.

"Oh, merde..." she cursed quietly, to herself. But she held her sympathetic gaze and slowly, gingerly reached out to place a slender paw on one of Damon's legs through the blankets. He flinched at first, instinctively wanting to shirk her sympathy. The hand didn't budge, though, and the fox relaxed gradually. "I'm so sorry, Monsieur Damon," the skunkette added with genuine empathy.

Damon broke off his gaze from hers and took in another shaky breath. He crushed the butt of his cigarette in the tray next to his bed with one thumb and dug another from the crumpled back clutched in his other paw. Natasha had reached for the lighter and offered it by the time the next fag made it to his mouth, and Damon accepted it graciously with a murmur of thanks.

"It's...it's alright," he mumbled, flicking the lighter to get the end of his smoke to take. He took a long first drag and sighed, twin streams of smoke pouring from his nostrils while he steadied his nerves. "No way you could've known," he added, reassuring Natasha that he didn't blame her for the surge of negative emotions that had been brought to the surface. He knew he had to confront them head on sooner or later.

"But," Damon continued, "she was the only part of my life I have - had - that I can remember. In a way, she was _all_I had. She still is... I mean, the only clue I have about my life before her at all is that ridiculous sword...dunno why I keep lugging the damn thing around... Damned thing seems to follow me everywhere I go, though..." Damon gestured to where the blade was propped up - or rather, where it had been the day before. It suddenly occurred to him that it wasn't there.

"...My sword! Where'd it go?!" the fox wondered aloud, sitting up straight as a flush of panic ran through him and made his fur bristle. In a flash he leapt from the bed, darting to the other end of the room and searching frantically. He clutched at his hair in agitation, feeling suddenly short of breath. "My sword...bloody Hell, where is it? Where is it!?" He scarcely noticed Natasha having moved from the bed until she chimed in cautiously.

"I had to move it, monsieur. I'm sorry, I did not mean to alarm you - I just decided to clean it up a little for you while you were asleep. You know, polish it off, and ze like...I had to keep Monsieur Fox from seeing it, at least." Damon glanced sidelong at the mephit as she walked around to the other side of the bed, stooping to withdraw something carefully from beneath it. She stood back up with a bundled sheet and pulled some of it back to reveal that the long object it concealed was indeed the familiar end of Damon's blade. Its engraved fuller and keen edge caught the afternoon light, gleaming with cold fire.

Suddenly Damon was overwhelmed by a rush of hot anger and he whirled to face Natasha fully, snarling.

"The 'ell did you do that for?! You should've asked!" He closed the distance between them and snatched the heavy bundle from then young woman's arms, cradling it against his chest. Natasha was taken aback, stepping away from Damon cautiously, her bright eyes wide.

"Je...I..." the look of surprised hurt on her gentle features made the fox reel with a pang of remorse. Damon wavered for a moment, feeling the snarl on his muzzle dissolve. He looked down at the relic in his arms, and then back at Natasha, abashed. Shaking his head, he reached out toward her with an apologetic paw. She recoiled, and Damon hurriedly set the weapon gingerly on the floor, propped against the chair.

"I...I'm sorry, 'Tasha. I am, I just..." Damon balled his paws into fists before he sighed and returned to the edge of the bed to take a seat. His ears were flat against his head in shame, hidden in his long, silver hair.

"When Miranda - my fiancée - found me, slumped against some back-alley wall, disoriented and amnesic...that's all I had on me. I mean, apart from the clothes on my back and some cash in my pockets, it was that sword, wrapped up in a cloth. It's the only memento I have from...whatever there is in my past, really." It sounded like he was making an excuse, even to his own ears, but Damon finished with the explanation anyhow, though he couldn't bring himself to look up from a whorl in the sheets on the bed.

From the corner of his eye, Damon noted that Natasha seemed to regain her composure. He'd expected her to leave - _he_would have - but instead the young Parisian girl calmly made her way 'round the bed. Damon refrained from looking up at her as Natasha carefully took a seat on the mattress next to him.

"It must be very important for you to have kept it for so long, non?" Her words were hardly above a whisper. In spite of himself, Damon cracked a tiny smile.

"Miranda told me once: 'we are memories, and without them we're nothing.' She's...she was always very committed to helping me regain my memories from before we met. The sword," he gestured toward it, half-heartedly, "it's the only hint we ever had, though. Family heirloom, most likely."

"Were you ever able to find out anything about it?" Natasha inquired, and Damon's ears picked up a little, swiveling in the direction of her delicate voice. He shrugged, and managed to look at her from the corner of his eyes.

"Not much...just that it's old. Had it appraised, once. Probably a Knights Templar sword from the Crusades...but that doesn't tell us all that much." Natasha looked contemplative for a moment, and Damon noticed her chewing on her lip. Distractedly, she swept her long tail - Damon for the first time it seemed realized how voluminous it was - around, draping it over her lap and brushing it.

"It's a zweihander ... If I were to guess, probably owned by a Teutonic Knight from Germany between 1100-1400 AD." She chirped almost whimsically while smoothing out that great bushy tail of hers. Damon turned slowly to regard her with an incredulous look, to which she responded with an absurdly cute lilt of her head.

"If...you were to guess?" Damon parroted. "That seemed...like more than a guess," he added, and a knowing smile cracked Natasha's features, hinting at more guile beneath that naïve façade than she let on."

"Well...I might have a bit of an interest history, monsieur. I'm a university student, actually, majoring in Culture et de l'Histoire Européenne." Damon could not keep back a grin at her reply, and even felt his own less-bushy tail give a few merry swishes behind him.

"You don't say," he replied.

"I do," the response was matter-of-fact, but Natasha was still smirking, herself. She lifted the end of her great big tail to playfully bat the end of Damon's nose with it, and he caught a whiff of perfume; light and floral. "I was just reading some material about ze Teutonic order, as it happens, monsieur. I was...I was interested in knowing more about zat sword, myself." Her playful demeanour retreated momentarily, and it was her turn to look diffident. "You will pardon my curiosity?"

Damon chuckled, turning to face Natasha head-on. He was thoroughly disarmed by this point, taking a leisure drag on his smoke before he responded.

"Of course, luv." He smiled, feeling more relaxed. "Funny thing is, though, even if I can't bring myself to part with the silly thing...I don't know that it matters any more, you know? My past, I mean." Natasha cocked her head and stitched her brow, puzzled.

"But...you just said..."

"The bit about memories, yeah... Thing is, that's a memory that I actually can recall. The memories I have of Miranda - the past four years - those are the memories that matter to me. Those are the ones that shape who I am..." The corners of Damon's mouth twitched in a wan, sad smile, but he shook his head and forced himself to widen the expression. "The person I might have been before...I don't know at all, and maybe that's for the best. For all I'm aware, I might not even recognize that person as 'me'. Our past is important, sure...but how we shape our future is what really matters."

"Pardon, but," Natasha piped up, and Damon noticed her gentle face looked a little more stern when she discussed weighty subject matter. "How can we shape our future, monsieur, without knowing where we've been?"

"Where we've been isn't as important as where we're going," Damon rolled his shoulders and leaned back on one arm. His cigarette was down to the filter so he plucked it from his mouth and held onto it, unable to reach the ash tray from his seat. "Maybe it's best I keep it all behind me...everything from before, I mean. I've got the last few years of memories to draw on...I don't need anything else." Natasha fidgeted, mulling over his words before formulating her reply.

"Oui, but...what if there is something in your more distance past you need to move forward. What if you need to know in order to move on?" Almost immediately after she said as much she grew sheepish once more, ears flattening as the skunkette lowered her gaze. "I- beg pardon, monsieur. I don't mean to tell you what to do."

Damon was toying with his tongue piercing against his teeth, a habit he had for coping with discomfort. He squirmed a little in his seat and sighed, looking down at the floor. I don't give a damn about whatever I might have had before Miranda. Why should I? And yet...

"It's...it's alright, 'Tasha. You...you make a good deal of sense, you know." Damon forced himself to chuckle dryly and shook his head. That seemed to perk Natasha up a little. She looked back up at the fox with a smile and a tiny giggle.

"Most people think I'm naïve, but I have my moments, Monsieur Damon." That made Damon crack a genuine smile, himself.

"You don't say..." the Briton crushed the butt of his last cigarette and flicked it into the rubbish bin by the night stand; it missed and smouldered on the floorboards. Damon frowned, but the curls of smoke rising from the stub told him it was out, and so he reached for his carton of fags, fishing another from it. Last one... "If you don't mind me asking, Natasha," he trailed off whilst flicking his lighter, and when he looked up she was leaning back on her arms, head canted inquisitively. Damon smiled; she smiled back. "I don't believe you ever explained what brought you to Paris," the fox ventured.

In part, he was truly curious. In part, he also wanted to deflect the conversation, or turn it back on Natasha. Damon preferred turning the conversation anywhere but back on himself. Or is that just what I'll tell myself...

"You mentioned being from Britain, eh?" Damon encouraged, noting Natasha's reticence. Turnabout was fair play after all...wasn't it? "C'mon, then, why'd you leave?"

Natasha, for her part, managed a smile. At first. Her expression then grew more sombre and she looked away.

"Ah, well...merde..."

"I'm sorry?" Damon sucked back a long, smooth drag, watching her carefully. Have I struck a nerve?

"No, it's alright, monsieur. I just...don't talk about it very often. Like you," she added, giving the fox a knowing smile. He returned the gesture, feeling a little better that, perhaps, they at least felt uncomfortable together. Does that make me a bastard?

"I was born in Manchester," the young woman continued, "but... My family...they were murdered, monsieur." Yeah, I'm a bastard. "Afterwards I was adopted, her in France. Did you ever...hear of ze Marketplace Massacre?" Damon's heart sank a little and it wasn't for the first time that day that he felt a warm rush of shame. He felt sorry for having encouraged this line of conversation, but there they were...

"Bloody hell...I have, yeah. I mean, I'm sorry, Natasha..." the words felt hollow. It wasn't that Damon didn't mean them, but really, how meaningful could they be to her? She must have heard it all before.

"No, it's alright, I said, monsieur," she reassured him. Natasha shook her head and smiled again, that genuine smile, and at once Damon's guilt was all but assuaged. "I was too young to remember anything, really. It was at least...what, 15 years ago?"

Damon blinked. "15...how old are you, luv?"

Natasha smirked before giving her retort: "Monsieur Damon, you never ask a lady that question...22" Damon couldn't keep back a grin. He was happy to embrace a light-hearted turn in their conversation, and her smile was a winning one besides.

"No? But...you answered, didn't you?" He teased.

"Oui," she giggled, "well how old are you then, hm?"

"I...don't know." Damon chuckled nervously. Natasha laughed innocently, and on reflex Damon laughed with her. It fed into a positive feedback loop of laughter for both of them, and Damon was grateful for that release.

When the merriment subsided, he leaned back again with a thoughtful sigh, taking another long drag from his smoke. The fox furrowed his brow contemplatively and inwardly cursed his mind's willingness to embrace a sudden, darker turn. It seemed inevitable, though, given their line of conversation. _Why couldn't things stay light and happy?_Natasha took note of his sour expression and shot him a look of concern. Damon shook his head.

"Miranda...was murdered, too," he said after a moment's silence. Natasha's eyes widened briefly.

"Oh, Monsieur Damon..."

The fox looked right into Natasha's eyes. He was staring past them, really: it was the only way he could make the words flow freely.

"We were attacked in our apartment. Burglary gone bad, I think...I was knocked unconscious.... I don't remember anything, really, such a fuckin' wonder my memory is..." Damon blinked, and his eyes re-focussed on Natasha's. The sympathetic look of concern reminded Damon that he was voicing the painful tale aloud, breathing life into it, and Natasha's expression made him wonder how pained and pitiful his own must have been.

"I just remember waking up to find 'er there..." he continued, but by then his voice began to falter. Natasha's face dissolved into swirls of brown-and-white, and Damon reached up to brush something from his eyes. "Ah, bollocks..."

The application of sudden pressure on his torso caused Damon to squeak involuntarily. He rubbed more moisture from his eyes and opened them to find Natasha pressed against him, her slender arms around his body in a tight embrace, face pressed against the bare fur of his chest. For the first time since he'd awoken, Damon realized he'd been half-naked around Natasha the whole time and hadn't felt self-conscious in the least. In spite of himself, he couldn't be bothered to feel it now, either.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur Damon," the skunk-girl murmured against his collarbone, her head on his shoulder. "You didn't have to tell me everything all at once."

Damon couldn't help but smile to himself and breathe half a chuckle. Her empathy and words were so genuine; everything about Natasha seemed that way. He was still getting used to her sincerity: it disarmed him in way which caught him flat-footed, but he didn't quite mind. He felt...safe confiding in her. The fox brushed a careful paw over the skunk's hair and let out a shaky sigh.

"Thank you, 'Tasha. Really, though...it's nice to have someone to talk it over with. I've...had to contend with all of these memories and feelings and lack of memories and...and... It's just nice not to be so alone for the first time in a while, you know?"

"I know what that's like," Natasha sat up a little and placed her paws on Damon's shoulder, putting some space between them and seeming for a moment embarrassed by their closeness. When she recovered, she added, "I'll listen if you want to talk, of course, Monsieur Damon - but it's up to you whether you want to or not." She cracked a tiny smile.

"Thank you," Damon smiled back and took a deep breath, inhaling a reassuring lungful of carcinogens. He took a few puffs more before daring to continue.

"Like I said, though...I can't remember anything else, no matter how hard I try. I remember the night before well enough. My memories of that day though...they're all jumbled. I got a concussion from having my head bashed against our wall...I remember my ears ringing. And..I remember seeing her..."

The lump in his throat returned, and Damon realized he was unable to keep from growing misty-eyed once more. He stared at a patch of peeling wallpaper as a focal point and took another long drag from his cigarette. Natasha waited with her unending patience and compassion until the fox felt able to once again speak.

"Miranda...there she was, torn up like...ah, Hell, I don't bloody know... She was already dead. In some ways I'm thankful...I mean I don't know if I could have handled having to watch her die. But she was gone...and...our little..."

Natasha's paws tensed visible against the bedspread, curling into little fists. She bit her lip and shot Damon a look of pity that forced him to close his eyes and turn away. Hot tears welled up and matted the fur on his cheeks.

"Monsieur...?" the mephit inquired, her gentle voice barely audible over the ringing in Damon's ears. He heaved a broken sigh and kept his eyes closed.

"We were six months pregnant, at the time. It wasn't planned - Hell, nothing was. She'd just finished getting her Bachelor of Medicine and started working as a nurse. I was...just some gutter punk without a past who she let squat at her pad for some reason. I had to go through Hell just to prove my citizenship and hold a job as a fuckin' manager at a piece-of-shit café. Soon as we'd found out Miranda was...well, I couldn't help m'self. I proposed...an' she said yes...it wasn't planned, but we were looking forward to all of it. Even if it scared the shite out of me..."

Talking about it brought the emotions associated with those memories to life, like re-opening a wound that had just scabbed over. The pain and guilt and sorrow twisted Damon's guts into knots and he could taste bile in the back of his throat as those feelings honed a keen edge of anger.

"An' then it was all snatched away from me..." the fox muttered darkly. He felt a sickening sensation not unlike heartburn, and the ringing in his ears returned as his pulse quickened.

"...What happened to ze...ze murderer, Monsieur Damon?" Just like that, Natasha's murmured inquiry shattered Damon's indulgent concentration on his own suffering, snapping him back to reality. The ringing receded, as did the bile, and he blinked a few times to focus once again on his surroundings. His dark thoughts dissipated like early-morning mist.

"Dunno," Damon replied, able to meet Natasha's gaze again. "Never found out who it was, or why. Well...the only suspect in the investigation was yours truly..." Natasha's long eyelashes fluttered, her gaze widening briefly as she sat back, uncertain.

"You, Monsieur Damon?!" That flicker in her eyes was brief, but Damon caught its accusatory surprise, and felt his anger flare again. He flashed his canines, retorting with a bit of a snarl.

"It wasn't, of course! Never...especially not Miranda..." Natasha had inched away from him and once Damon felt his claws digging into his own palms he blinked a few times before turning from the skunkette with a huff.

"I - sorry..." he sucked in a deep breath before plucking the cigarette butt from his lip, crushing it in his fist to snuff it out. It stung, but he hardly winced.

"There wasn't any hard evidence," he said at length, aware of how much like an excuse that sounded. "Everything was circumstantial, but there weren't any other leads. I told you even I don't know who it could have been...we didn't know anyone who would have done something like that... The evidence was bollocks, but nobody had anything else to go on."

Damon sighed and rubbed his temples before he continued: "I was put under house arrest in a bloody tavern - like this'n - while they investigated our home. It was awful, you know that? They even...they even said that the way in which Miranda was killed..." like she was attacked by some kind of animal "...they said it was 'reminiscent of a string of other unsolved murders locally and abroad'."

Damon couldn't bring himself to mention any of the specifics. Just like the Marketplace Massacre, they'd called it. He certainly didn't feel the need to mention that titbit of information to Natasha. But that had been a stupid, baseless accusation anyway. _Hadn't it?_Of course it had. The police had just latched onto anything they could to try and wrap up the murder of a pretty young woman and her unborn child. The Massacre had taken place in, what, '97? At least 15 years ago...

The fox stared rather intently at the floorboards, his ears wilting under the weight of the silence that followed his rambling. At last he broke the tranquility himself, if only just, muttering:

"And with no memories of my own to go by, who's to say they're wrong?" More silence followed, and Damon's ears disappeared into his long hair completely. He nearly jumped when Natasha laid a gentle paw on his shoulder.

"I would say so, Monsieur Damon..." 'Tasha's fingers tensed, squeezing his shoulder lightly, and Damon turned to look at her sideways with a tiny smile.

"I don't suppose you realize how naïve that sounds, Natasha?" The she-skunk creased her brow and marred that pretty muzzle with a frown.

"I've only just met you, c'est vrai, Monsieur Damon, but I can tell you're a good man," she insisted. "I...I know I can trust you. I can feel it...and...well, a woman's intuition is never wrong, you know." Damon couldn't keep from laughing a little. He reached up to place his paw on hers.

"That doesn't make a whole lot of sense you know, 'Tasha," he said honestly. It was true, after all. But then, Damon couldn't wipe the fresh smile from his face. There was something about Natasha's sincerity and forthrightness that made him want to say the same...

The skunk's brow furrowed more, her ears splaying farther apart. She seemed annoyed, but even that she conveyed adorably.

"Well, no," she admitted with a tiny huff, "but it doesn't have to, Monsieur Damon. It's how I feel. Feelings don't always make sense but, well...zey are important." The Parisian nodded resolutely and her expression softened, seemingly encouraged by her own statement. Damon grinned wider at her pluck.

"You can just call me Damon, you know," he said. Natasha blinked a couple times before her face cracked in a smile. She brushed her bangs from her eyes again as the expression turned into a sheepish smirk.

"Right, Damon. I suppose we are past introductions."

Before the fox could reply a deep rumbling sound erupted from his belly, so loud he felt it almost shook the room. Damon was the first to laugh, but Natasha quickly followed his lead. It was the sort of laughter that was unexpected and genuine - just the right side of an uncontrollable fit. Natasha wound up nearly doubled over trying to catch her breath and Damon found himself leaning back against the foot of the bed, wiping tears from his eyes. While unexpected, it appeared the borborygmic noise had injected some more much-needed levity into the room.

"I suppose I'm a little hungry," the fox admitted at length, once the laughter had subsided. "I'm not even sure when it was I last ate. And I mean that." Natasha giggled and took a few extra moments to catch her breath and clear her throat.

"Hm. That's no problem Mon- Damon," she corrected herself with a smirk. "I can put together a late lunch for you." And with that, the skunk-girl had bounded to her feet and was halfway to the door before Damon could muster a response.

"W-wait a minute, 'Tasha," the fox ventured, reaching ineffectually for her. Natasha turned to respond, at least, even if she bounced on the balls of her feet impatiently.

"Ce n'est pas un problème!" She insisted, "I'm not scheduled to work anymore today so I don't have anything else to be doing - and even if I did, you're a guest! I should be serving you." The skunk-girl smiled winningly, but Damon's ears wilted nevertheless.

"This is your day off?" He wondered, and then wondered again why that should at all have surprised him. Natasha was certainly the sort of person who seemed eager to please; he'd learned that much in their time together, at least. It was hard to argue with the prospect of a meal, besides.

"Relax," Natasha assured Damon. "You just woke up...there's no rush! Take a nice, relaxing shower to prepare for your day and I will bring you something tasty to eat, oui? We can keep talking...if you'd like?" She tilted her head to the side; big, innocent eyes blinking hopefully.

"Wh...I suppose," Damon began, at a loss.

"Magnifique!" Natasha trilled, and she spun in a flurry of flowing skirt and bushy tail that disappeared out into the hall before the fox could so much as think of anything to say.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her Natasha was bounding down the stairs on nimble feet. The skunk-girl's bracelets and other jewelry jingled merrily as she bounced off the landing onto the main floor and she hummed happily along with the tune, such as it was.

She was grateful that Damon had woken safe and sound and apparently none the worse for wear. More than that, she'd enjoyed their early afternoon chat even if things had taken a darker turn in their conversation here or there. 'Tasha loved getting to know new people, and the dark-furred vulpine who had turned up at the tavern the other day was no exception. It certainly didn't hurt that the umber stranger had a mysterious past and was more than a little easy on the eyes...

Natasha squeaked in surprise as she nearly bowled her employer over on her way into the kitchen, so lost had she been in thought. Monsieur Vulpecula raised an eyebrow at the mephit girl.

[In a hurry today, are we, 'Tasha?] he wondered. [You're here late for someone who was only working a morning shift.] Natasha flushed in embarrassment and flattened her ears against her head.

[S-sorry, Mister Vulpecula,] she stammered, brushing her bangs from her eyes as she regained her mental footing. [Ah, I was just going to duck into the kitchen to prepare something to eat. I'll pay for it, of course.]

[I don't doubt it,] the red fox replied truthfully, though he crossed his arms and remained stubbornly in the way. Natasha knew he wasn't barring her path, per se, but he wasn't letting her go without a talk, either.

[Are you getting something for him, too?] he wondered, and 'Tasha didn't have to bother asking to whom Mr. Fox referred. She couldn't say why, for certain, but Vulpecula always managed to make Natasha feel guilty when he pressed her for answers that way. Like she was a mischievous child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

[Well...yes,] she replied with a little hesitation, nibbling her bottom lip. [But he's a guest, after all, and I can cover his meal, too,] Natasha added reassuringly.

[He should be paying his own way,] the older fox responded acidly, his lips drawn taut in an almost-frown. [If he can't he needs to get out of here. I don't like the look of him as it is, never mind that we found him passed out in the back alley...but if he can't pay for anything then he really is no good.]

[That's not it!] Natasha retorted. [He's paid in full for his visit, yes? I just wanted to do something nice for him, that's all. He had a rough evening, last night.]

[So he told you about it, then? What was the punk up to?] Vulpecula asked plainly, drumming a few fingers on one of his folded arms. Natasha's ears had picked up when she jumped to Damon's defense, but again they wilted under Mr. Fox's scrutiny.

[W...well, yes. Mostly. It wasn't anything bad! He's not that sort of person, really!] Natasha insisted strongly enough, but she had trouble meeting her boss' reproachful gaze. Vulpecula huffed.

[I'm not certain what sort of person he is, and that's part of the problem. I know enough to dislike the look of him, though.]

[You're just basing that off of how he dresses, and the piercings!] Natasha whined, [that's hardly fair, Mister Fox! You of all people!]

[Yes, well, yesterday he was wearing one of my shirts, and this morning it was nowhere to be found,] he retorted, unamused. Natasha pouted a little, but then screwed her face up in a defiant frown.

[Well he needed something to wear! I was just trying to be hospitable!] By that point the skunkette had raised her voice enough that it was attracting the attention of patrons at the bar and tables. Natasha couldn't be bothered to care about that, of course, but Mr. Vulpecula, ever the consummate businessman, cared very much about his image and whatever sort of message their confrontation might have been sending to outsiders.

The older fox sighed, his brow furrowed, and kneaded a few fingers between his closed eyes.

[Fine,] he replied at length. [You continue to be hospitable, 'Tasha. God knows I can't stop you anyway. Just...be careful with this one, yes? I don't care how long or pleasant a conversation you've had with this man but you barely know him.] When his eyes opened to look at her again, Natasha was somewhat taken aback by the concern in her employer's gaze.

[W- of course,] she responded, cocking her head quizzically. Vulpecula broke off as soon as he realized Natasha had caught the look in his eye and he shouldering past her lightly to get back to tending the bar.

[Just don't give him any more of my shirts,] he grumbled in passing. Natasha gave a murmur of understanding and took half a step into the kitchen before the fox added: ['Tasha.] She turned to face him. Having returned to his post, Vulpecula seemed more in his element. He began cleaning the bar-top, speaking to her while giving the occasional sidelong glance. [If you're going to head back upstairs and spending time here off the clock, you might as well tell the guests in room five that I'd like to speak with them when they have a moment. Tell them there's a free meal and round of drinks in it for them.]

Business as usual. Natasha smiled, thankful for the return to familiarity.

[Of course,] she replied, and her boss gave a curt nod before turning away. Natasha felt her previous buoyant mood return almost immediately and she gave a spin, giggling as she disappeared into the kitchen with her tail trailing behind her like a great, fuzzy ribbon.

By the time Richard stepped out of the shower smelling of flowers it seemed that the wolf had finally woken. Richard strode from the bathroom in his boxers, a towel draped over his shoulder. The towel was just a little damp, largely from drying his hair; most of the water had beaded and been sloughed by the otter's waterproof pelt.

"Well, look who decided to wake up," Richard teased as he moved by the worn plush chair in which the wolf was sprawled. His lupine companion had promptly passed out right after the two of them had made it back to the tavern. The wolf groaned and rubbed at his neck with one paw, trying to get rid of a crick in it while his other hand cleaned sleep from his eyes. Richard continued: "'I haven't lost too much blood, lad; I'm fine!' Hm?"

Finally the wolf's eyes snapped open with some degree of alertness, shooting an irritated expression in the otter's direction.

"Stow it, whelp." The Scotsman grumbled, "how long was I out?" Richard frowned even though his attention was turned to rummaging through his clothes to determine what to wear.

"You know, this whole insult-me-and-then-expect-me-to-be-helpful thing has gotta come to an end sooner or later." Once he managed to decide on a wine-coloured dress shirt, the otter ceded to the wolf's question anyway. "It's around three-thirty, so you were asleep for a good...ten, eleven hours? How's the arm?"

The wolf grunted and flexed the appendage in question. Thankfully he'd been able to help Richard with dressing the wound before he'd collapsed into sleep; it was likely the otter's squeamishness over blood would have kept him from completing the job had he been completely on his own. Richard's lupine compatriot patted the sturdy bandage lightly and gave a curt nod.

"It's good, lad. ...Thank ye."

"No problem," Richard replied absently while buttoning up his shirt. He had to do his best to keep his attention there, and not on his companion's shirtlessness. The lupine fellow was...more than a little impressively-built. It hadn't just been the sight of blood that had made Richard feel faint earlier.

He did his best to continue making conversation: "I dunno 'bout you, by the way, but I'm fuckin' starved. Freshen yourself up a bit and let's get something to eat, yeah?" The canid stood slowly, groaning in discomfort and taking the time to stretch before he made his way over to the dresser and helped himself to some water from the pitcher there that Richard had filled after waking.

"I could eat," his companion admitted after draining a glass. He poured himself another and it, too, disappeared before he added: "You know, lad, I don't believe we were properly introduced during all the excitement last night."

Richard rolled his eyes. He leaned against the wall, lifting one leg at a time to pull his charcoal pants back on from the evening before. They still reeked of gas. At least it was better than sewage...

"Right. Because trying to give the slip to one of France's internationally-renowned counter-terror units is my idea of a good time. The sewer was a nice bonus, though, definitely." The wolf stared blankly at him. Either sarcasm was lost on Richard's new friend or the otter just wasn't that funny. Probably the former, he decided.

Having done up his pants Richard closed the distance between them and extended a friendly paw. "The name's Rakko," he offered.

"No it's not." The wolf returned immediately. His face was still largely expressionless, but he added, "I don't like liars, lad."

Richard's brow knit into a scowl and he found himself caught off-guard by the stranger's certainty.

"What? How would you know?" The wolf rolled his shoulders in a shrug, wincing, and sat back against the dresser. It occurred to Richard that he was being sized up by the big fellow.

"Call it intuition," the Scot replied, then after a pause added, "I'm right though, aren't I?" He was, so Richard decided to give him that one. The otter adjusted his glasses to try and look a little less flustered than he felt.

"Alright then. Kawauso - or you can call me Kaw."

"That's not your name either. Neither." Richard frowned, then forced himself into giving a wry smirk.

"No, but it's as close a thing as I'll tell you. How's that for the truth?" He held his hand out in greeting again, webbed digits splayed. The wolf gazed down at him for a moment before clapping a heavy paw around the otter's in a firm shake.

"Alright, lad. I'm Avinglad MacLeod. Some call me Avi, but you're not one of them." So he does have a sense of humour.

"Fair enough." They held the handshake longer than was strictly necessary, and Richard struggled with the urge to wince as his paw was nearly crushed. Avinglad released him before the urge came impossible to resist, though Richard did make a face when he turned away from the hulking wolf.

The otter took a seat on the edge of the bed, facing his new accomplice again. He crossed his arms, massaging his throbbing paw against his armpit while attempting to appear indifferent. Their eyes locked again, and the wolf was the first to speak up. "So, what brings you across the drink, hunting the same daemon as I? You're American, eh?" This time Richard allowed Avinglad to see the face he made.

"What? No - why do people always say that? - Canadian." Avinglad gave a sniff and leaned back a bit more, sipping his water while he appraised his companion.

"You sounded like one t'me," Avi said, then shrugged again, this time without wincing. "A little better, I suppose - that you're not."

"Thank you...?" Richard responded warily to the backhanded compliment. "Anyway, though, it's like I told you last night. I'm a, er, freelance fugitive recovery agent."

"That's just a fancy way of saying 'mercenary'," Avinglad quipped disapprovingly. "Gun-for-hire." Richard's expression darkened and he bared his teeth a little.

"There's a difference," he insisted.

"I'm sure. Why bother coming all the way across the Atlantic then, hm?"

"The money's good," Richard responded defensively. It occurred to him that without his knowledge they'd entered into some sort of conversational sparring match and he was probably losing.

"Oh, aye?" The wolf nodded. "Suppose it is; £200,000 is it not?" Richard narrowed his eyes.

"You've got connections to know that sort of thing. Police or...otherwise."

"I know my prey is all," Avinglad responded coolly.

"Prey?" the otter inquired. "You've got a funny way of talking, Scot, and it's not the accent. I suppose you're tracking a wanted criminal to offer him salvation if he repents his wicked ways?" Richard nodded in indication of the large silver crucifix that hung from around the wolf's neck. It was impossible to ignore. "That would explain your choice of accessories and literature," it had also been impossible to ignore the Bible tucked inside Avi's overcoat. The otter had been raised Roman Catholic, himself, but wasn't one for scripture. "Doesn't explain the heat you're packing, though," Richard concluded observantly.

Avinglad growled a little, and the sound made the hackles rise on the back of Richard's neck.

"No? Very well, pup. I'll tell ye my story - but only provided ye tell me yours right after." Richard sighed and ran a hand through his hair, leaning back on one arm against the bed.

"Right. I might omit the occasional truth, but I'll do my best not to lie."

Avinglad ignored the otter's remark and set aside his empty glass. He folded his arms and stared rather intently at the floor for a few moments. Richard raised an eyebrow as he waited expectantly. The wolf took so long to begin his story that Richard was about to comment on it by the time he spoke.

"I'm a man of God. Always have been. It's how I was raised." Avinglad lifted his gaze to meet the otter's. "I even spent some time in the Church...became a deacon, spent a year at the Vatican in study..."

"Of course," Richard was unable to keep from commenting, "all men of the cloth I've ever known carried Israeli sidearms. Or, you know, any sidearms." The weapon in question was still holstered at the wolf's hip. Avinglad frowned and creased his brow in annoyance.

"D'you want my side of the story, lad, or not?"

"Sorry." Richard held up a paw indicating his intent to be quiet.

"Anyway," Avinglad rolled his shoulder on the injured arm and winced again, "That was a few years back. I'm no longer with the Church, officially." Richard thought that was an interesting detail to gloss over and made a mental note to come back to it later. The wolf continued: "More recently I've been invested in business of a personal sort...through our mutual acquaintance." He paused then, and Richard took advantage of the opening.

"How do you know Damon Vulpes?" Avinglad studied Richard for a few moments before he gave a reply.

"...Have ye ever heard of an incident called the Marketplace Massacre?"

"It rings a bell, sure," Richard responded with a casual shrug.

"One of the greatest mass-killings in British - or European - history. A terrible atrocity, committed in broad daylight, even."

"It's on Damon's record as one of the crimes he's suspected for," Richard chimed in, deciding there was no harm in admitting that he knew that much at least. "Biggest problem with that theory, aside from the fact there's nothing in the way of hard evidence behind who committed the massacre in the first place, is Damon's too young to have committed it. True, there aren't any solid records of him going back earlier than 2008 - the guy's practically a ghost - but the massacre was in 1997, right? The dude hardly looks any older than you or I." Avinglad stared icily at Richard and responded with cool certainty.

"Oh, make no mistake of it, laddie. That fellow...the Devil Himself...he was there." Richard was not given overmuch to unfounded credulity and regarded this claim with scepticism.

"Aaand you know this because...?"

"So was I," Avi said tersely. Richard gave a nervous, surprised chuckle.

"Ah, come again?"

"I was one of the few who survived that...that Hell on Earth," Avinglad closed his eyes for a moment and drummed his fingers against the edge of the dresser.

"Let's just, ah...let's back up a second," the otter suggested. "The massacre happened in Manchester, yeah?"

"Aye," the wolf affirmed, "I was 11 at the time. After the incident I was...taken in by relatives in Edinburgh."

"I see," Richard mused, uncertain how to digest this information. "I'm...well, I'm sorry." Avinglad's eyes snapped open.

"Don't be. I've had enough pity to last me a lifetime, lad."

"Alright. So you've got connections to Damon, you say." Richard decided to take the large lupine's story at face value, for the time being.

"I do, aye."

"Then this is for revenge?" the otter asked.

"There's more to it than that," the wolf insisted. There was a fire kindled in his eyes now. "What about punishment? Atonement? I'm not the only one who's been hurt by him." Wasn't that the truth.

"Right, but...Damon's a suspect, not a convict." Richard stated. The distinction was an important one, at least as long as it was valid. "Church and state are separate for a reason.

"Church and state aren't separate in the UK, lad," Avinglad said matter-of-factly.

"Right," Richard conceded, then added, "fine, but the Church of England isn't the Catholic Church, at any rate."

"I know what I saw!" the wolf snarled, and Richard tensed. "Don't question me on that, lad!"

"Alright, alright," the otter said, attempting to placate Avi. He certainly didn't relish the prospect of setting off Avinglad's temper; the fellow was built like a tank. "I'm sorry. Just...trying to stick with the facts I know, that's all."

"Well, now among those facts ye know why I'm here, laddie," Avi huffed, but relaxed a little, and Richard with him. "What about you? Don't tell me they've stopped paying ye for catchin' crooks on the other side o' the ocean?"

Richard sighed and shifted in his seat to get a bit more comfortable. His heavy rudder-tail was hanging over the side of the bed, twitching slowly, and he stared at it for a while. He _had_promised an exchange of information.

"Of course not," he began, "it's a little more complicated than that, sure."

"Explain."

Richard worried the inside of his bottom lip with his teeth for a moment. After some consideration he reached tentatively into his pocket and removed his wallet. He reached into it and carefully removed the chain of worn photographs, leaning forward to pass them off to Avinglad. The Scot took it and examined the images wordlessly.

"D'you recognize the girl, there? The fox?" Richard asked after a few moments' silence. Avinglad stared a bit longer before he handed the images back.

"No." Richard sighed, carefully folding the string of images properly and tucking them back in his wallet.

"Her name was Miranda Vulpes," the otter ventured, and Avinglad narrowed his eyes immediately, his expression grim.

"I know that name, though."

"Right, well..." Richard had stuffed his wallet back into his pocket and leaned back over the bed, propped up with both arms. "We knew one another. In high school. It sounds kind of silly, I know, but it's true." He sighed, but Avinglad listened patiently, so Richard continued.

"She was one of the foreign exchange students during my first year. She was only there for the one year, but we became pretty good friends during that time. I had a crush on her something fierce..." the otter chuckled at the memories that sprang to the surface, bidden by his story-telling. "Never really told her how I felt, though. Too much of a fuckin' pussy, I guess," he said, diffusing the discomfort of relating his personal story with a little self-deprecation. "Anyhow, she went back to Britain. I was sad to see her go - crushed, really. Heh...no pun intended."

Avinglad's face betrayed no emotion and he certainly didn't crack a smile at the otter's stupid joke. The wolf was straight-faced and attentive, his pointed ears alert. Richard carried on to avoid a lapse into an awkward silence.

"Anyway, but we kept in touch over the years. Always planned to visit, even if things never really panned out that way, heh. Miranda'd saved up enough money that, between her job and some help from her parents she was able to go to medical school. She'd always wanted to be a nurse. Things weren't as great for me..." on that, Richard did not care to elaborate. He opted instead to keep the story centred on Miranda. As much as he missed her, he'd come to terms with her loss, and her story was one that connected the wolf and otter to one another, besides.

"I was happy enough for her," Richard continued, "...grudgingly so at times. Particularly when she started telling me about the wonderful guy she'd met. I guess I always held out some stupid hope that maybe one day something would work out between me and Miranda, you know? Anyway, the other guy, lucky bastard...even knocked her up and proposed to her..." this time Avinglad interjected.

"I suspect I know where this story ends, lad."

"Yeah, well, let me finish it anyway." Richard sighed. "I went a while without hearing from her. Nothing unusual, mind. We were both plenty busy with our own lives. But there was this high-profile murder in the UK that was making the rounds in international news...I didn't pay much attention to it at first. But it stuck around in the news long enough...so eventually I found out the victim was one 'Miranda Vulpes'." The pain was far from fresh, but Richard felt a bit of a lump in the back of his throat nonetheless, so he kept talking to keep it down.

"She didn't respond to my e-mails, of course. So I panicked. I made a lot of calls. Eventually I found out she really was...dead. Of course, in all this, I also learned that bastard fiancée of hers, our 'mutual acquaintance', was the prime suspect in the murder. It would've ended there, with the court, but he escaped house arrest during the investigation and naturally a bounty was put out on him. It was hefty enough to justify the trip overseas...not that I'd have needed any extra reasons to come here." Those reasons had seemed to find me, though ...

Richard found himself growling a little, teeth bared. "Well, here I am, I suppose. Tracked the fucker to Paris...looks like I'm not alone in that, though, am I?" He did his level best to turn the little snarl into a smile, and Avinglad returned it, if only just.

"No," the wolf admitted. "Let me ask you something though, lad. What do you intend to do with Damon, should you catch up to him?"

"I already have," Richard replied, and shuddered a bit at the recollection. "I'd say you wouldn't believe what happened when I did but, well...I've a feeling you just might." Avinglad shook his head and tried again.

"I mean, you're just going to turn him in? Hand him over to INTERPOL or whoever else wants him, collect your money and be on your way?"

What else would I do? The otter wondered, but he knew he was just playing dumb with himself. He wouldn't, do that, would he? He couldn't... Not again.

"Well, I suppose we'll see about that," Richard replied at length with a small, grim smile.

"Maybe," Avinglad agreed tentatively. "I'll have you know I don't plan on letting that wretch live if I can catch up to him again."

How Christian of you, Richard thought, but kept it to himself. The mustelid stood up and took some time to gather his thoughts, making his way around the bed to his personal effects and put on his belt.

"Well, one way or another, we're both after the same individual," he concluded, and turned to Avi with a tiny smile. "And I don't want to fight you."

"Aye," the big Scot agreed, taking a step from the dresser to stretch. "I'm not looking to scrap with ye either, lad. But make no mistake: I will end you if you get in my way." The statement came across as simple and factual, almost unlike a threat.

"I don't suppose there's any way we can talk this over?" Richard wondered, shooting the wolf a sidelong glance as he cinched his belt around his waist.

"What did ye have in mind?" Avinglad wondered, arms folded. Richard turned to face him head-on.

"I'm not sure. I just know that I don't want to go toe-to-toe with someone who's bigger, stronger and much more Scottish than I am. And seeing as we're both striving toward a goal that's at least similar, we may as well work together, right? We just have to figure out the nitty-gritty of what happens when we actually achieve said goal."

Before Richard could continue there was a series of quick, sharp raps on the door. He exchanged glances with Avinglad, who shrugged and moved into the bathroom, ducking his massive frame through the door so as to be out-of-sight from the entrance to the hotel room proper. Richard made his way to the door and cracked it open.

"Oui?" He peered out into the hall curiously and was greeted by a Parisian skunk-girl so effervescent she practically glowed.

"Bonjour," she chirped happily before diving quite capably into English. "I hope you're doing well today."

"Ah, yes, quite, thank you," Richard blinked, and found his eyes inexorably drawn to the tray the skunkette was clutching beneath the perky breasts that her loose blouse showed off rather well. The tray was actually the more fetching sight at the moment, laden as it was with some sort of salad, a basket of baguettes and a covered dish that gave off the aroma of steak. There was a bottle of wine as well, and dishes enough to serve two. Richard's stomach rumbled audibly.

"Très bien," the mephit cooed and smiled adorably. "I hope you haven't had lunch today? Or at least that you're hungry?" Richard couldn't keep his eyes off the tray of food, but he was still taken aback. We didn't order anything, did we? And Avinglad's not supposed to be here...did someone see us come back last night?

"Oh, well, I haven't eaten yet, actually," he admitted, but remained wary about admitting to having taken in another guest.

"Bon," the skunk-girl smiled. It seemed impossible for her to stand still; she was bouncing and rolling on the soles of the flip-flops she wore. Richard noted that she seemed dressed rather unseasonably for the cool autumn weather. "If you'd like something to eat, you can head downstairs to the pub - Monsieur Vulpecula, ze tavern's owner, has offered a free meal and some drinks for you and your friend. He'd just like to talk with you; business, I suspect. He's a very business-minded fox."

"I see," Richard said, his heart sinking at the knowledge that the food on the tray the maid held was not for him. But what was that she'd said about free food? For...both of them? Guess the jig is up. I imagine this is gonna drive up the rate...

Richard stepped back and rapped on the door to the bathroom. "Hey, Avi, the game's up, man. We've gotta head downstairs and have a chitchat with the management. There's some food in it for us, though, and maybe a pint or two. You, er, drink, right?"

The burly wolf cracked open the door to the bathroom and scowled at Richard for the casual use of a nickname he hadn't been given permission to use.

"No more or less than anyone else, thank ye. Alright though...let me make myself presentable."

Richard turned back to the skunk waiting by the door and nodded politely. "Alright, we'll be right down shortly, miss...?"

"Natasha," she chirped, flashing another winning smile. "Just have a seat downstairs whenever you're ready and he'll find time for you. I'm afraid I need to get this meal to another guest, monsieur otter; au'revoir!"

"Au'revoir," Richard replied, blinking in bewilderment as Natasha disappeared into the room next-door without so much as a knock. He closed the door to the hall and turned back to face Avinglad who was still lurking just inside the bathroom, leaned against the doorframe.

"Seems someone's noticed an extra guest in your room, lad," he ventured. "Don't fret; we'll straighten things out one way or another. As long as you don't call me 'Avi' again." Richard shrugged noncommittally.

"Right, sure thing - just hurry and clean up, would you? I'm starving. And you still smell like sewers and tear gas."

"At least I don't smell like a girl," Avi grumbled in reply before shutting the door brusquely.

Richard smirked to himself as he heard the shower start up. He hadn't noticed Avinglad take any personal toiletries into the bathroom with him.

"Not yet, anyway."