Dexter notices the woman at the bar, and his brow furrows a bit as he looks at her. He knows her from somewhere, he's sure of it.
Then it hits him. He almost berates himself for not recognizing her immediately. They practically have a close, personal relationship, for goodness sake. With a wry grin, he approaches and takes the seat next to her.
It should probably disturb him that he feels more comfortable in her presence than he ever has in the presence of any other human being, with one notable exception. It doesn't.
He orders a drink and sits next to her in companionable silence.
That's the nice thing about being with someone who loves you.
You don't always have to think up words.
It takes a while before she asks, gently--and in part it's because this is how it works, you ask, they tell, it's polite as much as anything else--and after draining a good portion of her drink, "How are you doing, Dexter?"
Someone else notices, of course. There's a (briefly surprised)second look, and then a wry smile as he raises his glass, whether unnoticed by Her or not.
He'd be grateful that she doesn't, if she ever does speak with him then or later. That was a name the humans gave him, and not on friendly terms. Then again, the alternatives would've been much less polite.
Welcome. Wondering if she's here to rest, or work, or both. He won't pry.
In some ways, he's far too gone to even accept what metaphysical truth there might be, so as much as if an unjaded Santino met death his head might explode, he's far too set in his Nihilistic ways to panic too much.
That being said, he glances at Death with somewhat keen interest.
She doesn't feel human, nor does she really look it. But then again, neither is he.
There's a girl a bit down the bar, writing in a notebook. She keeps writing, then scribbling things out, then taking a sip of a milkshake.
"Oh...damn," she says, after scribbling out for what seems the umpteenth time.
She blushes then, and looks around, seeing the woman just a distance away. She looks...vaguely familiar, but not really. She's probably seen her around the bar.
"Um...hi. Ever had one of those things that just wouldn't get written?"
"A few times," she grins. "I tried haiku, once. I never could get the syllables to line up right. My brother's much better at poetry than I am in general. Especially the structured kind."
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Then it hits him. He almost berates himself for not recognizing her immediately. They practically have a close, personal relationship, for goodness sake. With a wry grin, he approaches and takes the seat next to her.
"Hello."
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Lots of people have a close, personal relationship with Death.
Every one, in fact. It's hard to get closer.
And she remembers every name, saying it or no.
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He orders a drink and sits next to her in companionable silence.
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You don't always have to think up words.
It takes a while before she asks, gently--and in part it's because this is how it works, you ask, they tell, it's polite as much as anything else--and after draining a good portion of her drink, "How are you doing, Dexter?"
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She doesn't call him "Michael", just looks over at him and smiles back, raising her glass in return.
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Then again, the alternatives would've been much less polite.
Welcome. Wondering if she's here to rest, or work, or both. He won't pry.
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It's not his.
She'll call him what he wishes, and in the meantime she laughs and says, "Thank you."
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But meanwhile, he's playing a few notes on a whistle every now and again, and looking extraordinarily pleased with himself.
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Her hair covers her face, for a minute, but there's never the sense that she's not seeing him clearly.
Far from it.
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He holds up his whistle.
(It's kind of clumsily carved.)
"Whittling, though -- that's a little different."
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"Mind if I see it?"
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That being said, he glances at Death with somewhat keen interest.
She doesn't feel human, nor does she really look it. But then again, neither is he.
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But mostly, with skin pale as bone, paler than human skin ever was or could be.
It's a different sort of interest in the look she shoots back at him.
It's not nearly as curious, but it's attentive.
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Something metaphysical behind her presence, something- different.
He stood and came over, moving fluidly.
"Good evening."
There's something common, almost familiar to her.
The Vampire arched a beautifully formed eyebrow. "Have we met?"
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Yes her eyes smile.
Of course they have.
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"Oh...damn," she says, after scribbling out for what seems the umpteenth time.
She blushes then, and looks around, seeing the woman just a distance away. She looks...vaguely familiar, but not really. She's probably seen her around the bar.
"Um...hi. Ever had one of those things that just wouldn't get written?"
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They've met once before, anyway.
Everyone meets her at least twice.
"A few times," she grins. "I tried haiku, once. I never could get the syllables to line up right. My brother's much better at poetry than I am in general. Especially the structured kind."
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