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Who:   Belle Goldman / Lazarus Lawliet
What:    Belle REALLY doesn't handle having control over her life taken away from her very well and Lazarus has very poor timing.
Where:   Their apartment
When:    Late evening, July 3rd

Accommodating someone else's memories of having killed before was one thing.   Belle had been given the leeway to explain it away as having any number of reasons behind it.   Maybe they had been involved in a war, for example...or maybe it had been self-defense.   The following barrage of memories of having taken greatest pleasure in it, however, had been intolerable.     There had been a vague sense of duty, but it had been overshadowed entirely by unbridled joy and exhilaration at taking a life, piercing someone's flesh, tasting someone's blood...

The more she let herself fixate on it, the more she withdrew from others out of fear that whoever owned those memories might be lying in wait for a chance to inflict themselves on one of her patients.    Her only distraction from it, aside from the occasional oddness from her housemate, had been her nightly Skype chats with Russell, who had been keeping in touch more often following the debacle downtown.   Hearing about his day-to-day life in comparison to the chaos of Locke City was a welcome dose of badly-needed normality. She hadn't even minded when conversations would traipse off into worries about his engagement.

Worries had fed into concerns and second-guesses about whether he was rushing into marrying Karen or not.   She had advised him as best as she was able until it he'd logged in one day, dejected, and announcing she'd broken off their engagement.    She had spent many late nights consoling him, during which the boundaries of their friendship had started to blur.    They had begun to talk about more personal things, and their time at school together....eventually he'd asked if he could come to visit her in a couple of months, and before she could tell him it was likely a bad idea, she had already singled out a week in the calendar that she'd be free.

She didn't know if she could call it the beginnings of a relationship or not, but whatever-it-was had granted her the stability to keep going to work.    Her confidence in working closely with others, however, hadn't been helped, those who hadn't been clued in weren't aware of her reasons for being distant were quickly becoming frustrated.   Her patients had taken notice of the fact their young therapist had become closed off, and seemed to go out of her way to be distant, and they had voiced their displeasure to Dr. Korai.

After receiving the latest today from a disappointed mother who had hoped to seek post-natal counseling for her depression and had not felt at all comfortable in Belle's office, a confrontation had finally happened.   Glen had called her to his office just before lunch, requesting an explanation for her shift in behavior.    The more she'd tried to explain herself, however, the more everything had quickly gone downhill.    Glen's temper had risen at her refusal to give him straight answers to direct questions, and Belle's composure became badly-rattled as she struggled not to just admit to everything.   Honesty seemed much easier than trying to hide behind the flimsy shields of lack of sleep and stress about her mother's condition.

So shaken had she been, that Belle hadn't been sure what exactly had happened next.   He had stepped closer, telling her up-close that he had no patience for someone who wasn't going to take this profession seriously by bringing their drama from home to work. She needed to decide, he'd said, whether she wanted to be a doctor, or whether she wanted to be a child hiding behind her mother.

They had begun again....a dark picture-play of memories. Piercing, cutting, twisting, dripping red.   Thrilling in the kill and turning men to meat

All at once, Dr. Korai had been on the opposite end of the office, nursing a set of freshly-raked scratches that began on his brow and trailed down his cheek as if someone had clumsily tried to take his eye.    The hunted look he was giving her had filled her with a sick certainty that she'd been responsible for it.   He had not needed to ask her to leave, as she'd been quick to scuttle out on her own, gathering her things and leaving the plaza in hurried silence.    It wasn't until nearly three hours later that she received the phone call she'd been expecting. Glen, having regained most of his composure, informed her stiffly that her residency at Oakwood had concluded.

And, just like that, her life as she'd known it the last few years was over, leaving her to sit in the rubble in bewilderment.   Like others who'd had the same thing befall them on the network, she didn't even know where to begin putting the pieces back together....and so, for the time being, she'd opted not to.

Several texts to Russell, and one voicemail were finally returned with a brief "Karen's over here. Talk later?" response, which had earned her phone a banishment to the top drawer of her nightstand.    It had been her own fault for assuming, she supposed...and probably her own wishful thinking.

In a desperate attempt to inject some sort of familiarity to her day, she had gone out to pick up things for dinner.   Instead of food, though, she had come home with two bottles of vodka, one of which she was seven shots into as she laid sprawled on the sofa.

Belle had never made a dedicated attempt to get drunk before, and knew it was not going to fix anything. She had said as such to her patients many times before.    Though, for the time being, it seemed to have hazed away her ability to care, which made it much easier to think.   He might press charges, she thought, slowly swirling the small remnant of clear liquor in the bottom of the souvenir shotglass that had sat, unused, on top of her bookcase for as long as she'd lived there.    There would be a lawsuit, and then she'd be forced to explain herself to the courtroom.   Maybe they knew who she'd once been and would leap at the chance to hold her accountable for that person's past killing.

The thought made something between a humorless laugh and a sob escape her, which she drowned with the last bit of the contents of the glass.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The elapsed time between the break-in and the coffee shop's reopening had been intense and exhausting, and though everything had gone as smoothly as it possibly could have in terms of repairing, repainting and replacing, the wear and tear was undeniable, and much of it found its way onto Lazarus' thin shoulders. Running a business, solving a serious case and being on Albero's list had a way of eroding resolve in even the bravest and most determined men, and Lazarus had never claimed to be either. Maybe his enigmatic preincarnation was a different story, but it was more than natural for a burnt out chess prodigy to doubt he was quite up to the task. So after a tense day waiting for the axe to fall, he'd pried himself away from Espresso Yourself (and its new security system) to spend some time outside its newly established walls for the first time in several days. Like many addicts, he dealt with uncertainty and fear by reverting to old familiar habits, and he found solace in a quiet bar where one had turned to five.

He was a cut-up, a wreck, and a failure in so many ways. He'd known this for years, and even if he was getting his echoes from some kind of superheroic genius superdetective, Lazarus Lawliet had always been frail and cowardly, a one-trick pony who was impressive in one way and fell short in all others.

And yet...

Despite all that... I'm not dead yet. I must be doing something right.

He was about to order another when the tender gave him a pointed look and his tab. Recognizing it as the universal, more tactful way of informing someone they were cut off, he gamely paid in cash and went outside to find a cab waiting. He slid into the back seat, making brief eye contact with the driver.

"Rough night?" the man asked, pulling away from the curb.

"No," Lazarus said. "I'm actually on top of the world."

"Really."

"Yes. I'm owning my problems, like an adult, and I'm making them go away. There's nothing I can't do, you know? No one's going to intimidate me or make me feel like I'm less. I can win my fights. I think I'll ask the woman I live with on a date."

The driver snorted, no stranger to tipsy, overconfident declarations. "Sounds great, man. Maybe sleep it off a little before you take on the world."

L was already taking the driver's advice, seemingly, nodding off with his cheek nestled into the safety harness for the rest of the ride home.

After tipping the driver over-generously and being instructed to take care of himself, L pulled himself upstairs, leaning heavily on the rail and trying to ignore the way the ground seemed to tilt under feet that felt alive but clumsy. He knew in his heart that he couldn't completely fake sobriety if Belle was up waiting for him, but at the very least, maybe he could get to bed without revealing the extent of it.

He let himself in, trying his hardest to move and step softly, walking into the coat rack and recoiling as it took him five too many seconds to recognize that it wasn't an actual person.

Edited 2014-07-07 01:07 (UTC)

Belle had gotten used to the idea of Lazarus not being in the apartment for nights on-end while he devoted full attention to running his shop. Honestly, the arrangement had seemed ideal for them both...he was able to channel himself into something productive, and she didn't need to worry about tripping over him around every turn in her own home.

Or coming home to the kitchen filled with smoke and cinders that had once been truffles and ice cream.

Or having to pause before showering to wonder if she smelled lysol and would need to track down his new hiding place for it.

Not that she resented him...in an odd way, she was used to having him there and became concerned if he waited TOO long to resurface, but overall not having him directly underfoot every day had been a relief.

That being said, she had so dedicated herself to the idea that he would not be home tonight before setting about getting herself wasted, that she didn't even acknowledge the commotion in the entryway, opting instead to continue to lay in her graceless heap of self-loathing and ponder important questions as she stared at the ceiling.

For instance, how were they going to make the rent if she had no job? How would she GET another job with this on her record? ....and how long had that spider been up there, judging her?

She set her jaw, draping an arm over her eyes with a disgusted sigh.

Edited 2014-07-07 01:19 (UTC)

L stiffened when he noticed his therapist on the couch, relaxing only when it became clear that she wasn't angry at him. Unfortunately, that was pretty much all that was clear to the detective in his somewhat intoxicated state.

He cleared his throat.

"So I was thinking that I want to take you out to a lobster restaurant," he said. "You can't order the lobster, or anything that we see alive before the meal, but I figure you wouldn't anyway because you are not a terrible human being. Like Russell. Other than that, you can have anything you want to eat, and I will buy it for you as a token gesture to demonstrate my provider qualities. I can provide," he asserted, wobbling against the coat rack.

It was only after he'd gotten to the part about her being a terrible human being that it dawned on her that L was actually in the room and not a yammering figment of her imagination as she slowly lifted her arm to peek out from under it at him.

At length, she let it drop again with a faint groan.

"I don't think that going out anywhere should be in the immediate future, L." she muttered, her words halting and overly-enunciated to keep them from slurring together.

L leaned too hard on the coat rack, nearly toppling it with all the force of his slight weight. Righting it after much wavering and overbalancing, he took in Belle's apparent disgust with the concept of eating out with him, briskly rubbing at a suddenly itchy nose.

"There wasn't any harm in asking," he rationalized. "I hope that Russell makes you happy, even if he is a cretinous waste of cells and space. The truth is, if you'd really wanted it I probably wouldn't have minded if you'd asked for the lobster... I know you're not a terrible person. I want a shower," he decided abruptly, as if the concept of showers was dawning on him for the first time.

She had been convinced the next question would be "Why?" in response to her refusal, and the first words of her explanation had begun to tumble out of her mouth before he cut her off by talking over her. Being that he was, after all, someone who stood to be hurt by a secondary temper that she, apparently, had no control over, he deserved to know that he was very wrong in his assumption she was not a terrible human being.

She blinked several times, forcing herself to backtrack over everything he'd just said. It dawned on her, in short order, that he hadn't been asking if they could go out to eat, but had been offering to take her.

In light of everything else that had gone widdershins lately, Lazarus Lawliet, her most troubled patient, was asking her out on a date.

She drew in a long, quaky breath not quite sure what was going to come out until it was exhaling out of her in a string of soft, frenetic, laughter that went hand-in-hand with an impending breakdown.

L gave her a blank (if somewhat unsteady) stare as she started laughing in a way he'd never heard before... at least, not from her.

"You might not be a terrible person, but that's not a very nice way to say no," he pointed out, emptying the contents of his pockets on the table. "Because I can provide. I have money, and a business and a profession. Even if I have problems, I'm providing for a lot of people just because, and I could provide for a date, too. Even if it's not possible for me to take you out in this lifetime, it's not funny."

She drew in a breath sharply, biting down on more high-strung giggles before they could break free and forcing them back. She'd drunk all of that terrible vodka specifically to AVOID going crazy, after all...

"You don't want to take me on a date." she assured him, squeezing her eyes shut and listing onto her side so that her voice was muffled by the sofa's backing. "And I don't deserve to have, or not-have, lobster. Not tonight."

Something was off; L couldn't put his finger on exactly what it was, but Belle seemed to be playing it like she was the one who'd been rejected, not him. Even if she'd been drinking, that was a strange way to say it's-not-me-it's-you.

"It's not your place to tell me what I want or don't want," he said firmly. "I can't speak for 'deserve,' but I definitely want to take you out to a lobster restaurant. Otherwise I wouldn't have asked."

"Why, though?" she asked, turning her head just enough for one brown-lensed eye to peer at him from beneath a veil of her bangs.

Why did people always ask him the hard questions when he was under the influence of something powerful?

"I don't know," he said impatiently, tugging at the hair on the back of his neck. "Because I want to. It's not that complicated. I like you and I want to take you out and watch you eat food I paid for. Provided."

"You like me." she repeated, finding that the laughter was threatening to rear its head again. It was the perfect surreal cherry on top of the Dali sundae the course of her day had become.

No job, no income, her first fledgling attempt at a relationship blowing up in her face, but...hey, at least Lazarus liked her enough to deny her lobster.

Slowly, and with some effort, she forced herself to sit up, scooting over until she'd made enough room for him to join her...or at least was comfortably slouched against the couch's arm. "You didn't do anything wrong." she assured him, her addled senses deciding he must be thinking he had.

The assurance, as well as what appeared to be some kind of invitation, had him cautiously approaching, sitting as close to the couch's other arm rest as possible and leaving an entire cushion between them.

"Didn't do anything wrong," he repeated, like a student diligently taking notes. "But... no, no I did though. I kind of messed up," he admitted. "You know those coins that AA gives you, to remind you of your commitment? I used it tonight... to flip, heads for whiskey and tails for gin. Ultimately pretty pathetic."

Her eyes narrowed just a bit in disapproval. On a normal night, this was the part where she began to ask him about when this had started and how long he'd been off the wagon. It went without question she'd tell him it wasn't good for him...

...and she was certainly one to talk tonight, wasn't she?

"What went wrong?" she asked instead, waiting until he got situated to stretch out once again, idly pillowing her feet on his legs as if they were merely one of the throw pillows. In fact, for as far it concerned her, presently, they may as well have been.

Indeed, after seven shots, Belle was hardly in a place to talk with anything even a bit like disapproval.

"Nothing's wrong. Everything's right; it just took a lot of work for it to get that way."

He might have elaborated more, tongue loosened as it was by liquor, but her legs stretching across his and resting there were admittedly something of a distraction.

Perhaps it would be best to ignore them, even if he couldn't quite sit still. He had to fidget uncomfortably at least once, and he did so in a way that wouldn't disrupt her, hopefully.

Edited 2014-07-07 04:44 (UTC)

Un)fortunately for him, she wasn't even aware that he might be uncomfortable.

"You know? I never understood celebrating that way..." she muttered, casting her gaze back at the ceiling thoughtfully, one ankle crossing over the other. "It seems like accomplishing something is the sort of memory you'd rather be completely there for."

"Celebrating?" He echoed distractedly, watching her feet. "More like... escape. I'm not used to things going so well for me."

And my chest hurt so badly the other night. My heart skipped beats. Whatever I'm doing is not sustainable...

"Most people drink to escape the opposite." Except she was finding, more and more, that she hadn't really escaped from anything. It was all still there, laid out in a glorious mess that was waiting for her to come back and gawp at it some more later. She'd just managed to close the door on it all for a bit.

This was all not nearly so glamorous as people made it out to be...

She vented another sigh.

"You sound like a therapist, you know...?" L asked, leaning his dark head back against the cushion and staring at the apartment's ceiling with glassy, unfocused eyes. "Not like someone who drinks a lot. I guarantee that any occasion can be spun to be a drinking occasion if a person wants it enough. Tonight, I just wanted it. I'm an adult and I can make my own decisions, like how to build my business and whether or not I want to pay for lobster for which people."

"I don't drink at all, really." she admitted. Ignoring presently, of course. A tuft of brown bangs fell across her nose and she blew it aside impatiently rather than go to the bother of reaching up to tuck it away behind her ear proper.

"But you're right, Lazarus, you are an adult. You can do as you like. It isn't my place to stop you."

"That's not true, though," he contradicted. "I said I wanted to take you out, and you said no. Clearly, it's your place to stop me regarding some matters."

She seemed completely indifferent to being corrected, lulling her head backward over the end of the couch arm and giving a dry chuckle.

"Wouldn't we be a pair tonight?" she mused aloud. "They'd take one look at us and put us in the tank with the lobsters."

Tank. Drunk. Drunk tank. Her attempt at humor made perfect sense to HER anyway. She drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly. How was she supposed to break it to him that after this month, she wasn't going to be able to keep the apartment anymore? Not unless somewhere was interested in hiring a therapist-in-training who was slowly echoing back a psychopath.

"L..." she began, wondering where to even begin. "I'm sorry."

It made sense to L, too, if only because he'd actually been in the drunk tank a couple of times over the course of his wild and strange life.

"That's like the pot apologizing to the kettle for..." L trailed off, the analogy seeming obtuse in hindsight. "Don't apologize for getting drunk. Or for turning me down. Or for putting your feet on me," he added, glancing down at her legs again. "As someone who usually owes the apologies, it makes me highly uncomfortable."

She made a noise that tried to sound perturbed, seeming to realize for the first time that she HAD put her feet on him and making a slow effort of drawing them back to herself.

"No, I mean...I'm sorry." she said. This was uncomfortable news to deliver while folded in on herself. She stretched out, putting her ankles back where they'd been draped across his legs and seeming oblivious to it. "Things are going to turn bad soon and its my fault."

By the time her feet crept back into his lap, he had, ultimately, forgotten the semi-complaint. He was a supremely adaptable drunk, which was ironic, given his rigidness and aversion to change while sober. Maybe that was why mind-altering substances held such an appeal for the man: they represented freedom from a cold, stiff iron maiden of an existence so much of the time.

"...bad?" he repeated. "How do you mean? Did Russell kill someone and get caught eating parts of them?" He asked, sounding inappropriately hopeful. "Or... or did something happen at work?"