Re: In-person: Zee/John
[He'd always found the contradictions in Zee terribly appealing. He liked her even quality against her showmanship, for one, the heartbreak that magic had brought her family and her devotion to it, for another. The second one he could personally relate to, and he'd seen it in almost anyone who really took on sorcery as a pursuit - once it hooked you in, no amount of tragedy could shut the hunger down. When she gently laid blame, he had his eyes down, scrutinizing her palm, an abashed sinner under the eyes of she who knew the worst of what there was for him to come to account for. It was all very Rennaisance painting, coy and dry and a little sad, penitent madgalen. His voice was rusty.] It's always reassuring to hear you're a man of many talents.
[He placed the flat of his thumb in the center of her palm.] What I think doesn't make much of a difference to whether you're yourself. But let's not get philosophical so early. [He looked up at her, and he seemed satisfied. It seemed that whatever he had found in the branching lines on her skin, it had made him sure. He did not, however drop her hands from his own.
He knew better than to let this thing keep living, or to get involved with a woman who deserved seven hells better, but that thought, of course, wouldn't stop the roll of selfish wanting. He did want her. He wanted to be close to her like he wanted to stay near a fire in the cold; just enough to stay warm, not enough to crisp the skin again. If anything happened between them at all in this place, he wasn't going to allow it to end in somebody being dead. For that to stay true, he couldn't drift too close. He promised himself he wouldn't. He wasn't very good, though, with promises.
He dismissed her sweet critique of his prediction with a short laugh and a few staccato puffs of smoke to go with it. He slipped one of his hands from hers at last, to pull the cigarette from his mouth and neatly ash it...somewhere. The ashes didn't seem to actually hit the floor. He was housebroken, after all.] I never put any stock in prophecy, especially not the shite I spout. [Then, silently, he tapped his thumb against her wrist, where his hand had slipped a few minutes before. He gave her a small smile, and with it came a secret. He hadn't found her out by palm print after all. He had listened to the flow and flutter of blood in her veins, and he'd been sure, then, that she was the same woman he'd made laugh, made come, and made grieve. He had to keep track of those, after all.]
Are you going to tell me how I royally fucked it up? [He'd been waiting for that shoe to drop, and per usual it was better to him to go into it headlong than dodge about it forever. Maybe it was the same story he knew, and maybe it was different. He doubted it. Some things, some important mistakes, they never really changed. The universe depended on mistakes to keep on spinning, something to kick the ball into motion, to maintain momentum.]