Faelan and Violet meet over coffee at Joe's Diner
|
Joe's Diner has quieted down at one in the morning. A light rain drizzles sporadically from high-drifting clouds that will be gone by dawn, pushed away by lofty winds that occasionally gust down and rattle the slightly opened door leading into the diner. The sturdy silhouette of a man dressed in a dark crimson jacket is visible in profile from the entryway, seated at the long counter. His somewhat perched position, shoulders back and torso leaned forward, reveals the contours of a cross tattoo that encompasses the nape of his neck. He slowly attends to a plate of buttered pancakes with precise cuts of the fork, a Las Vegas news periodical open on the counter beside him. A cup of coffee in a white mug is paled with cream and three quarters full next to one edge of the plate. A small, brown attache case is propped up against the counter next to his feet. "Would you like me to top that off, sir?" A young man in a 50's uniform inquires, a polite smile highlighting faint rings under his eyes as he raises a coffee pot demonstratively. "If you would be so kind," the auburn-haired man responds, green eyes shifting momentarily from the periodical to the coffee pot before sweeping over the diner.
It's the standard routine. Finish work, wearily accept that sleep will remain elusive for at least a few hours yet, edging toward daybreak as steadily as ever.. and go for coffee, to pretend that the choice is yours. Maybe have something to eat, too, in case the other blue or white collars need to be further convinced. Sure, most people would probably prefer to be snoring contentedly in their beds. But there's an unspoken solidarity between the silent companions you make at these hours. A sympathetic quirk of a brow here, a wan smile there, all seeming to say 'Ah, life.' and await agreement with certainty.
Of course, there's always one who seems to genuinely have no concern over these subtly offered and tenuous friendships. Seated at a window booth, squeezed into the corner and steadfastly gazing out through the neon-splashed glass to the thrumming Strip, is a young woman. It's difficult to stand out in a place like Vegas.. and yet somehow she does, if only because she seems so confidently detached from it. No excitement. No resignation. No youthful enthusiasm or world-weary disinterest. She just.. sits. Without belonging.
With her hands clasped, fingers loosely twined, about the girth of a white coffee mug - the contents as yet untouched - the girl doesn't flicker so much as a glance over the interior for the moment, seeming entranced by things observed and unseen outside. Or maybe just more content to avoid an accidental invitation, often found in eye contact. She's not unattractive, from what little can be seen. White blonde hair falls in a glossy sweep to her waist, yet obscures most of her features save the curve of a cheekbone or the occasional glimpse of a straight, upturned nose. But her form is tanned and slender, casually dressed, and her hands are elegant.
The brief glance misses little, but the fellow at the counter keeps whatever observations he makes to himself with detachment. Skewering a shapely cut of pancake with a jerk of his wrist, the green-eyed man brings it up to his lips. A faint grimace passes across his features, a startle reflex quickly suppressed as the butter-dipped fried batter touches his tongue. The fork clatters down onto the plate afterwards, fingers losing their motivation in a single rush that renders them inert. 'Tch', the man's lips express in a brief parting accompanied by a soft click of the tongue, and he gets up to his feet. The server with the coffee pot begins to speak, "Leaving, sir? I'll get your ticke-" but is silenced by an upraised finger and a look. The wanly apologetic smile that the auburn-haired man wears afterwards doesn't remove the waiter's pall of silence, and Faelan turns away.
The bathroom is only a dozen steps away, carrying the man past the platinum-blonde alone in her corner. The door swings shut to cover the sounds of quiet coughing that begin to emanate after the man enters the restroom. He emerges maybe a minute later on confident feet, striding back and resuming his seat. The man picks up a napkin and daps at the corners of his mouth with it, a shiver briefly tracking across his shoulders.
With the softest of sighs, tossing her platinum hair out of her eyes where the bangs stray over her brow, the lone woman by the window at last draws out of her reverie, remembering the presence of warm coffee between her palms and voices belonging to the others treading the limbo that is a diner in the small hours. Bringing the mug upward carefully, she purses her full lips to blow gently across the surface. It can only really be lukewarm, by now. But it's a reflexive thing. Hot drink. Blow. Sip. Allow for the moment immediately following where either approval or distaste may make itself known. Unsuprisingly, the girl's expression gives away neither. But dark-lined eyes of astonishingly angelic baby-blue do flit across the visage of the redhaired man who strolls by, startled into actually observing one of the figments inhabiting this place. But she makes no motion to interrupt his movement, just as he doesn't attempt to infinge upon her solitude. How pleasant.
Though she no doubt overhears the soft coughing from within the restroom, and more than likely puts tw and two together, Violet simply trains her gaze upon the empty spot opposite her own seat, sipping at her coffee. It's hardly the way to strike up a conversation with a stranger.. especially one who apparently can't stomach the simplest of -solid- foods. Best left alone.
Abruptly, the sleek cellphone resting on her formica table's surface buzzes into life, vibrating itself across the plane with a frantic, nerve-jangling energy. The young lady picks it up in one hand, not relinquishing her coffee, squints at the screen.. and decisively cuts off the call with a jab of a blue-painted thumbnail.
The newspaper is picked up with a crinkling and a rough touch that bends the paper around the auburn-haired man's fingertips. The unused butter knife finds its way to his hand in a straightforward gesture, the dull tip bludgeoning into the stiffened resistance of the paper and causing a rip. The sound of paper tearing drags on for a few quick slices of the butter knife. When the work is done, a roughly rectangular piece of news clipping is held in the green-eyed fellow's hand. He turns back and away from the counter, eyes abruptly shifting back to the loner woman when her cellphone springs to life. Whatever has him jumpy implores a few more moments of silent study related to the woman, interrupted by the clearing of a throat.
"Uh.. sir? Your ticket." The young waiter places a reciept down on the counter next to the half-finished plate of pancakes. When his initial sortee doesn't gain obvious purchase on the man, he tries again, a bit louder. "When you're ready, just come up to the register and I'll ring you up." After the moments of study, the auburn-haired man turns back around and fixes the waiter with a stare that silences his incredulity. "Of course," he murmurs, dipping his head into a nod.
Despite having quieted the offending ringtone, the girl glances up with the guilty look of one who has irrevocably broken a previous calm. Who would have thought the storm would come in the form of some hip-hop mp3. Her blue eyes, as chance would have it, meet the green hues of the man at the counter. And there they hold, for a long moment. The clicking of the round wall-clock suddenly seems more audible than the cacophony of the kitchens, or the ever-present orchestra of life beyond the windows, counting the second as they pass by. One, two.. her initial surprise at being observed fades gradually to an equally level observation of the man. Six, seven.. uncertainty dawns in her gaze, but she seems unwilling to break the spell, in defiance perhaps of her own feeling of having disturbed everyone else. Ten, eleven.. and thankfully, the stranger looks away, releasing Violet from the obligation of deciding whether to offer some apology. A quirk of a brow. A wan smile. Ah, life.
Looking down to the phone, numbly realising it's still held aloft in her palm, she shoves it into a pocket of her cargo pants, tilting her lithe body a little to one side to provide access more easily. Then it's back to the coffee. Clinging to it with both hands, she determinedly begins watching the passers-by outside again, profiled in a neon spectrum and fleeting shadows.
Crisp bills and exact change are placed on top of the recipet and the money is left on the counter. The news clipping is tucked away into the crimson jacket and the green-eyed man turns, approaching the seated girl absorbed in her study outside the diner. His gaze traces hers for a moment as he stands a polite step away from her booth, allowing her the opportunity to notice him before he speaks. His eyes are also directed out the window, and only the quiet ambience of the diner serves to punctuate his quiet commentary. "It's remarkable," he interjects into her vigil in quiet tones, bearing an East Coast accent subdued almost into crisp neutrality and local nuance. "Your heartbeat has a tempo similar to the rain."
His dark green eyes narrow momentarily, and he turns somewhat away from the booth. "Or, did anyway. Before the interruption." The off-hand correction fills the moment that he glances towards the young waiter, watching him take the money and count it out by hand from the corner of his eye.
In contrast to her well-practiced nonchalance, that same heartbeat increases in tempo as she's addressed directly. Her guess as to the man's nature was simply that.. a guess. But now it's been admitted, and with surprising candour. Slowly, those pale blue eyes turn toward him again, reluctantly drawn from their stubborn distraction. Considering where she lives, this surely isn't her first encounter with one of his ilk. But it remains a spine-tingling circumstance, something people still have trouble coming to terms with. They're -not- at the top of the precious ladder. They barely even make it past the halfway point, in this new order.
Does the girl care about such things as evolution and survival of the fittest? Probably not. But it's a pleasant fiction, perhaps. "..my ex." she offers, by way of response. "I didn't want to talk to him." The soft lilt of an accent caresses her quiet drawl. New York? Somewhere about there, though muted over time spent here, presumably. Following the man's glance toward the waiter, seeing nothing particularly amiss, she then looks up at him again, plainly uncertain of how etiquette would dictate she proceed.
"Brooklyn?" The green-eyed man inquires absently, his attention briefly shifting from the waiter back towards the woman. The subtle suggestion of an accent briefly catches his attention, his gaze moving back across the booth and towards the woman. He meets her gaze starkly, a momentary smile turning one corner of his mouth. "Your voice, that is. I hear home somewhere in it, though I may simply be nostalgic." Neutrality's facade reclaims his features a moment later, eyes shifting to the phone's past location on the table momentarily before returning to the young woman. "I did not mean to pry into your business: I did not think you were aware of the harmony you had achieved, and it was.. unusual. You seem like you would appreciate the insight. I meant no further intrusion." He dips his head slightly, following this.
Unable to help herself, apparently, the girl reflects that faint smile. Good manners, and all. "Yeah." She confirms his easy guess, the thud of her heartbeat gradually slowing back to the steady rush of calm pulsing. "..you're from there?" The flit of her gaze over his attire and form might subtly bespeak a glimpse of disbelief.
The man's manners, like her own, can't be faulted. Setting down her coffee, tucking her vibrant hair back behind one ear, Violet leans back in her seat, the cheap upholstery creaking a little in protest. "..it's usually quiet, at this time of night." she confides, implying the diner as a whole with a mere sweep of her eyes. There's no accusation in the statement. Mostly an explanation of why she was so content in her self-contained oasis of calm. Habit, rather than choice? "Would you.." she falters, before clearing her throat and trying again. "..would you like to join me..?"
The auburn-haired man nods slightly in affirming response to the disbelieving question, amusement briefly drawing the outline of a smirk on his mouth. "Yes, I'm from there," he murmurs to the young lady, dipping his head and glancing to the empty seat across from her. "If you'll excuse me a moment to retrieve my things," he explains, turning back to stride to the counter and kneel onto a knee to pick up the small brown attache case. His return is momentary and he slides back into the booth, setting the case down and folding his hands together on the tabletop. "Paperwork is something I've always preferred to do in quiet, and.. it's quiet this time of night, as you say." His green eyes meet hers again, the vague smile returning. "My name is Faelan."
Watching the man as he crosses the floor to secure his effects, the girl swallows hard before drawing a slow, soft breath. Meeting these people in passing is something that's unavoidable, especially in this city. But inviting them to join you, one on one, in the middle of the night? That's, frankly, rather stupid. And even Violet recognises it, despite her personal buffet of vices and deviations. But the invitation has already been extended and.. well, maybe she's curious.
Ah, coffee. Worthy distraction. Drawing it toward herself again in both hands, the young woman regards it consideringly before taking another, longer sip. Almost gone. Then what? Her new companion makes his timely return, taking the seat opposite. Summoning another curve to play across her lips, she nods acceptingly of his explanation. "Violet." The name suits her, strangely enough. "What sort of work do you do, Faelan?"
"Right now? Just a bit of loan sharking to pay the rent. Once in a while I enter a pit fight for the winnings if that's not enough to make ends meet." Matter-of-factly conversant, the auburn-haired man finds his current poise casual enough to leave at rest, only subtle movements of his head and eyes expressing internal momentum. "Parting tourists with their money is Vegas' great, mandala-esque appeal, isn't it?" His accent is more apparent as he settles into the booth. "But I digress. I'm looking for a more steady line of work at the moment. I can't put my current under-the-table employment on a gainful resume, after all." 'Nothing out of the ordinary' is the tone Faelan's posture and voice convey, willing to reveal the details to a stranger without any expected judgment. "And what about you, Violet?"
Regarding the man across the way over the rim of her mug, unblinking, the girl's gaze doesn't register any shock or disgust as he confesses his line of work. There are, after all, far more nefarious ways to part cash from the innocent. Any time spent here reveals the ugly underbelly, while fleeting visits only allow the dizzying glimpse of sparkling lights and vibrant performers. Violet certainly has the knowing air of the former. Nodding gently as she lowers the mug, keeping it securely between her palms and enjoying the fading warmth pressed to her skin, she accepts Faelan's calm summary. "I suppose it is, yeah." she agrees, pausing as the waiter appears by her elbow and withdrawing her hands so he can refill her mug. Flashing the employee a grateful smile - which he returns far too warmly.. she must come here a lot, to be fawned over - the young woman answers her newfound companion absently. "I'm a tattoo artist. See that place?" She gestures toward the window, indicating a quaint little parlor across the vast street. The lights are off now, of course, apart from a dim hint of illumination from the curtained windows above the establishment itself, and the storefront is secured behind a grating. But it's still obvious enough. "Pistol Whip Inks." she clarifies, "..that's my place."
Eyes shifting when the tattoo parlor is indicated, the man nods his head slightly. His eyes grow distant as he peers in the direction of the building, fingers knitting themselves together with one hand atop the other on the table in front of him as he considers it. "A respectable venue," he decides at last, turning his gaze back to Violet before him and nodding slowly. "Congratulations at finding such a prime spot to host your establishment. It must get good business, situated on the Strip itself. And so close to a twenty four hour diner. I must admit some small amount of jealousy at the convience of your home." The same, small curve of a smile animates his expression and he nods, leaning back briefly in the booth. "I'd be happy if my own were within a bus ride of a good night-long restaurant."
"Thanks." The reply isn't overly effusive, but it seems genuine enough. Violet's eyes linger on the distant storefront with almost maternal affection. It's obviously very precious to her. Taking up her newly filled coffee, she again blows across the black surface, sending it lapping against the white enamel of the mug. The puff of air is more necessary now, steam rising from the hot beverage. "It makes enough.. I don't expect to make my millions but eh. It's not really about the money. I like what I do." Well, that's the lengthiest insight so far. "..nice work on your neck, by the way." Ahh, the practised eye of an artist. She didn't miss the presence of worthwhile ink, having watched Faelan as he walked away. Twice.
Not daring a sip yet, she puts her mug down again, resting her elbows on the table as she leans forward a little, curiosity sparkling grudgingly in her blue eyes. "..why would you want to live near a restaurant?" It's a fair question, given what she probably overheard from the bathroom. "No offence, Faelan.. it just seems an odd wish."
"As strange as the population of the diner may seem to you, there are times I simply wish to have a relatively normal conversation or simply bear witness to the rhythms of life. Places like this are.. exceedingly mundane, to me. And therein lies the value." The auburn-haired man shifts his own gaze out the window of the corner booth contemplatively, watching the rain-slicked and neon lit street outside. "It's a venue to shed some of the concerns I carry as a matter of course and revert to behaving as an anonymous member of the late night crowd." He nods slightly to himself, shifting his attention back to the woman across from him and considering her markedly before responding. "My father used to own a restaurant similar to this one. It reminds me of my youth." That answer attended to, Faelan's green eyes shift from the woman to her mug of coffee. He considers the surface of the liquid, "The tattoo is actually a back piece. The bit on the neck is just the hilt."
The girl listens in silent interest, blue eyes remaining upon the man as he looks through the window, though her gaze flickers downward when his returns to her. Before she forces herself to look up, anyway. Despite it being so obvious, it seems she doesn't -want- to reveal being unsettled. Nope. Normal conversation. She can do that.
"Isn't everywhere 'exceedingly mundane', when you live forever?" It's a fair point. Surely, at some point, everything seems jaded and ultimately pointless. How strange that she, a mortal, thinks of it that way, instead of with the reverent awe and envy so often seen in others. The movie industry has a lot to answer for. People seem ridiculously obsessed with the 'swooning romance' of it all, rather than focusing on the important subtext. Being dead.
Violet sounds neither pitying or envious. Just idly interested. The revelation of the actual size of the glimpsed tattoo elicits the arch of her slender brows. Her art is always something she's open to discussing. "Oh? What's the meaning of it?"
Nodding in response to the questions, Faelan listens to the insights of the girl quietly and drums his fingers lightly on the table. Silence prevails for a moment as he considers them, eyes finding a distant direction to peer as his mental attentions are directed inwards. "Psalms 55:21," he recites quietly, "His words are as smooth as butter, but in his heart is war. His words are as soothing as lotion, but underneath are daggers." A vague smile follows this and he nods, raising one of his hands up to brush two fingers across the nape of his neck. "The full piece is a blade along the spine. It was a.. promotion present."
His hand drops back down to the tabletop and his green eyes shift down to regard it. "When I was raised to fill a leadership position in the Irish Mafia. It is indicative of the principle of dangerous leaders, of course: words and intent have as much power as physical violence, especially being connected to it and complementary to it." The latter observation about death and ennui is answered more carefully, "Exceedingly mundane? No. There are some things I still find passion for. My tastes have rarefied as time goes on. My survival, perhaps, is a core motivation. That's the stakes worth playing for, isn't it? A day fought through and survived is a day proven that you are alive."
"I'm not exactly a churchgoer." confides the young woman, before grudging amusement lightens her warily thoughtful expression. A vampire better versed in the Bible than her. Typical. "But I like it. More interesting than just another tribal, that's for sure." His more philosophical take on the matter is dutifully listened to, though seems to go largely over Violet's head. She just nods in mute acceptance, not demanding further explanation. That would likely hurt her brain.
With her coffee having cooled during the discussion, she now takes up the mug between both palms and dares a tentative sip, It seems to meet with approval.. or at least avoids her distaste. "..how old are you, Faelan?" The enquiry occurs to her abruptly, and is voiced with nary a splitsecond between. Late nights, late mornings and far too much caffeine. It makes for decent conversation. "And what still holds your interest, nowadays, apart from remaining alive which is, let's admit it, a rather universal trait."
A faint grin passes over the lips of the auburn-haired man at the mention of church and he pulls a heavy gothic cross on a golden chain from beneath his shirt, letting it dangle over the heel of his hand for a moment. "If you were Irish growing up when I did, you knew your church better than the public school you went to. Just how it was." The cross is allowed to drop back against his chest, this time over his black dress shirt. "Nowadays I understand it's somewhat more lethal for me to attend services." The amusement vanishes after a moment, and Faelan's hand drops back down to rest against the tabletop. It curls in on itself as he considers. "How old am I? ..Oh, in my nineties. Nothing too dramatic. Nineteen nineteen."
The hand turns over and he taps a finger against the tabletop, his idle scan of the diner returning to the young woman in front of him. He retorts quietly, "How old are you, then?" But he doesn't pause for a received answer, instead compressing his lips for a moment as he considers her question. "What still holds my interest? Well. Texas hold 'em is pretty interesting. I did some work as a mercenary last." His eyes narrow as he mentions this before dropping his gaze to the table. "I retired, and now I'm here giving loans to kleptomaniacs and people addicted to gambling. Not exactly the glamorous life I was hoping for, but until I can find something better, it's a living."
Violet regards the cross with an arching brow, still holding her coffee mug aloft, with her elbows propped on the table's aged surface. "Huh." is her succinct response, at first. "I wouldn't have thought you could wear those.. suprstition, I guess." Another sip. Another idle glance through the window. It lingers beyond the rain-spattered glass as she listens. It doesn't seem to matter what Faelan -says-, exactly.. it's just strangely pleasant to have company. Even if it's of a rather questionable nature. There's a pause left, though it doesn't seem awkward or deliberate, as he reaches his conclusions of his own existence. She offers little in return. "Twenty four." The murmured answer is soft, barely audible. So she repeats herself, flitting a glance back toward the man opposite. "I'm twenty four."
A nod of considering response passes and Faelan takes a moment to study her features. An unnecessary inhalation pads his next words, "I lose track, sometimes, of how youth looks. It was always an obstacle I tried to ascend: it didn't get much fanfare when it passed, for me. I was too busy." Folding both of his hands together, the green-eyed man considers them for a moment. The corners of his mouth momentarily turn upwards, and he remarks, "I never thought this would be interesting. Perhaps I'm getting sentimental in my old age." His pale green eyes raise to meet Violet's, "Casual conversation with a stranger never was a better companion than a good bottle of scotch, even when I was alive. Not much changed, I thought." He blinks once, shoulders pressing back against the booth. "Guess I was wrong."
The window-pane to his left receives his attention as he traces the path of her gaze. He studies it for a moment, guarded contemplations passing beneath the surface of his features. "Thank you, Violet. While you aren't quite as therapeutic as a good boxing match, your company is pleasant."
"Then why did you approach me?" It's a fair question. Is he so bored that he seeks out conversations of no interest, merely to pass the time? Ah, no. There's a flicker of genuine unease in Violet's blue eyes. If the -food- here didn't appeal to him… then is something else on the menu?
Still, she's nothing if not polite. In that easy drawl - such a strange mixture of accents, but not unpleasant - she offers a more proper response. "Not many things are better than a good bottle of scotch. Actually.." she pauses to consider her own words, the darkness of a slight frown touching her expression, "..well, -lots- of things are. But maybe they just haven't lost their shine yet. For me." The mug of coffee, still half full, is gently set down and her angelic gaze follows the motion. "And you're welcome. For what it's worth." Sweeping her sleek blonde hair back with the fingertips of one hand, tucking some lengths behind her ear, she exhales as if it's somehow improper; very quietly and softly. If her heartbeat earlier kept pace with the falling rain outside, now it seems more in keeping with the thunderclouds doubtless rolling somewhere high overhead.
A quiet chuckle and a shake of the head accompanies Violet's commentary on scotch, and the auburn-haired man glances from the droplets of rain sliding down the window back to the woman. "Couldn't tell you. Peaceful people are rare in diners at this hour: maybe I wanted to remember what it was like. I don't.." he trails off, fingers knitting together on the table. A brow furrows slightly at this betrayal of his tongue, but he doesn't comment on it further. Instead, "I don't get drunk anymore, of course. The scotch is just a memory. A quiet thing to pass the hours."
Her unease is apparent to him, pushing his expression back into neutrality as he studies her. His head dips slightly into a nod, looking back to the window with.. remorse? "I should be going. I.. didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. It's just that," his hands unfold themselves and fall to his lap, "I haven't had a sane conversation since I got here. I don't remember what that's like." He smiles vaguely, one hand snagging the pale brown leather attache case underneath the booth. "Or, I didn't."
"No." The girl's reply is oddly emphatic. But her reasoning apparently confounds her, and she stammers for an alternative. "No, you stay. Enjoy the peace and quiet. I'm the one who should be leaving." It goes unspoken that she's also the one who actually needs to sleep. "..and I only have to get across the street, in this downpour." Bracing both hands against the edge of the table, she shifts smoothly along the bench, the fabric of her cargo pants glidig easily across the vinyl upholstery. "I didn't mean to drive you off and.. yes. I'll admit it was nice to talk to someone in the real world." She doesn't elaborate, though her gaze remains steady upon Faelan, unwavering. "I'm not used to it. Sane conversation. Frankly, I'm not used to remembering my conversations at all. Something tells me I won't forget this one."
Pushing smoothly to a stand, revealing herself to be surprisingly tall, despite her almost too-slender frame, Violet rummages in a sagging pocket, producing a few crumpled bills that she tosses to the tabletop. After a brief hesitation, her other hand slides into a rear pocket and draws a sleek black business card. It's offered toward the man between a fore and middle finger. "..in case.. y'know."
Considering the young woman for a moment as she stands, Faelan moves to his own feet as well and turns to regard the tabletop for a moment. The attache case is set down flatly on it and he accepts the card, sliding it into a pocket of his jeans. The downpour outside is something he considers when Violet calls attention to it, and he shrugs out of the dark crimson coat he's wearing after taking a look at her clothes. Folding the jacket neatly over one arm he offers the garment to her. "You'll catch a cold," he remarks to her wryly with a slightly raised brow. "You can thank my mother, if you're grateful." He glances out through the window at the rain. "Come. It's only across the street, I'll walk you home." A quizzical arch sets in his brow as he regards her, something sarcastic briefly emerging.
The young woman deliberates. It's painfully obvious, from the way she looks at him. He already knows where she lives, so what's the harm? says one voice. ..he knows where you -live-, says another. Glancing briefly in the direction of the counter - no help forthcoming from there, there's not even a member of staff to be seen, though laughter and good-natured insults are audible from the kitchen beyond - Violet then meets the vampire's gaze. Whatever she can't decide in her own mind, it appears she expects to somehow establish this way. Peering down into his soul through pale green tinted windows.
The chivalrous offer of his coat is at first received with bemusement. Presumably there haven't been many - if any - white knights in this particular damsel's past. But slowly, tentatively, she extends a hand to accept it, bunching the fabric in a tight grip and holding it in front of herself for the time being, wrapping it around one fist. "..alright." Did he expect her to say yes? Maybe she's a closet thrill seeker. Or maybe, despite the vibrant heartbeat of the city she lives in, and all the trappings of one who belongs.. she's lonely.
Waiting through the deliberation with patience, Faelan's questioning expression fades long before she makes her decision. One arm props against the top of the boot and he leans against it, meeting Violet's gaze evenly and allowing her the time to make the decision. When she agrees, a vague smile passes over his lips and he reaches a hand to pick up the attache case. "It helps more if you drape it over your shoulders," the vampire points out deadpan, the dark dress shirt underneath revealed by the jacket's absence. A nod follows and Faelan looks towards the door, stepping to the side and placing his back towards Violet before offering a crooked arm and glancing over his shoulder to the young lady. "Shall we, then? I promise that I won't eat you," the sarcasm is obvious, but it retreats before his next sentence, leaving a subtle sincerity in its absence. "Pleasant people aren't worth wasting."
