Private Alors On Danse

[Beatrice Govan]

There was a small squeak of protest from the woman's throat as her JUB was appropriated by the mercenary and she just sat for a while with her hands out expecting for the jug to be placed back where they belonged. Even now, halfway fuelled for a trip to the nearest moon Evelynn knew not to attempt to get her drink back by force.

Wrestling a large woman was how she'd gotten into this predicament in the first place.

She stared at the JUB as Aver gave a lecture on feminist theory and the value of self, it was a strangely supportive moment from a woman who Evelynn might have described as carnivorous, but she did at least (even while longing for her drink back) appreciate the blunt honesty from the mind of terrible dishonesty.

I am a woman whose drink has been taken, she replied looking up at the mercenary then back down at the carafe, her still outstretched hands making grabbing motions like claws from carnival games. Somehow she imagined that this method was not going to get the potent concoction back into her grasp.

Trying to regain a semblance of focus, glazed emeralds dodged away from sapphires as a rather unfamiliar sheepish expression began to crest upon the blonde woman's sharp features.

So, here's the thing, she began awkwardly about to concede that she had agreed to his ridiculous game, we've got a deal. He fixes my spine, and I tell him who I really am. He's quite clearly very wealthy and I don't want to be in the chair anymore. Simple, right?

The more she continued to speak the more Evelynn realised just why the JUB had been confiscated and yet she did not stop, no, in fact, she carried on and fell into an intensifying rant.

But it's not SIMPLE. All of a sudden there are these feelings, there's guilt and there's gratitude. We're going shopping together and arguing as if anything actually matters. I find myself caring and I didn't even know I was capable of such a thing! There's SOUP!

"FU'HEN OU," she clarified out loud (how she could clarify the word soup was unknown) before clumsily launching forward to snatch back her carafe.

 

[Aver Brand]

Another entry for her list of war crimes. Murder, arson, and JUB appropriation.

She watched the other woman go through the fastest withdrawal response she’d ever seen with a mildly bemused quirk to her mouth. Well, it could’ve been worse – the blonde could’ve launched herself at the drink, and then where would they end up?

So you're dating. Does he know that?

Cue smirk.

Also—

They would end up with Evelynn held an arm’s length above the coffee table between them, apparently. The mercenary blinked slowly at the woman in her grasp, then looked around to survey the consequences of intercepting the alcohol-fuelled missile.

The carafe of JUB lay shattered on the ground. Worse, precious amber had spilled from the tumbler where it had… tumbled onto the plush carpet.

She chomped down on her cigarra and let the smoke crawl out through her teeth.

Also, your spine seems to be working just fine. With a cocked brow, Aver set the woman back down into the booth. So why haven’t you told him yet?

At the gesture of her hand, a man in gold livery appeared at their table again. He offered his best polite smile, but the apprehension in his posture betrayed him. “How can I—”

“Just bring another jug of…” her brow furrowed before she pinned the server with her gaze, “what is JUB, anyway?”

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Despite her easily thwarted attempt to reclaim the JUB Evelynn remained present in their hot mess of a conversation that she was currently careening off the edge of a cliff and down into the canyon of painful oversharing.

D A T I N G, she reiterated, offended at the very notion that she would participate in such saccharine practices as if she were some variety of lonely and desperate idiot. Her stare was split between Aver and JUB, eyebrows mourning the loss of the precious, glow-in-the-dark elixir but teeth very much taking the brunt of the affront in regards to dating.

Put back into her seat like a petulant child Evelynn's next answer was interrupted by summoning of table service and an inquiry into the true nature of JUB.

"JUB is a blend of Cassandran choholl, nectarot, crème de kavasa and papple juice garnished with sprinkle of polstine spice, ma'am."

She loudly snorted as the dapper mercenary got hit with a 'ma'am'.

Not phased by the presence of drugs in the JUB (although she did inwardly note something about listing cocktail ingredients on the menu going forward), Evelynn chose to ignore the presence of the attendant and carried on their previous conversation.

It's on the official word of Dr. Cortez on whether or not it's working just fine, she informed the confiscator of JUB, her mind briefly hearing flashback's of the doctor's positive reinforcement which gave way to a visible cringe, and there are a few more issues to iron through.

There was a point about fifteen minutes ago where Evelynn thought that maybe she should have just stopped talking but they were already elbow-deep in the topic and quite frankly Evelynn didn't give a fuck who knew what anymore.

I'm giving up the arm.

 

[Aver Brand]

Those were… ingredients. Spice? Really? Shit should come with a warning. What about recovering addicts?

The ma’am shot her dirtiest glare at the innocent employee as if he were about to spring out the Nuremberg defense. “Bring us the Pričakovanje, then,” she said after a beat and watched with quiet satisfaction as the man took himself away as quickly as etiquette allowed.

Maybe Qui was onto something and she actually didn’t need a gun or a knife to terrorize the galaxy.

Speaking of knives… Dr. Cortez? Aver turned her attention back to the rambling blonde and found her wearing another one of her myriad scowls.

You’re what?

For once, her surprise was genuine. Maybe the Whyren’s had done a number on her, too. Maybe she just didn’t see a reason to put on a show anymore now they were in such a sharing mood. And it certainly wasn’t because this woman had grown on her in the space of a few hours like some particularly aggressive strain of mold.

Didn’t you— Aver twirled her cigarra at Evelynn, your tongue?

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Great choice, ma'am.

Oh, so that's how it was pronounced? Her glorified voice box really had made a mess of it. Nonetheless, it was a most delicious drink so tragically hidden behind a brown, sludgy visage, rewarding those who sought to seek out shit.

I did, Evelynn confirmed with a glib expression, her head bobbling around like, well, like a person who had been on the JUB for most of the evening. This newfound sense of inebriation was the clear culprit as the blonde suddenly opened her mouth as wide as she could and presented it to the mercenary alongside flammable breath. It was, the inside of a mouth sans a tongue, exactly what was expected with the only interesting facet being that there was no scarring.

Not cut out, but gone entirely.

Things were different when I got this...thing, the woman stated, waggling mechanical fingers, I was the type of person who would actually use it, for a start.

Now it was a literal golden fucking spoon.

It's not going to change alongside me, she conceded, knowing full well that a cursed creation of that nature always held consequences, and so it won't play a part in such soupy futures. Luckily an in-house Doctor, surgical team and lab are included in the Emryc Qosta experience.

In rampant masochism, she looked straight to Aver's eyes seeking the woman's full judgement.

Tell me. Am I a complete and utter idiot?

 

[Aver Brand]

Aver tapped her bottom lip as she studied the blonde in all her tongueless glory. She started out considering the question, honest, but then her mind just… wandered. Like, how would it feel getting sucked o—

Suppose you’re banging your head against a wall. Skulls break. Walls don’t.

So who’s more stubborn? Evelynn Dorn? Emryc Qosta? Beatrice Govan? Who’s the skull and who’s the wall? She raised a brow, expelling smoke and mirth from her lips. I got no fucking clue, but you can go be idiots together.

Aver laughed and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Don’t bang your head against a wall, even if it’s chiseled fucking marble. Shit’s bad for your health and metaphors are dumb anyway. What I actually th—

True to its name, Pričakovanje chose that exact moment to arrive in all its spicy splendor. The mercenary all but assured emotional whiplash for the poor server as she graced him with a grin and a tip large enough to retire on. Rather than cutting the string of tension, the infinitely more irritating of the two siblings pulled it even tauter by indulging a long, deep draft of the drink. She savored the complex flavors with a sigh, then slowly set the glass on the table once more.

During this… not-dating thing you been doing, has he listened to you? Done shit that shows he actually heard you?

Another pause, if only to swallow the absurd cocktail-custard. What in the kark was this mixologist smoking?

If he hasn’t, he’s the fucking idiot. But— she raised a finger and drew fresh smoke into her mouth, and I can’t believe I’m saying this – he can learn. To communicate and grow and shit. If you got the patience for it.

She shrugged, summarizing three decades of hard emotional work with a grin.

Worked for me.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

She steeped herself in Aver's metaphor, slipping down the chair until her bony arse was right at the edge like some kind of gremlin renegade of poor posture.

There was a moment of disjointed serenity, an out-of-body experience as Evelynn wilfully imagined headbutting Emryc Qosta, the sound of the hypothetical collision echoing in all of its blunt and violent glory. He, the granite statue would be nonplussed while she, the slight crisis would be concussed. In the aftermath, the man would have purchased a vintage speeder outright because none of his choices made any logical sense.

The blonde remained strung along, lips drawing into an impatient thin line as the mercenary really milked the moment of Pričakovanje's arrival.

Although, when it eventually came, she had a point.

No, he has...

She squinted.

...I think.

The problem was, that with every positive interaction came an equal and opposite frustration as if the man was some kind of monk that took balance a little too seriously. Glimmers of empathy followed by brutal indifference. Moments of truth then obscured by the mists of mystery. What kind of person heard a tale of a teenage girl eating her beloved pet and followed up with 'how did it taste?'

Which, as it stood, was still one of the most psychotic responses to another's trauma ever witnessed (this might have been a small exaggeration).

He has a lot of moments, good moments, she rambled anew, still halfway down her seat like a teenage boy forced to be at the ballet, dare I say, human moments but he just can't stick the landing. She sighed, too lazy to get herself some of the slurry and too annoyed that Aver made a valid point. Patience it is then.

Edges of lips curled, a sidelong glance thrown the other woman's way.

You know, it almost sounds as if you care too.

 

[Aver Brand]

That this conversation was turning out to be both a pleasant and enlightening experience was a plot twist no-one could’ve predicted, the writers included. It wasn’t unwelcome, however. Quite the opposite, in fact.

And wasn’t that a small wonder in itself.

Aver favored her drink and her cigarra and lounged there looking remarkably like her brother – although she would have said, of course, that her brother looked remarkably like her, and could hardly be faulted for that, considering it was indisputable who came first, but— well, did it matter? Really?

Ygdris had no answer for that.

She chuckled instead. No sound, just a shake of those broad shoulders as she raised her brows at Evelynn. Evelynn Dorn-slash-Zambrano, former Queen of Rattatak and Masochism, criticizing someone for their poorly executed humanity?

‘But he just can't stick the landing’. Fucking— “Do you? Does anyone?”

Aver knew plenty of people who would claim they could— all of them dirty, deluded liars. Shit, any old Jedi would probably be first to volunteer and last to realize nobody was going to pick them for their softball team because they were a Wroshyr-fucking-tree in the ass for everyone who tried to eke out a moment of joy in this dreadful existence.

“And yeah, I mean—” she cut herself off and tilted her glass of alcoholic pudding in momentary thought. I get it, right? Being human, it’s like a whole new fucking language. Everyone just expects you to know how it works but if you grew up with animals, how the fuck would you?

She stared at the Pričakovanje as if it could answer this most existential of questions. They’d really hit this point in the evening already, huh? Force help them.

Be nice if someone bothered learning our language for once. Ice blue bore into emerald green. But I’m sure you’ve tried that already.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

She cared.

Evelynn conceded the moment, mostly because she really didn't have a leg to stand on in terms of sticking her own landings. A limping identity crisis constructed with bricks of haughty, short-tempered impatience. At least, unlike him, she could let it out; take it out in healthy ways such as belittling Emryc, shouting (mentally) at Emryc and...ah, yes.

Well.

Oops.

The blonde's head attempted to retreat into her neck like the foreboding turtle of awkwardness as she remained stuck in her position halfway down the chair.

While Aver continued getting the point off of her broad chest, Evelynn just had to remain there and endure, her gaze flitting in-between the mercenary and her ambrosia. Well, well, well, who knew these animals had feelings, after all? Oh, right, nobody did because you had to fucking commit to a lifetime of trauma to get it out of them.

She kept that thought, strapped a pair of duracrete boots to it and let it sink.

I...ah...

Raising a finger under the scrutiny of intense eye contact that threatened to pierce through her and ruin the furniture, Evelynn made a small interjection:

I'm here now, asking a fluent speaker, aren't I?

She tried her hardest not to be smug about actually making an effort and almost succeeded.

Could I have one of those? She asked, pointing to the Pričakovanje, sharpened features turning uncharacteristically sheepish, I can't get up.

Lazy. Comfy. Drunk.

 

[Aver Brand]

Yeah, and what are you? A fucking Yensid princess? Snort. Speaking of fluency— poor little Coathanger ain’t got jack shit on your bodycount. Also, what the f…

The mercenary trailed off, the flash of anger drying up as she watched the former slaver drip from the booth and onto the fake marble floor like JUB had finally liquefied the last of her bones. Given the ingredients, she wasn’t sure that wasn’t an entirely plausible scenario, honestly.

“I’m not gonna hold your hair when you have to puke your guts out.” The idea alone made her shudder in disgust. If the rest of W H S K S T T N was anything to judge by, the toilet décor was bound to be garish and offensive to anyone with eyes.

Thus Aver happily passed the floor-bound blonde one of the artsy, asymmetrical shot-meets-dessert glasses. No alcoholic drink ought to wobble, yet here they were. Juddering.

With a sigh of tested patience, the mercenary joined Evelynn on the ground and stuck the cigarra back between her teeth. Blue smoke and life-day spices made for an… intriguing mix, to be sure.

What are you asking, exactly? Because I didn’t hear no question.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Evelynn gratefully took her wonder-sludge and held it close to her chest like her second child, usurper to Jub's throne. There was no point in questioning the almost-beverage, like all things upon the W H S K, it was unexplainable.

As Aver joined her on the floor, the blonde's eyes lit up with a manic kind of glee that held shades of the woman that used to watch slaves get torn asunder just to pass the time. Of course, this was far less sinister and more along the lines of drunken terrorism from a woman who hadn't let her hair down since long before death.

No, no, no. Let's rewind, she stated, using her golden finger to take a measure of the cocktail-cum-pudding before popping it into her mouth. As delicious as it was, the texture wasn't ideal for those without tongues. Are you implying that I am an animal? Like you?

She scooched closer like mischievous bones as if she were about to ask the mercenary to prank call Sith Lords with her.

I appreciate the sentiment, you know. Ever since the chair, it's been so utterly dreadful. Do you know what it's like when people look at you with those big, sad eyes, like you're some kind of tragic invalid? It's nice to be acknowledged as a monster for once.

She went back in for seconds with the finger spoon (on a hand that was capable of transforming into an actual spoon, by the way).

Even if we both are....very reformed.

 

[Aver Brand]

What a terrible day to have eyes.

Aver felt bile sour her mouth as she watched the blonde root around the trembling jello with her golden tools of the Dark Side. All appetite for the alcoholic substance, and, indeed, for continued existence on this same plane of being, abandoned her in a flash.

It was impressive, really. That something so simple could nauseate a woman who hadn’t batted an eyelash at riding her lover while fingering his open rebar wound, while on top of another man smeared over four square meters of durasteel, while Point Nadir was burning around them, while the whole fucking galaxy was burning around them—

Maybe not exactly like me, she said with a slow smile, glancing sideways. Why compare? If living on Thral had taught her anything, it was that there were always more brands of beast (and beasts of Brand) that you expected.

Which is why Aver always carried a knife. And so did Evelynn, apparently – reduced as it was at the moment to a cum-pudding vehicle. A truly tragic fate.

The mercenary took a long drag of the kindling cigarra and studied the blonde beside her.

Are we?

What did reformed even mean? A lower daily allotment of murder? Being nice to retail workers? Earlier bedtimes? Fuck did she know.

If you wanna know how to talk to him, talk to him. I ain’t gonna be your proxy. It wouldn’t work anyway, but it was the principle of the thing. She blew out a trail of blue smoke and grinned.

Ain’t never gonna find common ground if you both stay in your fucking corner and mope that nobody wants to take you dancin’.

What was the saying again? It takes two to trainwreck?

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Oh no! But I was really hoping that you could pass notes to him across the dinner table on my behalf!

What would have been biting sarcasm at the start of the evening had developed into devious glee, as if alcohol had the capability to transform the creature of overwrought venom into the imp of dishevelled chaos.

I don't think I shall take it well if he rejects me, she snickered into another finger of wobbling delight, her tone and body language taking away from what might have been a threat.

For him?

For her?

Who knew anymore? She was the hot mess express; very much more than capable of a one woman train wreck.

Also, for the record. I haven't murdered anybody in...well, Evelynn paused trying to even recall the last heinous atrocity she had committed, you know what, I don't even remember the last time.

A blink, a snrk.

So, I'M definitely reformed.

There was the hot dog man but that wasn't murder per se. More like a justified crippling. Hot dogs were brought to the forefront. She wondered if W H S K S T T N served such finger food. She had a sneaking suspicion that this place was enough of a pretentious disaster that it absolutely would. Gourmet hot dogs, of course, with gold flake to garnish.

Gremlynn looked up to Aver, her expression sloppily painted by a demented artist as mischief remained Queen in her glassy stare.

Would you really be here, on the floor with me, if you weren't the teenie-weeniest bit reformed.

Reformed from what exactly was another question.

 

[Aver Brand]

Broad shoulders dipped up and down as she studied the spiderweb of her smoke in the air. The collective emissions of her two cigarras and several other ringside patrons had cast a grainy haze in the air as the evening dragged on. It looked like they were in some kind of old, washed out holo-noir.

Look. Evelynn. A pause. Beatrice? I’m really not the right address for…

for any of this.

for killers anonymous, or whatever you think this is. I— have no idea if I’m reformed. Or what that even is. She sighed and took another swig of the spicy gloop. I can tell you I hurt way less people than I used to but it ain’t out of like, my bleeding heart, or something. It just ain’t that practical. When you start thinking long-term and planning strategies spanning years or decades, it just…

Aver pinched her lips and leaned her head back until it lolled on the plush, fake leather upholstery of the booth.

And you keep, what’s it— deflecting. What did you want to ask? A beat; a slow, lazy smile. Me, a fluent speaker?

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Well, I think that you're perfect for Killers Anonymous, she chirped with that same devious energy, although we'll need a better name.

Evelynn continue to scooch towards Aver like a demented goblin while the mercenary rattled off her justifications for getting soft. What it really, truly, honestly seemed to boil down to for her (at least to the blonde) was that she couldn't be arsed. Which was fair; who really had the time and energy to be making new enemies? Not when you're getting into property investment.

By the end of the sentiment, she had made it next to Aver's side, the wraith happy to steal the warmth of the beast's body heat and use the larger woman as a means of physical support in her increasingly drunken stupor.

So like, what do you, an animal, want? Evelynn asked lazily, her pudding finger unrelenting in the quest for alcoholic sludge. Not stuff or credits, or flesh, nobody knew if she meant that last one in a suggestive or macabre manner, but like, what do you want from a person that... cares?

She sighed with flammable breath, this conversation could have only been coaxed out by alcohol.

Do you want to be, I don't know, can you even be vulnerable? Do you long to be taken care of for once, if only for a few moments at a time? Do you...want...to be..

She hoped that she would have zero recollection of this conversation tomorrow.

...loved?

Hold on!

What about The Sisterhood of Mike Hunt?

 

[Aver Brand]

Sobriety was, apparently, the only thing keeping the gangly blonde at a seething, spitting arm’s length. Now that she had more JUB in her veins than blood, Evelynn was more than happy to practically climb into her lap. Her lips peeled back as she bared her teeth at the smoky ceiling in something that… might pass for a grin.

Too bad she wasn’t into sloppy sibling seconds.

You’re asking me for dating advice. Aver let her head roll to the side, followed by her eyes, followed by her gaze boring into the side of a blonde skull. You’re actually asking me for dating advice. For my brother.

Was she amused? Shocked? Incredulous? Angry? Who knew? Not Aver. Even her face was confused about the matter.

She folded back forward with a snort and shook the cobwebs from her mind. What a night. What a life.

“I’m…” Aver began, slowly finding her feet again, “not gonna answer that.” Glass clinked as she sloppily refilled her tumbler with more sharp amber. The mercenary chewed on nothing for a few moments before extending a hand to the crumpled woman on the floor.

Even if I did. Emryc and me ain’t the same brand of animal.

Brand. Get it? Aver downed the rest of the Whyren’s and shrugged.

“Mike Hunt Club?”

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Evelynn's inner chaos demon couldn't help but take immense pride in Aver's particular breed of aversion to her line of questioning. This wasn't artful, smirking avoidance of deep-rooted questions with uncomfortable answers like before, no, this was far stranger than that.

It turned out that the slight blonde had genuinely been using the mercenary to stay upright and as one woman stood, the other just slowly fell over, like an anti-climactic demolition.

Oh, there's glass down here, what kind of inconsiderate...

I won't tell if you're feelin all soft and vulnerable, Evelynn smirked, her left hand moving to tap her nose knowingly yet missing as her golden apparatus took the offered aid to her feet, who would I even tell for a start, and pulled herself up only to find a familiar strain of weakness in her legs, and besides...

Both hands, organic and metallic inappropriately grasped at Aver to keep herself upright.

...nobody would ever believe me.

This hadn't been the first case of treacherous legs that she had experienced, Doctor Cortez's magical mystery spine apparently set in rhythm with one, Beatrice Govan and not Evelynn the JUB Goblin. Which was likely why she was so cavalier in response to non-functioning limbs.

"Beaue weah a pah ov uh," the woman stated out loud through hoarse, mangled and tongueless vowels.

She blinked, still holding on for dear life presuming Aver hadn't simply removed the clinging, drunken parasite from her larger, steadier form.

Anyway, I seem to...recall that this wasn't a problem when you were encouraging me to give your brother...what was it...physical therapy?

 

[Aver Brand]

Aver had not, in fact, removed the blonde-shaped appendix on her hip. The thought had crossed her mind, but then she realized she was just fine not making any more of a scene than the dumpsterfire marriage charade earlier. Force knew the fighting below was so boring the patrons were bound to latch onto any passing scrap of entertainment.

Well, for pegging tips, I’m still your woman. Cue grin. Soft and vulnerable, though…

She sighed, her knife expression dulling into a smile. Aver easily maneuvered them both back into the booth and deposited the uncoordinated blonde onto the plush upholstery.

I’m afraid I save that for my wife.

A sympathetic concession? A calculated Dejarik move?

Even Aver didn’t know.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Pegg-

Evelynn's already glassy stare drifted off into the oblivion as an increasingly graphic scene began to unfold within the most wicked depths of her imagination.

Emerald eyes widening in horror, then deepening in revulsion as the moving image of the two playing roles both deeply unsuitable continued. An eyebrow wandered, the stare squinting as she questioned what made it so horrendous to consider. Was it the size difference? Was it because she pictured him scowling? Perhaps. It did seem entirely against nature, like witnessing kath hounds prance upon hind legs.

Thanks but no thanks, she mentally muttered, expression returning to the present as she banished that speculative image from her mind, I do not top.

Back in reality, Evelynn offered Aver a surprising nod of approval, even if the mercenary's suppposed domestic bliss brought forth a pang of envy.

But I'm glad that you've got that, my wife was...

Nope, no, negative, permission denied. There would be no consideration of Nemene fucking Talith, not astoundingly drunk nor stone cold sober.

Have you ever had a hot dog, Aver Brand?

 

[Aver Brand]

No rush, said Aver’s eyebrows. She settled back into the cushions as Beatrice drifted off in the throes of the mental imagery. Force knew the woman could appreciate a good bare arse like few other Sith generals. Banishing her own vivid memories with a wistful sigh, the mercenary swirled her booze and watched the blonde return from her fever dream.

“Shame.”

About the wife? Or the flavors of sex Beatrice would never taste? Aver Brand may have learned a thing or two about being a cryptic shit from Quietus Shamalain as well. Through good and bad, and all that.

I– yes? She blinked at the smaller woman. Who hasn’t?