Abrupt Clarity [prp]

[Namira]

There are many things that the demon does entirely without purpose. He reasons that he has never been a creature of stability, rather one of chaos and change, of flowing current and shifting tide. Tonight his impulse leads him to emerging from his house, getting into his car at some late hour and driving away with every intent to have some fun smoldering in his eyes. The creature had been keeping tabs on the both of them for quite some time now, if not for his amusement, to pass the time and to give him something to concentrate on. He had spent so much time buried in books, submerging himself into all of the human activities that his "colleagues" seemed to pass up on so willingly. Namira, personally, couldn't get enough of it.

Namira parks the car and exits with a flourish. He's at a nightclub tonight, and among the rest of the people that frequent it, he stands out. He's dressed in his best formal attire, donning a white shirt under a red satin vest-- covered by a half-buttoned, crisp and sharp coat that hung below his hips to the matching pants. He makes his way into the building smoothly, brushes through the people there and moves briskly to the back. It takes hardly any time or effort at all for the demon to slip back stage and wait patient as ever, now with a glass in hand and claws tapping rhythmically against the glass with sharp sounds. Ting. Ting. Ting. His nails hit the glass in beat with the music on stage, played by the very man that Namira has come all of this way to see.

And the Ancient can barely hold back the wide grin that spreads across his face when he hears the music drawing to an end. He waits, and he waits-- until finally he moves forward. Swiftly, smoothly and effectively. And once the musician had made his way backstage, he would be met by Namira, tousle-haired and sharp eyed with a grin that could light up an entire city. "Liam Fitzpatrick, what a pleasure to meet you." His smile is too wide, too promising to be genuine. Namira knows this, lets it flow from him, taps the curved talons to his glass at his own mental rhythm.

Let's play a game, shall we?

[Liam]

The bright lights of the club and the cacophony of noise, a hundred different conversations held over silk table cloths and silver cutlery was a welcome change to the tense atmosphere of his own home. It had been a long time since he had played host to anyone but himself or the occasional friend or visitor and it had been longer still since he had lived with a woman and being that particular woman was Jethro made it all that much more difficult.

Any progress he seemed to make was quickly rebuked, every step forward a step back, with Jethro giving him some icy comment. Not that he could say he didn't deserve it, but hell, he was trying wasn't he?

They had both changed, and Liam only wished he could say it was his old lover who had changed for the better. The woman he had known and loved for years, who he had thought about marrying once upon a time. And he was not the marrying type, but for Jethro he would have been glad to bind himself with rings and legal documents and wedding vows--anything she would have wanted. Or it could have been a small affair, married only in each other's minds without the interference of law and state.

It's a nice thought, but Liam had learned over time not to torture one's self with what could have been.

Still, he was sincerely enjoying his evening, expensive wine and champagne, the low thrum of music that seems to reverberate throughout the entire room and sent his nerves a buzz, or maybe that was just the twenty year old scotch so generously offered to him and his bandmates. Normally, the fox shifter would steer clear of alcohol, but he knew his limits (or thought he did) and it was only one night, right? Just a glass or two.

Liam taps his heel against the stage and laughs freely at some joke or another, an inquiry from someone passing underneath them. This wasn't quite the laid back atmosphere of the clubs he usually played, but the Irishman enjoyed it nonetheless. As the nights winds down they play a few more songs, a swinging jazz number that leaves him breathless, before slinking into a slow, melodic piece that for the life of him Liam can't remember the title of, knows distinctly it tells the story of a man and his lost lover.

He pours more than a little of his own sadness into the song and allows John to address the crowd, thank them for their hospitality. They slip back stage, instruments carefully handled and taken care of before being secured in their cases. Off to the side he sees his young trumpeter flirting with a woman and it brings a smile to his face. He gestures the boy (in his eyes) over and gives him a piece of advice. "Man, no, don't go home with the blond, I know her type. You wake up in the morning and all they do is talk your ear off. Spare yourself, those fake breasts aren't worth it." Clearly fake, Liam had spent enough time with the real ones to realize the difference.

The cellist, bear of a man that he is catches the old fox's attention, lifting music stands out of the way. "What about you, Liam? Got a pretty lady to go home with?" He laughs at whatever look must cross his face, pats him hard on the back as he comes back down the steps. "Already got one, eh? I'd know that look on your face anywhere."

Damn, Jethro. She wasn't his woman and she sure as hell wasn't going to be sleeping in his bed. For all Liam knew she'd freeze him into a solid block of ice with her cold ways.

"Liam Fitzpatrick, what a pleasure to meet you."

He's the only one left backstage now, waving at the guys as they pack up and leave. The click of something against glass fills his ear and cold dread stiffens his muscle as he turns around, sees the man and instantly thinks: what has he done wrong in the past few years? "The pleasure's all mine, have we met before? I can't seem to place your name..."

Play dumb, it was the safest root. Green eyes flickered to the red exit sign above the door, thinks how quickly he can book it if he needs to.

[Namira]

The music is loud, as is the club, and Namira finds himself to be more patient than usual. His eyes are closed and he listens intently, opening them only when everything is finished. He gets odd looks, standing there quietly and watching the band with nothing but an expecting look on his face. Whoever had been backstage with him before hand is gone, leaving just the band members. They're all packing up and getting ready to leave, and Namira finds himself highly entertained by the sight. He catches the side glances directed at him-- the tall creepy black-haired man standing off to the side in a suit. He ignores them, though. Namira has existed for too long, has lived through too many experiences to quite care if someone looks at him.

Plus, he is pretty. Who wouldn't want to look at him?

He smiles smugly, seems to look right through the others as they walk by him and leave-- resulting in a completely empty space save for the demon and the shifter. There's a moment where Namira straightens himself completely, peeing downward at Liam with eyes of shattered glass, tilting his head in a mix of curiosity and what may have seemed to be an unspoken bet he had made with himself. He looks the Irishman up and down as he turns, taking note of the new body language and the new air of caution that settles in the room. Namira flashes Liam one of many famous grins, one that seems to threaten more than offer any positivity. The dread, the fear that hangs in the air fills the demon completely, leaves him with a newfound energy in his chest.

"The pleasure's all mine, have we met before? I can't seem to place your name..."

The smile dies down to half a smirk, as if there's a secret joke in his head that he doesn't trust with the ginger-haired man opposite him. The talons continue to clink against the glass in an almost menacing manner. Namira steps forward, allowing himself little space between the shifter and himself. "I don't believe we have," he purrs, "Not in person." His own, much more morbid version of only in dreams. But the dreams were never his, and they certainly weren't good. Not for her. Namira would be foolish to let such a thing happen. But one reoccuring man had been Liam Fitzpatrick, and Namira had spent a good amount of time analyzing them befoer making the decision to waste some more time.

"Call me Meridia."

He has many, many names. He would be a fool to only use one, now wouldn't he?

It seems for a moment that Namira's eyes follow Liam's, even though it would seem that he would be unable to see from behind his head. But instead, Namira's grin returns, and it's paired with a heavy sigh and the shake of a head, like a father telling his rebellious son What am I going to do with you? Namira squares himself to be directly in front of Liam, gives him an all too knowing look. "Don't even think about it, Mr. Fitzpatrick." There wouldn't be any spontaneous escaping from him. Not now, not when he's barely had any time to play with his toys. He turns, angling himself to the side and spins so his back is to Liam, walks a few feet before turning again to face the musician.

A new look in his eyes-- lit with mock curiosity, a smile locked there that is too clearly anything but genuine. "So, tell me," He's stopped clicking his nails on the glass at this point, and is instead beginning to pace. "How is the old bird?" Because it truly has been quite a long time since one of his checkups.

[Liam]

"I don't believe we have," "Not in person."

There can be no good implications from the way he says that, too pleased, self-satisfied. If there was one thing that Liam hated it was being in a position of ignorance, not knowing what hand the other person held and whether his was the better or not. Still, he had become a excellent poker player over the years and it wasn't like this was his first rodeo. He had ticked off a fair number of powerful creatures and gotten away with it, this clawed man was nothing but another foot note in his long and sordid history.

"Call me Meridia."

Click, click, click. His nails against the glass, the backstage feeling smaller by the minute. "An interesting name." He doesn't extend the man the invitation of calling him by his first name. In the supernatural world names carried power, and Liam found himself deeply uncomfortable at the thought of Meridia using his own at leisure.

"Don't even think about it, Mr. Fitzpatrick."

Liam can feel the skin on the back of his neck raise, an animal distinctly aware of it's cornered position. He clears his throat into his fist, the saxophone case weighing heavily over his shoulders. "Merely admiring the night sky." As if he had no idea what this creature was referring to. He thinks how quickly he can force himself to shift, the ache in his bones afterwards and the long walk home over highways and through treacherous forest filled with all assortment of animals more dangerous and toothy than a little grey fox.

"So, tell me," "How is the old bird?"

He turns, at ease in his surroundings and forcing that ease upon Liam. He has no problems turning his back to him, knows that he won't retaliate--or that even if he does it is not something that he can't deal with using more than the snap of his fingers. "Considering her age, very well." The Irishman lies like breathing, feeling them smooth and confident against his tongue. "It's rare that Julia stretches her wings anymore though. Poor thing, getting all grey in the beak, you know?" Liam has never owned a bird in his life, partial to cats himself, and even in the years he was with Jethro there was no such thing as owning that woman.

She came and went as she pleased, but he knows who got the final laugh in that relationship.

"Why do you ask, Meridia?"

Two can play at his game. Half the interest in bets was never knowing if you would win or lose, and Liam, after all was a gambling man through and through.