The warm was so . . . warm. It spread through her the way honey did when she put it on bread - little beads of it always slipped through and covered her hands with a sticky sweetness that stayed with her until washed away. But who would wash the warm away? It was so . . . warm. And it was strong and big and it was curled around her, enveloping her, next to her, holding her tightly. Too tightly? No. Just tight enough. Like maybe a good dream that stayed with you after waking and stuck to the corners of your mind and didn't let go until it was ready. And the warm smelled good, like rain and smoke and leather and something muskier, like a body. Like a person. Like a person who was used to hard work and toil and the smell was just . . . good. The smell was deep and light and confusing and like a man. 'Like a man.'

Tallulah's eyes shot open, and she rolled away from the warm, noticing only then the warm was Artemis. 'Oh, FUCK. Fuck. Shit. Hell. Damn. Fuck. Oh, fuck.' Her thoughts were nothing but a string of obscenities as she scrambled off his bed and onto the floor of . . . of his house. Scrambling to her feet, Tallulah stood over him and stared. He looked dead. That would've been nice. Gods, she was going to kill him if someone hadn't beaten her to it. What had he done to her? The bastard.

She looked around, and found his sword on a nightstand and grabbed it with both pale hands, holding it rather shakily. Only when she had the thing pointed safely in his direction did her curses become audible. And audible they were. She was probably waking the neighbors, that was, if he had any. "What the hell did you do?!? You slimy little BASTARD!! I can't believe - and here I was beginning to trust - oh, you . . . you INGRATE!" She was punctuating every word with a kick to his bead, hopefully jarring him awake, if not causing him a little bit of pain.

After she had cooled off a bit, her voice got low and icy, her eyes blazing. She held the sharp pointy with all of the authority she could command in her hung-over state, looking down her straight golly nose at him. "Give me one reason I shouldn't kill you, you horrid, disgusting little shit."

Artemis was quickly made aware of several things. One was a rather intense headache stabbing him behind the eyes. The other was that there was a blade waving dangerously in his face by some woman with a field. Oh, hell… He blinked, eyes squinted in the harsh morning light- really, with his headache, any light seemed harsh to his eyes, making them sting- and noticed just as the field registered in his brain that the sword was his sword, and it was being held in the incapable hands of a rather distraught looking Tallulah. That could either make things much better, or much worse. “Give me a moment,” He grumbled, head swimming, throbbing unpleasantly with the onslaught of Tallulah’s yelling.

Gods, he was having issues trying to figure out just what was going on. Now she was speaking more softly, which was nice, but it was a threat. In his house with his clocking sword. One thing made itself clear very quickly- he was experiencing a monster of a hangover. Which meant he had been exceedingly drunk last night, which would explain why things were more than a little fuzzy. Why was Tallulah in his house? How had she even found her way there, how had she gotten inside, and why was she so upset that she was waving his clocking sword in his face?

“I was drunk…” He muttered, somehow managing to ignore the blade that was uncomfortably close to his face as he tried to piece things together, “I woke up… you…” He glanced up at her again, taking her in for the first time as his thought process began to catch up to speed, “Look like you just woke up… Oh, hell…” It just clicked as to why she was so infuriated. Oh, gods, was she a presumptuous creature. Still, he smirked despite everything, “You think I would have actually done that? With you?” He laughed, and it was hoarse. He winced slightly, “Hell, look at us both and try to use what brains you possess.” He waved between the two of them, “We’re both dressed. With how drunk I apparently was last night, I don’t think I could have possibly bothered much with removing my clothes, much less putting them back on.”

He stood carefully, hand sliding along his blade to push it out of his face. He didn’t bat an eye as the blade sliced a deep red cut in his skin- as blood seeped from the wound in his arm- just another scar among many. “Honestly, Miss Anatine, I have little recollection of last night’s events, but I know I would never do such things with you, no matter how inebriated I may have been.” He raised both hands to his head, gently massaging his temples in an attempt to alleviate the migraine. And then bits and pieces of the past night’s events fell into place one by one- each one as fuzzy as the next, but a memory nonetheless. He was able to remember a few important things, at least. “I do recall, if vaguely, that last night you helped me get home, and I went to bed expecting you to leave. Obviously, drunk or not, you made the choice to stay the night. I can’t help but wonder if it was just to give you an excuse for this asinine display.”

He shook his head slowly. Gods he needed something to drink- something that wasn’t alcoholic. Gods, anything but alcohol. He crossed into the kitchen, arm unintentionally brushing against Tallulah’s shoulder as he passed her by, “Do you want something, Miss Anatine?” The question held an air of sarcasm to it, but he felt he might make her breakfast if she asked for it- he was going to prepare some for himself, after all. May as well. Besides, it was too early to bother trying to shoo the woman from his house, stubborn and determined to make his existence hell as she was. Still, it was a conscious effort on his behalf to be this pleasant this early in the morning with such an intense hangover and such unpleasant company- unpleasant company who had had the audacity to point his own damn sword at him. In his sleep. And give him such a rude awakening. In his house. Honestly. He yawned, stretching as he reached the counter, “Tea? Eggs?” He lit the stove, turning to grab the teapot. “… Bread?”

Wait - what was he doing? Brushing her aside and . . . and . . . and . . . being right? He couldn't do that. It wasn't allowed. Not this early in the morning, at least. God, that sword was heavy. Tallulah eased the sharp, shining metal on to his bead, gently, as he continued to be an absolute prick. A right prick, but a prick none the less. And she hated him for it, but there wasn't anything she could do except stand there because anything that she could've done would've been immature and all his fault. After all, it was all his fault - being so touchy and understanding and whatever it was he'd done last night to make her stay. So she heaved a sigh, and watched his back he made his way to what she assumed to be his kitchen, only then noticing the red stain that was seeping its way across his shirt.

Her first instinct was to go to him and fix it. She denied the urge - she would not be kind to him. No, it was none of her business if he bled to death in this little shack which seemed to be more books and weapons than anything. Books? How did he procure all of those books? It was rather amazing really. Not only were there books, oh no, he also seemed to have a rather large collections of ink bottles and quills. God damn it, if they had anything else in common, she'd . . . she'd . . . hurt him. Oh, goodness. He was offering her breakfast, the little twit. But he couldn't very well cook with that on his arm and the other cuts he'd gotten on his hands last night. She remembered their conversation fairly well - she'd not been half as intoxicated as he was - and she also knew what it was like to hold anything with hands more bloodied and broken than his were.

So, without thinking, she grabbed his uninjured forearm and pulled him closer to where she was. She began undoing the binding on his hands - it must've been painful, after all, the blood from his cuts had crusted on to the linen over night - as gently as she could, and once she was done with the dirty bandages, she began rolling up the stained sleeve. She gave him a look that spoke of the thousand of different ways she could hurt him if he moved, and reached beside him to grab a rag from his kitchen counter. She wet it with water from a small flask she always kept in her cloak, and began delicately cleaning his wounds.

Looking up at him through her ivory lashes, she made a rather aggravated noise that was somewhere in between a growl and a sigh. "I'm only doing this because I don't want blood in my food, and goddess only knows what diseases you have." She offered him a dry sort-of smile, and continued cleaning the blood - both new and old from his scar-riddled arms. The silver lines would have surprised her on someone else, but on him, they seemed to fit. His line of work was precarious, after all, and he didn't seem the careful type.

Damn wick.

He hadn't been expecting this. She was pulling at him, fussing over his wounds, unwrapping the linens on his hands that covered wounds he must have acquired last night when he was drunk- something he only vaguely recalled involving broken glass- and she was cleaning out the cuts as if she actually cared about him. But... but no, she couldn't care. She didn't care. She'd made that perfectly clear plenty of times... But gods, this was awkward. "It's just a scratch, Miss Anatine," More like a gash, but honestly, it wasn't anything he couldn't sew up after breakfast was served, hadn't cut any arteries, and it most certainly wasn't like she'd hit any vital organs- it was just his arm and his hands. No big deal. And yet here she was fussing over him like... No. No, he wouldn't think of her. And Miss Anatine could never be like her. "It's nothing to fuss about, really."

And then she brought up something about diseases. Damn pompous woman. He may have been a 'lowly halfbreed' and a killer, and a number of other undesirable things, but that hardly made him diseased- he was perfectly healthy, in the physical sense. Of course he caught the little innuendo behind her words, but paid them no mind- that would only make things awkward. "I've no diseases, Miss Anatine, certainly nothing with which you should concern yourself..." Gods, he wanted to just... do something. Cook. Or write. Or spar. Something! He didn't much care for Tallulah fussing over him like this, it made him feel... made him feel... gods, he couldn't even think of a word for it. "Are you done, yet? Honestly, I can sew myself up after breakfast."

"Sew yourself up after . . . ?" Tallulah was shocked. Her hands stopped for only a moment, her eyes and voice layered with incredulity and an odd feeling of . . . No. She didn't care for him. She couldn't. She allowed herself to sigh frustratedly as she redoubled her efforts. She was still gentle, though she didn't know why, as she mumbled something a bout men, and how they wouldn't get proper medical attention unless something was cut off - and even then, it was a rare event. His skin was spotless except for the blood that seeped little by little from the gash on arm and the cuts on his hands. Tallulah glanced around, looking for something she could wrap his wounds with.

Finding nothing within eyesight, she wheeled to him, and, on accident, got caught in the line of his gaze. She stared up at him, her hands on her hips, brow furrowed, and began asking herself questions. Why was she here? Why did she want to help him? Why couldn't she let it go? Why did any of it matter? If they had been more similar, could they have been friends? Why did she want to know? Why did he have to be so interesting? Why did she have to hate him? Why did he have such fine, mysterious, brooding, dark eyes?

She shook her head, clearing her throat, and glanced down at his cuts. "Do you have any linen, or something of the sort? It will be temporary." She looked him over, remembering his dim-witted suggestion of sewing himself up. Right. He'd catch fleshrot and have to be amputated which, no doubt, he'd also suggest doing himself. Never. "After breakfast, I will sew you up. Unless you'd like me to heal you."

Artemis cocked a brow at her reaction to his little comment, as if his sewing himself up was new to him, Yeah, right, and as she frantically looked around for... something or another. His expression remained unchanged as she stopped and stared at him, though something in her eyes made him feel uncomfortable. He wouldn't show it. Then she asked about linen, if he had any, and suggested she would be the one to sew him up. Or heal him. Why was she obsessing over this whole ordeal?

He stood and crossed into his room, rummaging through the little sack on his table and pulling out worn (but clean) strips of fabric, a needle, and thread. "Miss Anatine," He growled, "I don't know where you come off in suggesting I am incapable of taking care of myself. I've been stitching my own wounds for years, now. I hardly need you fussing over me." He smirked, sitting down and lighting the candle that waited on his desk. "Really, I am not sure why you even bother threatening my life if you're just going to worry over a little scratch moments later." He turned the needle in the flame, waiting for the heat to sterilize the metal. "If you want to help, you could bring me that bottle of whiskey over by the sink." For the wound, of course. He didn't need to drink anything other than water or tea with the kind of hangover he was experiencing. His head still throbbed and the thought of drinking alcohol made his stomach turn.

He didn't just . . . Oh, gods. When she was done, she'd kill him. She grabbed the whiskey from where he'd pointed it out, and walked brusquely to him, snatching the hot needle from him when she got close enough. It burned a bit, but not enough to cause pain. She set the bottle decidedly on the table, her jaw set and eyes blazing. Gran used to laugh at her when she got this way - she'd say that Tallulah was the strongest woman in the world, when she set her mind to it. Said she could've made a tree lift up its roots and walk. "It's not that I have no faith in your capability," she sighed, tilting her head. "My mother . . . If there had been a doctor, or someone who knew . . . Anyway, I had much less to drink than you last night."

She sat softly in a chair opposite his, and moved the candle and supplies towards her, murmuring. "Your hands don't need any stitches, but your arm . . ." She had all she needed, so she set about sterilizing the needle, moving with a kind of confidence procured only when one has sewn together a wound at least once before. Taking the whiskey in one hand, she poured a fair amount directly on the gash on his arm. She immediately threaded her needle, making sure to soak the string in the alcohol as well before looking up at him. "This is going to hurt."

Without a second glance, she plunged the needle into his arm about a half of an inch away from the beginning of the gash, she then proceeded to tie a knot on either side of the string to make sure the stitch was as tight as possible. She continued this routine up to the end of the wound, where she gave it final knot before looking up at him again. "Knife?"

The alcohol, cold as it felt to his skin, burned unpleasantly as it cleaned the wound- as it bubbled over, taking with it plenty of blood and dripped from his arm and spattered onto the floor, a reddish stain. He set his jaw slightly. She was downright determined to take care of his wound herself. It was a bit irritating to say the least, but he set back and let her work, determined to point out any mistakes she'd make- she was bound to make mistakes, after all- she'd always had magic to take care of her wounds. But then, she'd sterilized everything correctly.



"It's nothing I'm not used to, Miss Anatine." He smirked. And then she plunged the needle into his skin, making sure each stitch was tight. It stung, but he was determined not to show it, his expression indifferent. When she was done, he took one of his throwing knives off the table and sliced the excess thread. "Interesting..." He looked Tallulah in the eye, "How comes it that you know how to stitch wounds? Do you not have magic for such things?" Of course, it was possible she was simply guessing- possible she had sewn a number of her outfits and used what knowledge she'd gained from that. But he doubted that was all. It was something in her manner as she had sewn the wound without much thought. As if she'd stitched wounds before. Personal experience? She had mentioned before that she didn't like to abuse the mona's power...

"Do you really want to know?" Her eyes, as she looked up at him were completely serious - only the slight smirk on her lips hinted at the say she felt about her little story. Tallulah took the linen pieces from the table and began binding the strips around the stitches, using what was left on his hands. Brushing her hand, she contemplated his question. There was no use in lying - she'd blown that little escape rout - so she was left with the truth. "When my father left, I smashed every mirror in our house. My hands were cut, and I refused to do magic, or to let anyone help. So, naturally, I had to . . . to learn a few things about stitching." She gave him a smile that was rather sad, but it had an air of acceptance to it that seemed well beyond the emotional maturity of many of her peers.

She sighed, and looked down at her hands. Her clean, white, unmarred yet still some how not right, hands, and then back up at him. She was about to say something more when her stomach growled. Loudly. "I believe you offered me breakfast. It seems I will have to accept." Her smile was a little more genuine the second time. It was only then that she realized her hair had come undone sometime during the night, so she swept the hip-length mass of white tresses over her shoulder, and began combing it absentmindedly with her fingers.

Ahh... Yet another part of her revealed. Perhaps more than she had intended. She had mentioned before that her father had been unable to handle her, and that one reason for this had been how very much she had looked like her mother. Had she been ashamed of her looks? Had she wished she could change them- or was it that, like her father, she couldn't stand to look at herself, because she looked so like the woman she had lost? Of course she had been angry. She'd had every right to be. Such a rage she must have been thrown into.

He could almost see her when she was done, bits of shattered glass all around her, hundreds of tiny reflections staring back at her as she huddled on the floor, gripping her hands and staring at them as they bled freely. Just as she would stare at them now, when she was nervous or trying to hide from him...

Oh, he remembered that rage- the loss of both his parents. How he had wanted to break things, but had had very little of his own that he could break. How he had shrugged off every last person in his tribe who could have helped him. And yet there was some form of acceptance. It gave him a part of her that he could respect. He smiled, vague understanding in his eyes, and nodded. "Breakfast it is, then."

He stood, crossing over into the kitchen, glad the stove had already heated up properly, and set to preparing tea, then bacon and eggs as he waited for the tea to finish. As he prepared the breakfast, he tried to recall what had happened the previous night that led them to this morning. He recalled being drunk, that much was obvious, but what had he said? He remembered questions being asked, but not which ones, and he recalled answering them one by one, but not how much he'd divulged.

While it vexed him that Tallulah had taken advantage of him when he was drunk, he was more curious as to what she had learned of him than anything else. It wasn't like he could take any of what he'd said back, after all. Finally, as he divided the bacon and eggs up onto two separate plates, he called over his shoulder, a bit nervous as to what exactly her response might be, "Might you refresh my memory, Tallulah, as to what I told you last night? I should like to know..." He snatched up a loaf of bread, cutting two small pieces for himself and Tallulah. The tea would be ready soon, as well.

As Artemis began fixing them breakfast, Tallulah let her eyes wander. Her hands stilled in her hair as her sights rested on an open book. By the looks of it, it was a journal. It was across the table from where Tallulah sat, the pages old yet not warn, the binding hidden yet still beautiful from what she could see. It was ornate and small, made out of a soft sort of leather. Reaching out a hesitant hand, she turned the thing toward her, watching as the pages flipped from the quill and to one of the first entries. She began reading, trying to decipher the scrawling pen. She lent towards the book, her hands delicately tracing the words.

The smell of eggs and bacon wafted around her. It was a sunny and homey and comfortable sort of smell, soft and warm and not unlike the way she'd felt curled next to him - no. She wouldn't think of that. She couldn't think of that, so she concentrated tenfold on reading, her curiosity growing as his penned thoughts became clearer.



She nearly jumped. "Oh, you . . . you told me about your father, and mother. And about leaving your clan. Nothing else, except gambling in Old Rose." Her voice was distracted and distant - her mind was being bathed in his words, in his writing, the few thoughts and feelings expressed on the page she read keeping her occupied to the fullest. He had lost his faith in the abilities of the heart by what she'd read. He called everyone and everything "vermin," and oh, how it struck a chord with the angrier part of Tallulah. How part of her wanted to laugh wickedly and agree.

But there was something more which reeled away from such a depressing notion. A part of her that wanted to believe that there was more to everyone than just a festering pile of greed. More to her than the basic need for survival. Her brow furrowed as she approached the end of the depressing entry, her mind racing to keep up with itself. It was almost as if she was in another world. His world.

Artemis listened as she gave a very short reply. He was strangely satisfied with the answer- it wasn't nearly as much as it could have been. He set the plates to the side, taking the tea from the stove and pouring each of them a cup. He vaguely wondered if Tallulah would be wanting sugar or honey in her tea. But that was a silly notion- since when did he care what other people thought of such things? Even so, he had no sugar or honey. They were luxuries, not necessities, and in the end weren't the most healthy thing anyway. Neither was alcohol, of course, but that was different in its own little way. He smirked at the thought, then set the table, his mind wandering.

He then turned to peer into his room where Tallulah still sat, "Breakfast is-" He blinked, noticing Tallulah thumbing through his journal as if she owned it, and his eyes narrowed, rage bubbling up within him. He stalked up to where she sat, field buzzing with tangible irritation, fingers twitching slightly. "Miss Anatine..." His voice was like ice as he snapped the journal shut, taking it from Tallulah in a strangely gentle manner, setting it down on the desk with equal care- care which starkly contrasted the fire burning in his eyes. But something kept him calm. Kept him restrained. It was with great effort that he kept his temper on a leash.

"Is it too much to ask that you wait?" His jaw clenched as a number of words rolled around on his tongue. He wanted to yell at her. To tell her to get out of his house and never bother him again. He wanted to hurt her so that she would run away in tears and never return. But at the same time, he really didn't. It was an irritating indecision which made it hard to think clearly, difficult find the words... "Are you so intent upon knowing that which is really none of your business that you would use only the most underhanded means possible to obtain such knowledge?" Get out of my house... It almost slipped from his lips, harsh and cruel, but he restrained it. Because... well he didn't even know why. Didn't he want her out of his life? "What ever happened to the challenge, mm? What ever happened to asking the right questions to obtain the answers you so desperately seek?"

She was a clocking golly. She had invaded his privacy. She had thrown every punch she possibly could at him and had stuck more weak points than any before her. She had threatened him in his own house with his own sword. She had brought nothing but trouble to an already troubled life. She was a golly. He had every reason to throw her out on her erse. To hate her. He did hate her... or so he thought. Why was he so adamantly restraining the anger that rose within him? Why wasn't he telling her to get the hell out and never return? His lips twitched and he turned away from her, not expecting an answer. "Breakfast is ready." The words were icy. "Eat, and then leave if that is your wish." Get out of my house. I don't want you here. Not now.

His words startled her. She hadn't expected to see such cruelty, not after she'd told him . . . She'd never poked at any wound while one was just fresh. She thought they'd had an understanding. Obviously, not. She looked down at her hands. No, he knew about that now, she couldn't do that. Her eyes searched, almost frantically for a place to rest that wouldn't be on him until she realized what she was doing and looked straight down at the table, clasping her hands rigidly on her lap.

She didn't know it was private until she'd read it, and then . . . then she couldn't help herself. It was wrong, and she knew it, but curiosity was a powerful thing. She just hadn't expected him to be so angry. So incredibly angry. It was like he was holding himself back, like he wanted to hurt her, or yell, or . . . or do something even more unpleasant. She blinked as the utter strangeness of the situation hit her - why did she care? Why couldn't she not feel bad? Where was her wit, her grace, her cool barriers? Gods, it was too early in the morning for this. Too damned early.

She reached for the plate he'd set in front of her, glancing at her pale, ghost-like hand and suddenly the thought of food made her sick. Why was she here? Why couldn't she leave? Why, despite the fear and guilt associated with this moment, didn't she want to leave? She sighed, wrapping her arms around her small chest, and looked up at him. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize that it was . . ." Turning her head to the side, she resisted the urge to pull her hands way from her body and fidget.

Instead, she offered an apologetic sort of smile. "I couldn't really read anything, anyways - your handwriting's dreadful."

Oh, gods, she looked so pitiful. He had almost expected her to yell at him or come back with some witty, cold rejoinder, or... something. But not this. She'd never shrunk back, before. Not like this. She looked almost like a kicked puppy. Like she didn't know she'd done something wrong, but how could she not? What, was he not entitled to his privacy as she was? He wanted to be angry at her- more so than he was already- but for some reason the anger ebbed instead, clinging stubbornly at the edges but not quite able to hold him so thoroughly as it had been moments before.

And then she apologized and his expression softened a little. Gods, what was it about this woman? Always sneaking past his defenses in some of the most unexpected of ways. He should have been angry at her, right? He should have yelled at her. Or something. But here he was, almost feeling guilty about the little outburst, restrained though it had been. No. No, he'd had every right to be upset, but... He sighed frustratedly, and then she cracked a joke about his penmanship and unexpectedly he laughed. Just one, small, hoarse laugh. It even cracked the tiniest of smiles on one corner of his lips, before fading away. Gods he was tired. And his headache wasn't going away any time soon. And he was hungry and had way too much on his mind.

"I've never exactly felt the need to put forth much effort in my penmanship, Miss Anatine. I write my thoughts that things might become more clear to me, not so that others can read them." He smirked, "I ask that you eat, Miss Anatine, not for your own health, but for the fact that I do not want such a grand meal to go to waste." He placed an air of sarcasm on the word grand, knowing full well Tallulah had had far better. But for him... He crossed over to the table, sitting back and sipping at the tea. He really hated tea. It still made him grimace sometimes.

Her returning laugh was light, and rather bright - especially for this early in the morning. "And such fine china, too." She exclaimed, tapping her finger against the tin plate he had given her. Her air was that of a countess or maybe a well mannered socialite. Either way, the mockery was their and did the job. She was glad the heavy atmosphere had been lifted. As far as she was concerned, early-morning-hangover-time was not the best, and adding emotional tension made it just that much more pleasant. She almost laughed a second time at this thought - wasn't she the one who had been threatening death only a moment ago? Ah, well. Her appetite had returned, so she bent her head, giving a little "thank you" to the mona, and then began to eat.

The eggs were surprisingly delicious, and the bacon was good too. The toast was good, though not as good as her own home-made loaves, and the same went for the tea. She blended her own brew, but on a morning like this, coffee would've been very much preferred. Though, she had to admit, all-in-all it was not bad. Not bad at all. She wasn't finished - she ate slowly, taking a bite from each thing on her plate, almost in a circle. It was odd, in a way, sitting there, eating with him, and she couldn't figure out why - and then it hit her. The scene, were someone looking in the window or had drawn them as they were, was so appallingly domestic in a sweet, bearable, comfortable sort of way. She set her fork down and slowly sipped her tea. "And here I thought you were a man of . . . limited talent." She smiled at him from over the top of her cup, the smile more of a smirk but still real. "Heave you ever thought of a career as a chef?" She was teasing him, but only half-way. She took another bite from her eggs. They really were very good.

He tilted his head to one side, curious, for some reason, to see how she would react upon that first bite. Bah, It was unimportant. If she didn't like it she didn't like it. No big deal- it wasn't like he was some great chef or anything. But just as he set to take the a bite of his own eggs, he heard the most unexpected thing from Tallulah's lips. A compliment. It was wrapped in an insult, certainly, but it was a compliment nonetheless. He blinked and looked up at her, as if having to make sure she was being serious. And by all appearances she was. This made a tiny little smile pull at the corners of his lips before he continued eating. Gods, he hadn't realized how ravenous he was until he'd had that first bite.



"Oh, please, Miss Anatine. I am glad you enjoy it, but really, I could hardly call myself a professional chef." He smirked, "Besides, I am sure you've had better." He finished off the eggs, following them up with another sip of tea. As he ate, he glanced out the window, at the rain steadily spattering the windows in a rhythmic, gentle rapping, his mind buzzing. How long had it been since he'd actually prepared breakfast for two? Since he'd had any sort of conversation quite so civil as this with someone? It was so pleasant, in its own way... but... No. No, he shouldn't allow himself to get used to such things. Particularly not with this woman. That would be a bad idea, indeed. He reached up and absently rubbed his left shoulder, wincing slightly. "Hmm..."

She smiled and went back to eating, glancing up only when he hummed. He was rubbing his shoulder, just like he had the other day, when he'd been so angry at her. She went back to eating, though slowly. She didn't want to reopen the package of emotion that she'd let out earlier, but she was just so damned curious. She chewed the last of her bacon slowly, before taking her teacup - it was more of a mug, really - and sitting back in her chair. Her ivory brow furrowed neatly, her face becoming contemplative, though not harsh, thoughtful, though not mean. She was weighing out her options.

The wound obviously had a story, so as she saw it, she could not ask him and continue their little dance, ask him, and loose the . . . the sort of comfortable acquaintanceship they had formed, or she could ask him, and add another step to the little ballet they did each and every time they met. Or he could not answer, she could poke and prod, he'd throw her out and they'd hate each other for all eternity. She liked all options, except the first. The others were an adventure. The first? Boring.

Tallulah cleared her throat, gesturing to the shoulder he'd rubbed with her cup. "What happened?" She asked bluntly, taking a delicate sip from the aforementioned cup, her snow-white eyebrows raised in expectant anticipation.

He blinked, his thoughts interrupted, glanced at Tallulah, then down at his shoulder, and slowly lowered his hand. He took another sip of tea, contemplating the question, turning it over in his head. Took a bite of bread. At first it seemed he hadn't heard her, or was attempting to ignore her. But he wasn't- he just needed to keep that restraint he'd managed to get hold of only moments before. It was sensitive. He then grunted softly, and met her gaze evenly. "It's merely a remnant of an old wound." Old. But not forgotten. "It plays up sometimes. Particularly when the weather gets like this." He smirked, but it held no humor. He kept talking, only because he didn't want her to keep asking questions- not about this.

"It was the third time I'd been shot in my life, but certainly not the last." He paused, finishing off the tea, "The third time I'd been shot, but the first time it hit bone. The first time it didn't go through and leave a clean wound." The corners of his lips twitched. "It shattered bone on impact..." He remembered where he'd been that night. Very clearly. He remembered he'd had no proper equipment with him for extracting the bullet. And how he didn't want to deal with someone who could help him... No. It wouldn't be wise to think of all that. He forced a smile, "It's funny, really. How you can get used to pain... how you can learn to shrug it off and pretend it's nothing. But in the end, it's still pain. Though you've conditioned yourself to handle it, it never really hurts any less." He shook his head slowly. Gods, had he meant to say all that? "But really, in the end... I suppose it's not really all that important..." He got up to pour himself more tea, but it was more to give himself something to do. He'd already lost his appetite.

He wasn't really answering her. Hah. If he thought he could get off that easy, he really hadn't learned as much about her as he'd once claimed. She took both of their plates in hand and followed him, placing the platters on his humble kitchen counter. Her own mug was hooked around her finger . She set it down as well, turning to him, her eyes as curious and prying as ever. "Judging by the faces you've been making, I'd say you don't really like tea. Either you're more jittery when hung over, or you're avoiding the question." She peered up at him, her brow cocked. She was going to try to get the truth from him the good, old-fashioned way - by asking. Over and over and over again until she drove him insane, or he answered, or he found some way to get rid of her.

The kitchen was small, and they were awfully close, but Tallulah would hear an explanation for his strange, shoulder-rubbing habit - preferably one with detail. For the morning, she'd decided she shouldn't do more harm than she'd done, which meant little to no serious insults, no commentaries on his past, and nothing but fair and honest trickery. Oh, this was going to be such fun.

Artemis grumbled something under his breath. Of course it wouldn't be that easy to get rid of her. He'd known, somewhere deep down, that she would keep asking. And he had a rotten feeling in his gut that if he didn't tell her now she would drive him to telling her later. Still, it was irritating and he didn't want to tell her. Didn't want to go over this particular part of his life. But... He glanced down into her curious, determined eyes. Eyes that said 'I will be nice about this, for now, but keep avoiding me and I will rip the answer from you one way or another.' Oh, gods, as if his headache wasn't bad enough as it was. He poured himself another cup, then refilled Tallulah's without even asking if she wanted any- may as well, it was empty and she'd seemed to like it fine.

"The truth is, Miss Anatine, I am not entirely sure you want to know this one." He crossed back over to the table, plopping into a chair and taking a long sip of tea, "I would hate for you to regret your curiosity by the time I've told you everything." But maybe if he told her she would leave him alone. Like that would ever happen. He smirked at the thought. No, she'd find something else to exploit until she'd broken him completely, or until he'd managed to somehow turn the tables in this little game and learn her dirty little secrets. That or she would, on an off chance, tire of him completely when she had what she wanted and go in search of more interesting pursuits. And he really wasn't sure at this point which option he wanted more- there was still so much of her that puzzled him.

"Regret is a thing not well rooted in my vocabulary, Artemis, and my curiosity . . . it has a mind of its own." Tallulah smiled, happy with how well she was able to articulate her thoughts. Especially now, when she was rather fuzzy and aching and trying to pull his secrets from him without being any kind of cruel. An idea struck her and she turned from him, nodding in appreciation for her cup of tea. She walked rather leisurely back to her chair, and sat slowly, holding her mug to her chest for warmth. She contemplated this little thought she'd hatched, blowing on her steaming cup.

Hmmm. It sure was an interesting idea, but she wasn't sure if it would be worth it. What if he . . . No, he wouldn't take advantage of her. He may have been rough and pretentious, but he wasn't cruel. He most certainly was not cruel. She hoped. So, with an odd sort of certainty, she focused the full force of her stare on Artemis. "I have a proposition. You tell me what I want, and I will answer you any question you see fit to ask." She tilted her head to the side and took a small sip from her cup of tea. "Do we have a deal?"

This.... was an interesting proposition, to say the least. The only issue was that it might not be a fair trade. She had given him little to work with. What he did know was all very touchy as it was, or seemed to be, and asking her about the specifics might lead to problems. She might get upset and refuse to answer. And flee. And then he would have given her a big part of himself, while she left him high and dry. That and he wasn't sure how much he trusted her to keep her word. While she seemed good for it- while he wanted to trust her, for some inexplicable reason, trust was a hard thing for him to give, and was never given on a whim. "Hmmmm..."

He watched the steam rising from his cup, mulling things over. There was so much he could ask her. So much he could learn from her. He could simply ask her what the most traumatic event in her life was, and ask for the specifics. Again, this could end poorly. Or it could leave either one of them with an unfair trade- but since when had he cared about what was fair for others? Oh, but what did it matter anyway? There was one thing he wanted, perhaps. He stated his next words carefully, precisely.

"Miss Anatine, I could ask you a number of questions, but with little to base them upon, I might be left with an unfair trade, or I might inquire after something that you may, in the end, be unable to answer." He took a sip of his tea, letting it roll around on his tongue as he turned the words over in his mind, then swallowed, "However, there are two small favors I would ask of you, and they may or may not be difficult." He looked her in the eye, "First, I would ask that you not speak of this to anyone. While I doubt you would do this in the first place, it is good to be clear. Secondly, I would ask that you not think any differently of me once I have told you what you wish to hear. I do not want your pity, and that which occurred in the past does not change the man I am today." This, for some reason, seemed a fair trade to him. In its own way, it felt more honorable. He raised a brow, "Do we have a deal?"

Tallulah's red, dark eyes widened slightly. She'd spoken those same words before, to someone else. She remembered quite clearly . . . Oh, gods. The look in Artemis's eyes, and the intense sorrow behind it did something to Tallulah. She didn't know what it was, but suddenly her stomach felt odd, and she regretted eating all of the food he'd given her. She fought back a blush, scolding herself silently. He was a wick. She was a golly. She had to hate him, because he was a lesser race. Gran had been . . . Gran had been an exception. He was not. He'd slit her throat as soon as look at her - it was his profession, after all. She blinked, as if to clear the thoughts from her head and set her tea on his small, wooden table.

Did they have a deal? Of course they did. Though, she was rather disappointed in his lack of interest in her - wait. What? She didn't want him to have any interest in her. Not in the slightest. It was wrong, and a bad idea, not just for him, but for her as well. Yet there she was, agreeing to his terms, her ivory head bowing slightly. "Yes, we have a deal."

She looked back at him, and crossed one leg over the other, her posture perfect and hands hidden as she tucked them to her chest. The curiosity lay unyielding in her eyes, as well as her field, a softer, more open air about her than what there had been before. "So. What happened to your shoulder, Mr. Diotrephes?" She asked a second time, a small smile curving the snowy fullness of her soft lips.

"It is not what happened to my shoulder that interests you, Miss Anatine." He smiled in spite of himself, vaguely amused at her question, "If that were the case, you would have left me well enough alone upon hearing my answer. What I told you was the truth." He leaned back in his chair, smile turning to a smirk, "No, what you want to know is the events that led up to it. I apologize in advance, it is a long story, and it involves the woman you so enjoy bringing up."

He turned his gaze to the window, and the gray, rain-filled sky outside. His smirk faded slightly. He was about to tell her something he was fairly certain no other living person knew. “I believe when I left off, last night, I had mentioned something about turning down a job…?" That sounded right, from what he could pick from the fuzzy memory of his drunken prattle. "Of course, it is generally unwise to refuse offers from powerful men…” He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recall what exactly she already knew, and what she didn’t. “One night I found myself bleeding out in some forgotten alley, gutted like a fish. The pain was… almost unbearable. I thought I was going to die. Perhaps I should have…” He sipped his tea, taking his time. While he wanted to get this over with, he also wanted to make everything perfectly clear so that there would be no more questions regarding this in the future. “It felt like ages… just lying there in a pool of my own blood, waiting for death. But death never came. Instead…” His expression softened ever so slightly, “She was there. She had heard my cries… and came to my aid. She and her family took me in, sewed me up, and nursed me back to health. Her name was Theresa.”

He paused, allowing a quick glance in Tallulah's direction. To see how she would react? Possibly. Or it could have been a quick break for more tea, which he raised to his lips, savoring the warmth, but not the flavor.

She looked down at her hands, eyes closing briefly. He'd mentioned something about seeing his innards when they'd first met, but this was just . . . She shuddered, her hands turning even paler as she clenched them. Gods, what he had endured put her own troubles to shame. And then he mentioned something about a woman, and a wave of emotion hit her. Jealousy? That was stupid. Why should she be jealous, she had no reason to be jealous - none at all - because he was trouble and if other women were partial to trouble, well, then they could have him and take him and leave her the bloody hell alone, then, couldn't they? Yes. That's what they could do. She shook her head and looked back up at him, her eyes both confused and questioning. "What happened to her?" She asked quietly, both needing, and afraid of, his answer.