A Lamp at the Door (Closed)

[Obuzeti]

It's Beaumont who figures out who they're bound to, usually, but Raim always gets the first tinge of their presence, like prickly cold sunshine on his back. He's always thought it's an effect like synesthesia, the brain attempting to interpret inputs that it doesn't have the wiring for. He's used to the sensation showing up periodically, but this time it's so immediate and intense that the hairs on the back of his neck and his forearms stand up. It's someone who wants to be, viscerally, face pressed to the other side of the glass. Raim cringes and leans against the push-bar of his grocery cart.

"You alright?" Beaumont says, carrying over a brief selection of fruit. It's expensive, especially at this grocery store - one of those earth food places that costs more than he's comfortable with, but the food is reliably of good quality, no bad bruises or ruined fruit, and less preservatives that give him headaches and a plastic aftertaste - so it's just a banana bunch, some grapes, and a batch of clementines. A twelve-year-old, boredly wandering down the aisle, starts and jumps back, staring at the fruit as his friend sets them down. "Look like a goose walked over your grave."

"Somebody the next aisle over has a strong passenger," Raim replies with a twist of his lips. "Angry baby times are ahead."

"Isn't that the wine aisle?" Beaumont inquires.

There's a clatter of plastic as something rebounds off a shelf, propelled at uncomfortable speeds. The pinpricks of sunlight burn bright on his face for a second and Raim grimaces, ducking back from the phantom heat. "No, household goods. Though I'd understand if this drove somebody to drink."

He rattles his fingers over the handlebar of the grocery cart for a moment, indecisive, and then starts pushing it down towards the end of the aisle. "I'm going to go see if I can calm it down. Shouldn't be a minute."

Beaumont hums, noncommittal, but falls in behind Raim, grabbing a set of grapes off the misted display wall as he goes. The twelve-year-old creeps behind them, eyes fixed on the bunch as he sets it in the cart.

Raim turns the corner and takes in the scene with a faint frown. There's dishsoap in a puddle about a third of the way down the aisle, and a woman standing with her cart looking upset. He takes in himself - blue jeans, flannel shirt, morning hair - but it's the grocery store and no one comes here with an excess of dignity, and it's not like this is at the office anyways. He rolls forward, head bent against the invisible brightness he can feel on his skin, and says, "Hey, take it easy."

Not to the woman - to the presence attached to her, the prickling sunshine. It's not coherent enough to have a body or an identity, yet, but he can feel it concentrating, and he manages to catch a bottle of detergent before it can come off the shelf. There's an omnipresent rattle as movement surges down the aisle, unsettling the squeeze-bottles, though the heavier containers remain unmoved. The handle is warm like it's been left out in the sun, and Raim closes his eyes and lets his fingers curl around something that's not quite there, delicate and under his palm, like -

- the fingers of a woman. No ring. Paint-splotched, callused from work with easel and brush.

"You'll see all the colors you want, soon," he assures, and the presence soothes a little to the sound of his voice. The uneasy stir in the air settles, like a long exhale on the back of his neck, and Raim grins a little at a curl of amusement that pokes at him, like a distant promise. He opens his eyes, and stares at the other woman in the aisle. Blinks, comes back to himself.

He's still just standing in the aisle, awkward, and there's dishsoap soaking into his tennis sneakers. Too tall, brown haired and fresh out of long-limbed gangliness, glasses perched awkwardly on his nose in front of bright blues. There's something of a lemur in the way Raim walks - graceful in the way he moves around himself, effortless in the oddest positions and stretches. Comfortable in himself, but not with others.

"Sorry, you just looked like you were having trouble," he says, uneasily, and steps back out of the spreading puddle. His shoes slap wetly on the tile, drawing a grimace out of him. "Heard it from the next aisle over. She should behave for a little bit now."

Beaumont, behind him, adds some paper towels and Gain to their cart. The kid that's been stalking them from behind gapes at the purple detergent as it soars over her head and parks itself in their cart. He chuckles at the awestruck look on the tyke's face, as she stares.

 

[littlebluebird]

Olivia is only a few steps into the household goods aisle, before she feels it. That all too familiar tremor in the air, that causes the hair at the back of her neck to stand on end.

No. No, no, no…please. Not here. Not now.

She tries to remind herself to take slow, deep breaths, before the migraine stops her dead in her tracks. Lightning shooting up her spine, and into her skull leaving a line of fire in its wake. Olivia winces, as she taps her smartwatch - initiating a stopwatch count. Her hands hold the push-bar of her cart in a white knuckle grip, while her vision tunnels and blurs.

This isn’t the first time an episode like this has happened to her. It is, however, the first time in public.

A bottle of dish soap tumbles off the shelf with aggressive speed, and cracks open upon hitting the ground. Blue liquid escaping across the tiles. At least it’s not glass, this time.

Dread pools in her soul as she notices the figure of someone rounding the corner and coming down the aisle.

Olivia is there, but not quite. She likens the experience to sleep paralysis, but during waking hours, plus extra factors. “Extra factors” being anything from lights flickering or burning out, electronics acting up and/or crashing, or the latest flavor of the month: inanimate objects flying across the room.

Time seems to warp and slow, while her body refuses to move. The sound of her shallow breathing, and the pounding of her heart, merge with the deafening white noise that’s drowning all else.

On the outside, she imagines she looks somewhat normal; albeit frozen in place. Standing in the middle of the aisle, holding her cart, looking ahead. Inside, she’s a panicking mess, trying to regain control of her body.

It was only a matter of time before other items in the aisle were going to move on their own accord…

In the midst of everything, she realizes that the person before her is speaking. She hears their gentle tone, but can barely discern the words over the static that makes their voice sound more distant than the few yards they actually are.

Olivia knows that all she can do is wait things out. She anticipates the clattering sounds of more fallen bottles and canisters. Sounds, that typically marked the end of the paralytic spell she was in.

Sounds, that this time around, never end up happening.

The hold on her body slowly ebbs away, as she hones in on the soothing cadence of a man’s voice. It’s cutting through the incessant hum, and now she’s focusing on it like a damn life line…

It happens in a matter of seconds. Olivia’s senses come back to her in a fast and sudden rush. Her body instinctively takes several deep and shuddering breaths, as if she was underwater a touch too long, and was finally able to break the surface. It takes a moment for her to release the death grip on her cart, and somehow remember to tap her watch again. Dipping her head, she closes her eyes; gathering herself.

“Sorry, you just looked like you were having trouble. Heard it from the next aisle over. She should behave for a little bit now.”

Olivia blinks her eyes open, and looks up to stare at a very tall man back-stepping from a puddle of dishsoap. Her blue-grey eyes, behind clear frames, taking in the scene before her. She doesn’t know quite what to say, or even how to react.

So, she laughs. And, it’s a nervous and almost awkward sound that’s quite honestly, on the verge of tears. Trouble. God, if he only knew. “Yeah,” her voice cracks before she continues, “I actually kind of was. Thank you…” she trails off, trying to find her next words.

Yes, thank you for somehow saving me from this weird paralytic state I’ve been intermittently experiencing, ever since I moved to this place.

That, would go over, just swimmingly.

Olivia sighs and threads her fingers through her hair; lazy waves of light and dark caramel that frame her face in an angled bob. She’s wearing an oversized sweater that hangs off one of her shoulders, and jeans that hug her legs like a second skin. She’s dressed for comfort, not to impress, and at the moment feels like hell.

“I, uhm…” she trails again, as she checks her watch. :53 seconds. The duration of the episode. Not the longest she has experienced, but definitely one of the most intense. Then, a detail finally registers in her mind.

Her focus snaps back to his face, “You said, she? She should behave? Who…” she glances about the expanse of the aisle they occupied, before continuing, “who are you referring to?” She starts closing the distance between them, just as another movement distracts her. “Do you actually know—“ Olivia cuts off her own words as she watches paper towels and detergent seemingly float into the man’s cart. Her brows knit in thought, while she continues to absentmindedly walk towards him; completely forgetting about the spilled dishsoap all over the floor.

“What is hap—“ This time, her words are cut off by her sudden loss in balance. Her canvas shoes, no match for the soap-slicked floor, cause her to slide across the tile and barrel into the stranger she’s just crossed paths with. Olivia is a flurry of limbs as she tries to regain her balance, and out of desperation, ends up grabbing his flannel sleeve.

 

[Obuzeti]

Raim raises his hands in self-defense and grimaces - then spots the soap a moment before the lady walks into it, and drops an aborted half-syllable as he lunges awkwardly forward to catch her mid-fall. Beaumont takes a quick step forward and snags his partner's other shoulder, and it's only his support that kept the both of them from falling. The thinner man laughs, a little awkward, and nods up at his compatriot. "Thanks for the catch," he says, and waddles himself and Sophie off the dishsoap with a minimum of dignity.

Beaumont doesn't respond verbally. He just flicks up an eyebrow, lets them both get steadied, and then walks off to go mess with the kid following them some more.

Raim, on the other hand, is stuck with the fact that he very obviously stopped falling when he hadn't had his feet under him, and this is a woman already clearly determined to get answers. He has them, granted, but this wasn't the kind of thing he'd bargained for at the grocery store. He closes his eyes and takes a calming breath, then smiles at Sophie. It's a little strained, but he suspects that's in good company. "You've got a hlessi forming. It's - look, walk with me a second, I should at least let an employee know there's a spill out here."

He heads for the end of the aisle, his shoes wetly slopping across the tile. "She - yes, it's a she - is trying to synthesize with you. Unfortunately, it's a turbulent process, and adrenaline kind of shunts her aside. The result of which, you've seen."

Raim gives his impromptu student a wry smile. The off-the-shoulder sweater she's wearing has become disheveled, and there's a long, clean arc of neck and collarbone that he immediately glances away from on reflex. That's a lot more skin than he sees on a regular basis, being a bachelor postgraduate wading his way through debt. His mouth moves before he can think about it, technical babble saving the day again. "The adrenaline taints the melding process, and the guest almost invariably starts throwing things in response - they haven't got conscious processes yet, so they can't really talk themselves down from fight-or-flight, they just go right off into tantrums. Try to stay calm, maintain your blood pressure at lower levels. It helps a lot, whichever way you decide to go."

There's a lot of bad knowledge out there, these days. All those far-winger disformation videos and campaigns, the church rhetoric, none of it's accurate, but getting the news out past the periodicals and scientific journals has been an exercise in futility. Raim knows what it's like to be one of the recycling hawks, now - no one takes you seriously, even if there's no one that knows the topic better than you.

At the other end of the aisle, a feather duster floats off the rack it'd been hanging on. It traces a long, slow circle as Beaumont flourishes the thing, then flips it over on end and offers the handle to the little girl. She takes it, open-mouthed and bewildered, and Beaumont flicks the other end with his hand, bouncing it up.

The girl shrieks with laughter and dances back half a step, dropping the duster. "Where are - who are you?" she asks, clear curiosity shining in her eyes.

Beaumont cracks a smile, but doesn't answer, because she'd never hear. Instead, he steps on the other end of the duster and flips it up for him to catch, then sketches a bow to the young girl, using the duster to elaborate so she can get some idea of the motion.

 

[littlebluebird]

“You’ve got a hlessi forming.”

Olivia’s current expression shifts from one of deep concentration to perplexed thought and back again. Her brows furrow as she takes in the details of what happened, and connects them with what the man before her is explaining.

Hlessi.

It’s a concept that had come up several times, during her own search for answers. And every time she saw the theory present itself, she disregarded it. There was no scientific research to back it up. No extensive studies. No recorded methodology. It was a black hole of smoke and mirrors.

Or was it?

“You seem to be rather knowledgeable on the subject,” the tone of her voice borders on skepticism and distrust. But when she glances down the aisle, she can’t deny what she sees, or what she felt from earlier. “Are you…bonded with one of these,” she carefully pauses to mimic his pronunciation of the term, "hleesi?”

She watches the feather duster dance in front of the child, and interestingly enough, it’s the little girl’s laughter and unadulterated delight, that somehow reminds her of social norms.

Olivia worries her lower lip for a second, then sighs at her own self-awareness. “You know what? I’m sorry,” she genuinely meets his eyes for the first time, and returns a wry smile of her own. “I probably came off sharper than I intended, and that was rude as hell of me to ask you, outright like that. Especially after helping me.”

At 5’5,” she’s considered average height, but as she takes in the stature of her new acquaintance, she realizes that even in her tallest heels, he would still be another head and shoulders taller. Maybe more, still.

Her thumb and index finger find their way under her glasses, and pinch the bridge of her nose. A light dusting of freckles dance beneath her fingertips, when she does so. It’s an act that provides both a modicum of relief and just a little space to deal with her chagrin.

“Not that it’s an excuse, but I actually came in to pick up some coffee. Helluva way to start the day, right?” she asks with a bit of a laugh. “I’m Olivia, by the way. Olivia Driscoll,” she extends her hand towards him. “I just moved here, a couple months ago, and I’ve been trying to figure out a couple things. As you’ve seen.”

 

[Obuzeti]

"I did my doctorate on the subject," Raim says, rather wry. "I would hope that all the education did not fall to the wayside. And yes, my partner's named Beaumont Fletcher."

There's a whole set of careful terminology around hlessi; it's a role that English doesn't have good nouns for. The closest, due to its generality, is partner, or guest. Outright referring to them as ghosts or spirits tends to backfire when the religious crowd gets involved, so academia has shied away from that.

She apologizes, then, and the self-awareness takes some of the fraught tension out of his shoulders; for a moment, it'd felt like he'd walked into an accidental confrontation with a fundamentalist, and thought he'd fucked up. That would have ruined his entire day. Instead, what he abruptly notices when she palms her own face is that she's cute, in a demure kind of way, and very short, both things that fit right into his strike zone. Outright sexiness he's always deflected or ignored, but this is subtle enough to keep knocking him off balance when he's not paying attention.

"Ah - " he says, blinking and takes her hand. It's smooth and soft. "Raim Bexley, at your service. And, to be honest, I get it. That's probably one of the worst episode's I've seen, it's probably terrifying to experience. But for what it's worth, she can't and never will hurt you. Think of it like a baby crying. It's someone that doesn't know what they're doing and want help."

He's professionally babbling, which is usually a safe defense. Beaumont starts snickering from down the aisle, where he finally hands over the feather duster and starts back towards where his host is standing. "Christ, Raim."

Raim's eyes flick that way, but otherwise doesn't respond. That's a lot to pile onto someone that had no idea what was happening, so he just lifts a finger towards Beaumont, begging for patience, and says with some gentleness, "If you only just moved, there was probably someone lingering around the apartment that is trying to tie to you. Might be worth asking nearby residents who lived there, before you."

It's one of those things that doesn't have a lot of documented data, but the more recently a hlessi has passed, the more startling the symptoms of its manifestations tend to be. The older ones settle down some and are gentler, but - since they're all unconscious at that point, as he's found in interviews, how would any of them know the difference?

It's mysterious.

 

[littlebluebird]

Olivia’s smile is warm when she nods in recognition, “Ah, so a student of exopsychology?” She at least gleaned that, from her brief skims on the subject of hlessi. The young woman ponders a moment, before testing the single syllable on her palate. “Raim, is it?” she asks, her head tilting ever so slightly. “I don’t think I’ve heard that name before. Though I suppose I should be addressing you as Dr. Bexley?”

The warmth of his hand lingers on hers as she releases from their handshake. She hooks her thumbs into her belt loops, giving her hands something to do, while she stands before him.

It’s his eyes that she notices, while he speaks - they’re brighter than her own. Like the summer sky on a clear day. The gentleness of his voice complements his presence, which she finds calming and full of reassurance. Olivia is quietly impressed with how grounded he is, in the delivery of his knowledge; with morning hair and all...she finds that part the most charming.

When Raim gestures, “wait a moment,” she can’t help but look in that direction. Apparently, his partner, Beaumont, was there. Somewhere. Olivia narrows her eyes, in an effort to catch a glimpse of something more than what her brain is allowing to interpret. But, all she sees is the little girl holding the feather duster with joyous wonder, in an otherwise empty grocery aisle.

She hopes like hell she isn’t falling for some elaborate con-act.

"If you only just moved, there was probably someone lingering around the apartment that is trying to tie to you. Might be worth asking nearby residents who lived there, before you."

Olivia’s eyes go wide as Raim’s words register. Details coming to the forefront of her mind: her apartment building was recently restored and renovated, the rent was too good to pass up, the 2-year lease requirement, and high penalty early termination clause. She blinks and laughs under her breath, “I’m at the Avondale Apartments.” The young woman, let’s that hang in the air for a second, before barreling on.

“By any chance, do you have a card? Are you currently seeing patients?” She follows up quickly, so as not to sound too desperate, “Or do you know someone who you could refer me to?”

Olivia hopes he’s available. For professional reasons, of course.

 

[Obuzeti]

Raim's smile brightens. It's rare that anyone even recognizes it as a field, much less knows the proper name. He's been called a medium, a mystic, and a hack; exopsychologist is so much better. "Only if we were in a professional setting, Miss Driscoll. I rather doubt the grocery store counts as that."

She links her thumbs into her belt loops - an typically masculine habit, one that only forms when one has worn belt loops consistently, or as a conscious choice to keep the hands busy. On the other hand, the sweater and the - fit - of the jeans indicate comfort in her own body.

Raim's eyes barely flicker as he processes this, and decides to throw her a bone in response. "Beaumont, grab a set of paper towels, will you?" he calls back.

"Putting on a show?" the other man inquires, taking a double roll from the shelf and carrying it over to Raim's cart, depositing it within.

"Olivia needs a counterexample," the doctor replies with a wry smile. Then the woman in question barrels onward into questions, and he can't help but smile in response; she's awkward, but decisive, and he can't help but respect that. A solution has presented itself, and she's moving on it quickly. "Client is a strong word for it," he says, rueful. "I'm in the process of attempting to rent out some office space over on Fullerton Boulevard so I can get set up; it's just taking some time. As for business cards, though -"

He fishes in his pocket for a moment, and comes out with a beat-up leather wallet, then spends another second looking through that before he manages to produce a white business card that he hands over. On it is stenciled:

Dr. Raim Bexley
Exopsychologist
Hlessi Consultations
622 Fullerton Boulevard, Columbia
803-556-1927​

"If you want a consultation, I'm glad to comply, given that my business proper is stalled until I'm allowed to set it up," Raim says, a little dry. "It makes me feel useful and such."

"Idiots," Beaumont mutters, and there's actual irritation in his voice - the remainder of guilt. The holdup is because of liability questions, and everyone with a registered hlessi, particularly someone as prominent as a doctor, is subject to them. Being as they're impossible to question and establish histories for without the cooperation of the client, the spirits are a major stumbling point for liability agencies, and both safety deposits and insurance tend to be higher for their hosts. There's no evidence supporting that they cause damage, but it's been stupidly difficult to argue that to insurance providers, who like to argue it as a preexisting condition, with all the associated baggage that term carries.

 

[littlebluebird]

Olivia’s cheeks tinge the slightest shade of pink, when she hears Raim address her formally. “Please, call me Olivia.”

She listens to him call to his partner for paper towels, and when another double roll seemingly floats into his cart, for the second time that morning, she can’t help but pinch herself, and laugh. “I..I can’t believe I’m really seeing this. God, I have so many questions right now. I don’t even know where to start.”

The excitement in her voice is threaded with an underlying level of relief. Finally, she might be able to get some answers with what she’s been experiencing these past few months. Hell, just being able to talk to someone, especially someone with firsthand experience with what she’s been going through, would be comforting, in and of itself.

Olivia’s expression lights up when Raim mentions Fullerton Boulevard, “Oh! The agency I work for is right off of Fullerton! Let me get a card for you as well.” She pulls her wristlet from her cart, and fishes out a card of her own.

Jupiter Marketing
960 Fullerton Blvd, Columbia

Olivia Driscoll
Data Visualization Analyst

e: olivia.driscoll(at)jupitermktg.com
o: 803-575-4000 ext. 701
m: 989-233-6205
​

She exchanges her glossy card for his, with a bright smile. Raim is the first person, outside of her industry, that she has given her card to; a detail she figures isn’t important to share her new acquaintance, but delights her all the same.

“My cell phone and email are on there; I’m pretty responsive with both.” Olivia worries her bottom lip when she realizes how hasty she may have sounded, then busies herself with taking in the details of his card.

“I’d absolutely love a consultation-“ Olivia catches the time on her watch, and blinks. “I didn’t realize the time…I don’t want to keep you longer than I have. I’m sure you had ‘save woman from poltergeist-like activity’ on your checklist, this morning.” She chuckles before continuing, “I could call you on Monday, to set something up?

 

[Obuzeti]

"You already have," Beaumont answers, dry. Olivia can't hear him - Raim's gift for interpreting hlessi is a fantastically rare condition, one that other doctors have long salivated over - but sometimes his need to quip overcomes his regard for reality.

Raim takes the card and looks it over, his brows furrowing as he takes it in. It's neater than his own, not least the umcomfortable realization that he should probably have a landline installed, but at the moment he can't afford a receptionist. He'd have taken the consultation just to help pay his own bills, but Olivia's complete attention warms his cheeks involuntarily and curves his lips. There's something of the schoolboy about how he turns and tucks his head when he smiles, hair briefly dipping over his eyes before he combs it back with a hand. "I'd be glad to talk or set something up," he says, a little bowled over in the face of her enthusiasm. "Monday, you said?"

Even that's mostly a bluff because all of his time is consumed trying to get his office space issues settled and exchanging phone calls with the AMA, as they attempt to work out the particulars of his field. Proper appointments and schedules to fill his time have fallen by the wayside; if his phone isn't ringing or in use, he doesn't have much to do.

"Save is a bit of an exaggeration, despite how distressing I'm sure it is," Raim notes. "I'd -"

Raim chokes a moment, caught in the awkward straddle between professional courtesy and the fact that Olivia has a really nice smile, and has yet to look away.

" - It'd be a pleasure to hear from you," he says, and tries not to die inside.

Beaumont starts outright laughing.

 

[littlebluebird]

Olivia playfully scoffs at his modesty, “Honestly, had it been anyone else that found me, I’d be cleaning dish soap and who knows what else, off the floor, or -“ she pauses a beat before going into a mock wince. “The more likely scenario: I’d be running out of here in complete and utter embarrassment, which would then lead to a self-imposed ban of never coming back. And that, would be a tragedy, because let’s be real, this store has the best produce selection, out of all the nearby options.”

With a chuckle, she glances at the ground, and tucks her hair behind her ear. “I had a doctor try to get me on anti-anxiety meds after I tried to explain what I was experiencing. Then,” she lets out an exasperated sigh before continuing, “I had a friend suggest cleansing my apartment by burning sage, or something.”

She typically wouldn’t have shared details like that, especially with someone she had just met, but there’s something about Raim’s genuine concern and the warmth of his smile that garners Olivia’s trust.

The young woman shakes her head with a slight eye roll, before meeting Raim’s eyes. “So, yeah, you saved me, and I’m so grateful for your advice, and the fact you were here.” Her teeth press into her lower lip, not sure where to look, so her gaze finds the tiled floor again. “And thank you, Beaumont, for the catch. I’m pretty sure I would’ve ended up with a solid goose egg, at the back of my head.”

Heat returns to her cheeks, at the idea of speaking to someone there, but not visibly so. Her hands finding solace in her back pockets, while she shifts her weight from heels to tip-toe. She notes again how tall he is in comparison.

”It’d be a pleasure to hear from you.”

Olivia nods in agreement, and clears her throat, trying to keep her fluttering heart in check. “Yeah, Monday - I’ll call around lunch time?” Her hands find the push bar of her cart, “Thank you, again, Raim.” And with that, she parts ways from the doctor and his partner. She’s smiling like a giddy schoolgirl, with a definite skip to her step as she strolls down the aisle.

When she rounds the corner, she remembers a few gems of advice that sparked inspiration for further research. Olivia pulls her smartphone and starts typing in the query for nearby libraries.

 

[Obuzeti]

Raim watches her go. There's a visible pop in her step, and that reassures him more than anything else - the voice can lie, but he's made her happy in a way that even the body can't ignore. God, he hopes he's not just catching things that aren't there. He can't even remember the last time he felt such complete and mutual attraction like this. Usually he manages to do something stupid, though he's fairly certain that starting the conversation on probably his only area of expertise made him look dashingly competent, whatever that means in this age.

"Get out of your head," Beaumont says, and pokes Raim hard in the side. He jolts and laughs, embarrassed. "You did good."

"It's not that I doubt that," Raim replies, "More that I tend to screw good things up if I pay too much attention to them."

"I'm sure this'll be a comfort to you, but they screw up if you don't pay attention to them too," Beaumont says, acerbic. "In fact, they're more likely to. In the meantime, you're pioneering a new field of scientific study. We'll make it through."

Raim huffs a breath, and leans for a moment against Beaumont's shoulder - his friend, his protector, his greatest ally, his brother. There are no good words for what hlessi really are in English, none that connotes the intimate bond that sets when someone owes you their entire existence. He's desperately grateful for Beaumont, and in return, the other man has never failed him. There's been difficulties on their path, but never anything the other man has so much regarded as a challenge rather than a temporary inconvenience.

"Now, should I go put one of these paper towel stacks back?" Beaumont inquires, more snidely, and Raim flushes as he realized he'd doubled up on that by accident, and rather in front of his new acquaintance. "I told you they're more likely to."

 

[littlebluebird]

Olivia braces several books in the crook of her arm, along with her grocery tote, while she wrestles her key into her apartment door. With a quick twist, the deadbolt disengages, allowing her to depress the lever handle and enter 4D.

It’s the larger than life windows with its unimpeded view of the city, that stole her heart, and make it sing every time she opens the door. The brick walls and exposed beams, lending to high 16’ ceilings, didn’t hurt either.

She hangs her keys on the wall and taps a nearby screen linked to wireless speakers that fill the open space with the instrumental work of Nujabes.

When Olivia first arrived, she immediately pegged the top-floor, 2 bed / 1 ba loft as out of her range and way more room than she could ever need. But, when the leasing agent revealed that the previous tenant had left abruptly, and offered her a verbal agreement, she countered with a lower monthly payment to sign right then and there. And won.

Or so she thought.

Out of all the issues she could have anticipated with moving into a new place, encountering a hleesi was nowhere on her list.

Olivia drops the tote on the kitchen counter, then makes her way over to her workspace. A dual monitor setup, upon a desk that’s covered in sticky notes and stacks of work-related documents and folders. She takes her seat, setting her newly acquired books next to her.

Her latest library trip revealed some of her building’s history. An industrial cotton mill constructed in the late 1800’s that stayed strong and held steady growth well into World War II, before closing its doors sometime in the 60’s. Ownership switched hands from the original founding families to several corporate investors over the next few decades - this is where the details of its history drop off. Between a great city fire in the 70’s and a hurricane that just about leveled the area in the 90’s, the bones somehow survived, but the entire interior had to be rebuilt. A lengthy and steep financial endeavor that left the building in a transitional standstill until its latest investor took on the project and began loft-conversion construction.

With a site history spanning over a hundred years, who knows who was trying to tie to her.

A nudge of her mouse brought the studio monitors to life, and an open browser window. There was limited printed material on the topic of hleesi, but she did come across a medical journal with one of Raim’s articles. Beaumont was credited as his research assistant.

Curiousity killed the cat…
Olivia pulls the business card from her pocket, and carefully types into the query field of her browser: “Dr. Raim Bexley + Beaumont Fletcher + hleesi”

…but satisfaction brought it back.
The search returns more than several links to articles, video interviews, and photos. She slides one of the vids over to her secondary screen and hits play while she continues to scan a few articles. His voice bringing back memories of their encounter earlier in the day.

It doesn’t take long before she realizes that Raim is a bit of a celebrity, if not pioneer in the field of exopsychology. She smiles with a bit of mirth, “Who would’ve thought?”

Just as Olivia clicks another link, she feels that familiar tremor in the air coalesce around her. Jesus - twice today? This never happened before. She grimaces and taps her smartwatch again. Glancing at the open shelves of her kitchen, she's thankful that she finally replaced what was left of her glass and dishware with plastic.

Raim’s voice in the background helps remind her of his advice: “Stay calm. Keep your blood pressure low. She can’t hurt you.”

She closes her eyes, and focuses on breathing slow and deep, trying to keep the adrenaline rush at bay. On a lark, she tries something she hasn’t done before, and attempts to talk through the episode. “Look,” her lips press together before she continues, “I know you’re trying to communicate with me, but you’ve honestly been freaking me out.”

Her hands feel clammy, but the migraine is being held at a distance.

“I found someone that can help. I just...need some time.”

In a last ditch effort, the young woman opens her eyes, not focusing on anything in particular, and speaks solemnly, “I promise, I’ll listen.”

Within seconds, the uneasy stir in the air settles, granting Olivia a moment to get a hold of herself. Her breathing is slightly unsteady; unsure if the episode has actually abated. She taps her watch, and stands abruptly while scanning the apartment - nothing has fallen or flown across the room. Check. She moves her hands, and walks across the living area - no sense of paralysis like a few of the recent episodes. Double check.

IT WORKED!

Overwhelming joy and absolute relief sweeps through Olivia, almost bringing her to tears. Reacting off impulse, she finds her phone and starts entering the doctor's info; her hands slightly trembling. After a few attempts at trying to string a coherent text, she finally opts to call instead.

It’s when she hears the ringtone on the other end, that she realizes she didn’t take a moment to rehearse what she wanted to say. No matter, she reasons quickly. It was the weekend. He probably wouldn’t answer.

 

[Obuzeti]

Groceries were normally part of Chore Day, which involved laundry, checking the car fluids, sending in paperwork, and all the other miscellaneous chores of life that piled up over time. Raim sorted through the various e-mails he'd accumulated - the most important being another speaking engagement at the state university. There'd been a steady stream of these with various international visitors and other important personages, as he worked to impress the fact that hlessi were a real and quantifiable phenomenon on a public that had centuries of disbelief trained into it. That was next Tuesday, though, and in the meantime nothing else demanded a personal appearance.

"Anything important?" Beaumont calls, as he starts putting away the groceries - there's not a lot of them, given Raim's not a big eater and prone to eating out anyways. That's good, because the mini fridge/freezer combo doesn't have the room for a lot of food, and the tiny kitchenette in their cramped studio apartment doesn't allow for a lot of variety. It's all one room, with the space in the main room mostly taken up by the bed and the workdesk opposite it. There's a little table where he and Beaumont can sit, but that's about the only indulgence he has room for. Moving off university had become a necessity after he had, abruptly, become the biggest name in his field, mainly by virtue of being the only accredited doctor in it. Privacy and peace of mind had ceased to exist there.

"Another visitor at the uni, this one an exchange from Sydney," Raim answers, as he starts typing out an email to a magazine, correcting a quote they'd misused. Beaumont wasn't trespassing in his body - that sure as hell wasn't the message he wanted getting across. At this point he was fully manifested and separate. At the early stage, though, hlessi tended to manifest as synesthesia while the nerves reconfigured to perceive their wavelength.

"Sounds important," Beaumont notes, as he tosses the grocery bags in the garbage, starts to turn for his paperback stack, and then catches a gimlet eye from Raim. The other man holds up a hand and turns back to the cabinets he'd put the groceries in and closes them, rather than just leaving the doors hung wide open.

"I mean, I guess, but the bursar's still treating it as adjunct work in terms of fees," Raim says, his fingertips rattling over the desktop.

"Ah," his partner replies, delicately. Finances have been touchy, lately; exopsychology doesn't pay very much at all on its own, and the international attention doesn't help much with paying the bills when part of the agreement for using the facilities of the University of Columbia was that he'd give all keynotes and presentations on the associated material on university grounds. It had sounded like a bargain at first, but the sheer volume of work that had ballooned into had become an albatross on Raim's neck, instead. Notably, he was getting paid as part of university staff rather than a guest speaker, which meant he was being paid adjunct wages.

Raim was not quite broke, but it was taking some creative dancing with Sallie Mae over his school loan, and the attention had meant that they were leaning on him to take some kind of corporate contract, of which they had been several offers. Predictably, there were a lot of people interested in an untapped source of non-human labor that didn't tire and didn't require feeding or housing.

The thought makes him want to spit.

Rather than let himself get upset again, he turns his attention to the rest of his emails - even with it just being early afternoon, there's still two dozen new ones demanding his attention - when the phone rings its new caller ringtone, and he sighs in exasperation and picks it up without looking, flipping the thing open.

"This is Dr. Bexley speaking, how may I assist you?" he says, expecting - he doesn't know. He's pretty sure that his phone number has been publically released or traded on some phone list, somehow, because he gets probably two to three calls an hour from a wide variety of people he really would rather not bother with. It's probably another pressure tactic to stress him out, and honestly, it's been working. Right now he doesn't have the luxury of getting it changed, between the cost involved and the fact so many of his legitimate contacts are inclined to use his phone.

 

[littlebluebird]

Olivia dons her phone’s wireless earbuds, while her eyes continue to scan another online article that Raim is featured in. This one speaking on the prevalence of hlessi and their hosts in the Emergency Services industry. How interesting. Figuring she has a few more rings before she reaches the doctor’s voicemail, she takes a healthy swig from her water bottle.

"This is Dr. Bexley speaking, how may I assist you?"

The young woman nearly chokes when she hears Raim’s voice instead of an automated recording like she was expecting. She presses her mouth into the back of her hand to curb a startled hum.

After a few seconds of silently fighting a potential coughing fit, she finally answers. “Dr. Bexley!” she says, a little too excitedly, before clearing her throat in a vain attempt to sound as natural as possible. “I, ah - wasn’t expecting you to answer. I hope I’m not bothering you?”

Standing, she starts to pace; nerves beginning to kick in. “Oh! Sorry, you probably don’t recognize my voice. This is Olivia. From earlier. At the grocery store?”

Biting her lip, she realizes how this could appear. Just meeting him, literally hours ago, and calling right when she got home: epitome of desperation. But if these episodes were going to continue the way they were, she couldn’t be concerned with appearances.

Olivia needs answers, and Raim has them.

 

[Obuzeti]

Raim blinks, shifting out of professional gear. He'd been expecting a vastly less pleasant call, though the fact she's contacting him this soon probably isn't a good sign. "Olivia. Well. Yes, I can assure you that I remember you."

Beaumont, who'd just been sitting down in the living room on the tiny couch opposite the bed, twitches and snorts hard, covering his mouth in an uncontrollable burst of mirth. Raim shoots him a glare before he continues. "Well, I mean I didn't expect to hear from you so soon, but - I'm not offended."

The jokes come easier over the phone. Olivia had been not devastatingly attractive, but definitely disarmingly cute, which slipped under his defenses easier. The mood whiplash hadn't much helped either, since he'd gone from preparing his own legal defense to being abruptly professionally engaged and, unless he was mistaken, personally scouted out. Making assumptions like that is fuel for disaster, though, so he resolves to be at least somewhat professional. The basic assumption Beaumont taught him was: always assume she's married, and proceed accordingly.

He glances at the clock - eleven o' clock, still plenty of time before anything comes due. He's got time to talk. Raim relaxes back in his chair. "So did you think up some more questions or something? I'll answer what I can."

 

[littlebluebird]

It warms Olivia’s heart that Raim remembers her, but then again, it’s only been a few hours. She reminds herself to not overthink it, and stay the course. Even though a part of her is hopeful.

"So did you think up some more questions or something? I'll answer what I can.”

She huffs a breath, before responding. “Yeah, something like that. I…experienced another episode when I got back home. Two in a day has never happened before, but it was different this time around, thanks to you.” There’s a level of relief that soothes her, knowing that she’s confiding in someone that knows what she’s been experiencing firsthand. Someone that isn’t just letting her talk, only to question her sanity and cast their judgements at a time that she’s feels so vulnerable.

Olivia stares out the windows, taking in the view of the city in the early afternoon light. “Your advice, Raim. It worked. Helped me cut down the duration, and I didn’t even experience any of the usual symptoms afterwards. "And, I…" she pauses, knowing what she was about to say would sound silly to anyone else, “I tried talking to her? I don’t know if that actually did anything, or if just talking out loud helped keep my breathing and heart rate steady.”

“Anyways, I just wanted to share that, and thank you.” She paces the floor, and takes a fortifying breath. “I know this is going to sound forward, especially with already having a call scheduled for Monday, but I was wondering…are you, by any chance, free for dinner? Tonight?”

Olivia runs her fingers through her hair, making a bit of a face with her oh-so-smooth-delivery. She follows up hurriedly, “I completely understand if you can’t with doctor/patient ethics, or if you have other plans."

 

[Obuzeti]

Raim's brow furrows. "Another one? Already? They're normally spaced out over days."

That's actually alarming - most hlessi aren't conscious or powerful enough to project that kind of force through their prospective host - power being a relative term. Something about personality and imagination have a lot to do with, enabling the ghost to hold onto its own sense of personality and charisma. The more vivacious and firm they were in life, the more they hold onto any semblance of it.

This is an order of magnitude worse than anything he's heard of, though, both in the frequency and severity of the overflows. And this is precisely the sort of case that could blow up badly - a young, pretty woman in the grip of some invisible assailant. This sounds like a news expose in the making, the sort of thing that he'd be hounded over with questions for years. God bless he caught it in the calving.

His fingers absently search out a pen, then begin clicking it in and out. It's a habit that annoys Beaumont pretty badly, but such an obvious stress tell that the man sits up, brows furrowed.

"When you try to ignore a hlessi, it turns into a battle of wills - they're trying to make the host acknowledge their existence, make you feel the weight of their need to be," Raim says, almost musing. "Communicating with them helps solidify their identity, helps keep them coherent. Compare it to . . . giving a cool drink to someone on the edge of heatstroke. It relieves the need, makes it easier for them to think and hang on. It would have calmed her down, definitely. I'm just hypothesizing at this point, but I think you may both be having panic attacks at the same time, and they're reflecting and magnifying each other across the nascent bond."

It's a possibility he hadn't considered before, because for the most part hlessi tend towards very resilient, tough personalities that can survive the solitude of searching for a partner, and that have the emotional strength to actually support one afterwards.

But then maybe those are just the ones that make it, steadied by their survival?

Food for thought.

"No, honestly I understand your alarm," Raim admits, leaning on his other hand, elbow planted on his desk. "Look, I don't really have anything to do today, honestly, aside from replying to calls and e-mails, and I took the Oath of Maimonides, not the Hippocratic. What I do is not an exact science - not yet - and I'd be remiss to ignore the fact that I can help."

He blows out a breath, eyes his checkbook - not red, but the black with too few digits for his comfort - and makes a judgement call. "Look, for convenience's sake, let's not term it a consultation - just a friendly dinner, and if I happen to help out in the meantime, that's great. We'll leave official business for Monday. This is just me checking in on - well."

Raim pauses and tries to think up a good summary of this bizarre adventure he's starting to suspect he's on.

"You," he says instead, lamely.

"You are the fucking smoothest man ever," Beaumont informs him from the miniature couch, and Raim's hand slides over to cover his own face in mortified disbelief.

"Is there a particular time you're more comfortable with, while I resist my urge to bang my head against this table?" Raim says, faintly miserable. He knows he's awkward, sometimes, and he's learned to just push through it, admit that he's socially clumsy, and try to make up with straightforward honesty.

 

[littlebluebird]

A battle of wills.

It's out there, for sure - the idea that the whole time Olivia was resisting these episodes, someone on the other side was simultaneously experiencing the same type of panic attack she was. A woman trying to tie to her. It’s all fascinating, and maybe a little terrifying.

So many questions on what this all truly entails.

When Raim agrees to having a friendly dinner to check in on her, Olivia feels heat tint across her cheeks. Sure, professional courtesy is most likely the driving force here, but her heart is still going pitter-patter inside her chest.

"Is there a particular time you're more comfortable with, while I resist my urge to bang my head against this table?”

Olivia laughs, pleasantly amused with the way he segues from authoritative voice on exopsychology to an endearing awkwardness that she herself is all too familiar with. If anything, she finds his straightforward honesty refreshing. “It’s nice to know I’m not the only one,” she confides, still smiling.

She thinks about what she has to do for the day, and there isn’t much. “Aside from laundry and getting a head start on work for the week, I’m pretty open. How about…6:30?”

Early enough to keep things open and casual.

“Do you have a place you recommend? I’m not all too picky when it comes to food, and I'm still kind of learning the area.”

 

[Obuzeti]

"6:30 PM, roger that," Raim replies, typing an alert in on his scheduler for an hour before that. He's not likely to forget, but he is prone to getting caught in pacing and arguing with Beaumont rather than things like remembering to comb his hair - not that it matters much, its a chaotic mess that goes whatever way it wants to regardless of his efforts. "There's a neat bistro called Charlie's over on Twenty-Second that I'm fond of, far enough off the main exchange that it's not packed all the time, and the proprietor's a friend of mine. Sound good?"

It's a classy little restaurant, not quite formal but with more class than an Applebee's or Chili's, the chain franchises that feel a little drier and less pleasant every time he watches the commercials they fit into their overhead televisions. Charlie he knows as the father of a dormmate he'd had at uni who'd gone into chemistry and now spends most of her time synthesizing increasingly dire and unpleasant chemicals. She makes great money, last he heard, but also - the last thing she'd mentioned about her work was a chemical called hexanitrohexaazaisowurtzitane.

After he'd finished choking on his own tongue, he'd realized the chemical name started with hexanitro, and promptly sworn off ever visiting her workplace again. He's not a chemist, but the name means the chemical is six nitrous groups chemically bonded to each other. Nitroglycerin, by comparison, has a measly three and none of them bonded to each other.

So, essentially, he and Charlie bonded over the shared knowledge that they have shared living space with a explosives madwoman.

On the upside, Charlie makes a mean alfredo.

"It's not really advertised well, but I'll be outside - just look for me," Raim says, having realized that he'd been thinking for a slightly uncomfortable length of time.

 

[littlebluebird]

“Yeah, that sounds good. I haven’t been there yet; I’d love to try it.” Olivia takes her seat back at her computer, and sets an alarm for 5:30 to remind herself to start getting ready. Opening a new browser tab, she pulls up a search for “Charlie’s on 22nd.” Interestingly enough, it returns with only a few hits: map location, a small website, a few reviews - all positive though, remarking on what a gem it is.

There’s a few beats of silence on both of their ends, before Raim responds, “It's not really advertised well, but I'll be outside - just look for me.”

“I will. See you soon, and thanks again, Raim.”

~*~

5:40 PM

Olivia is rolling her eyes at herself. Less than an hour before her meeting with Raim, and she’s wrapped in bath towels painting her toes on the dining table. She knows this isn’t a date, and therefore shouldn’t be putting so much effort into the details of her appearance, but when she decided upon the strappy heeled sandals to go with her t-shirt dress, she knew what she had to do.

Begrudgingly, she’s holding the nail brush in one hand, and a q-tip of acetone in the other. Applying a layer of color, and cleaning the edges right after. She rushing, and it’s not going to look as clean and even as the salon, but it’ll do. The color is a frosted satin mocha, shimmery yet discreet, and it sets well against her fair skin.

Two coats on ten toes in record time, and now she’s blowing on her feet, and fanning with her hand to hasten the drying process.

She carefully pads over to her bedroom, and tosses her towels into the nearby hamper. Her hair is a damp wavy mess of light and dark curls. After haphazardly rummaging through drawers, she finds and slips into a seamless bra and panty set, then dons her grey t-shirt dress. The length stops at mid-thigh, and for a split second, she wonders if it’s too short, before settling on the fact that she doesn’t have time to spare on figuring something else to wear.

Olivia grabs her sandals from the closet, then sits at the bench at the edge of her bed. She carefully slides her feet in, so as not to mar her rushed pedicure, then fastens the straps around her ankles.

She glances at her watch, 6:00. Running tight, but she’s still ok. GPS estimated an 18 minute drive.

Olivia is blur of movement in the bathroom, spritzing product into her hair while blow drying and finger combing. Subtle notes of jasmine and sandalwood waft the room, as she does so. Her makeup is easy, and minimal. Light dusting of foundation, blush, gloss for her lips, a little gray liner for her eyes, and she was good to go.

She runs over to her workspace to grab her olive denim jacket, and slips it on; it hugs her body perfectly, with cuffs rolled up to her elbows. Grabbing her brown leather messenger bag, she glances at her tablet on the table, wondering if she should bring it with her. She’s tabulated almost all of the data of the episodes she’s experienced thus far: location, duration, unexplained phenomena, mental state, symptoms afterwards, etc. Based on the charts, the episodes were only increasing in both frequency and duration.

The possibility of experiencing an episode while at work hadn’t crossed her mind until earlier today. If something like this happened while she was in the middle of a presentation, it could cost her her job. The mere possibility brought on a level of worry that she couldn’t deal with right now.

Olivia slides her tablet and phone into her bag, then sprints out the door, locking it behind her.

 

[Obuzeti]

It's been ages since Raim was on anything with remotely the code of a date - everything's been working lunches since he started work on his doctorate, and the unusual nature of his topic had marked him as radioactive to the other women working through the college. Cranks don't make good dating material, apparently.

Well, no one could call him a crank to his face anymore, but that didn't change the fact he hadn't worried about deodorant or cologne in five years. The first is a courtesy, but ultimately he decides to skip on the second. Probably overkill, and in any case, he doesn't have a good sense of what or how much to use. It seems wiser to smell like a normal person than be a walking cloud of cologne.

"Help, Raim," Beaumont drones, adjusting his collar. It's exactly the same outfit he always wears - the uniform of a Foreign Legionnaire, with cold-weather pants and the hat and shoulder patches doffed. He can change it if he concentrates, but this is his default, and by and large Raim's found that all hlessi have a default form they revert to without conscious effort on their part - though it can change. "How do I tie my tie?"

He doesn't have one.

"Most of them clip on these days," Raim observes, double checking himself in the mirror. He has a tweed sport jacket, black slacks, and his wild, short hair has been tamed into some semblance of order, though it's certain that if he turns too fast or nods too hard bits of it will spring up again. "Anywho, I've had my fill of black-tie affairs. Let's get moving."

He double checks himself for his keys and wallet - secured - and heads out the door fifteen minutes early. Worst comes to worst, he gets some more fresh air.

~*~

Charlie's isn't advertised at all. It had been the storage building for a department store ages ago, and the two halves of the building had been separated; the front half being claimed for office space, while the back was walled off. Charlie Mauss himself had bought the back and built it into a cozy bistro with architecture like nowhere else in the state, though the front door is literally just an unmarked door in a brick wall with a sign over it saying "Charlie's".

He's not big on presentation, Charlie.

On the other hand, there are three windows carved through the brick wall for the three levels of the restaurant, and the glass is kaleidoscoped, so that it reflects odd colors and shapes onto the pavement nearby when the light hits it. Better advertising than any kind of sign, Raim guesses.

Olivia hasn't shown up yet, so he's just awkwardly standing outside the entrance leaning against the wall, checking his phone every five minutes even though he's fifteen early.

"Stop fretting," Beaumont says, eyes closed, standing at parade rest in that half-sleep he casually falls into given a spare moment anywhere. "She's coming."

"I don't doubt that," Raim says, "Just that I'll sound stupid."

"Then regard that as inevitable and plan to make up for it with honesty and wit," Beaumont advises, which is pretty much how Raim gets through any given day anyways.

 

[littlebluebird]

Olivia frowns when she slows her car down, and hears the high pitch whine from her brakes. It’s a reminder that she’s been putting off her search for a roommate. She can handle her apartment’s rent on her own, but she’s had to offset things like her car’s maintenance, to do so.

She shifts into neutral, and pulls the E-brake to to park. Luckily, with a few minutes to spare, she was able to find a spot across the street. Olivia glances at the map pinpoint on her phone, and compares it with the building in sight. Her eyes narrowing at what looks more like an edifice for office space, than a restaurant. Confusion starts to set, when she verifies the address a third time.

That’s when she notices a small group of people turning into the alleyway and heading towards the back.

Huh.

Olivia flips her visor mirror for a last minute check on her make-up, then grabs her phone and messenger bag. Walking briskly across the street, she continues down the alleyway between the buildings; her heels clicking along the asphalt. Her eyes scan the brick walls for any hint of confirmation that she's on the right path. As she draws closer to the rear of the building, she notices lit reflections of color on the pavement ahead of her.

Her curiosity is piqued when she rounds the corner, and Olivia smiles, recognizing him immediately. His tall frame, leaning against the wall, wearing a tweed sport jacket and black slacks. He looks good. Really good.

A cool evening breeze sweeps along the hem of her dress and bare legs, and she briefly wonders if she’s under dressed.

Olivia closes the distance between them, “Raim, long time no see. You look clean-“ Her eyes go wide when she realizes that’s not quite what she wanted to say. “I mean, you look well-“ Almost, not quite. Olivia quietly groans, and stares at the ground for a moment, trying to collect herself. Heat dancing along her cheeks for the umpteenth time that day.

“I’m sorry, apparently my brain has stopped working,” she laughs as she accounts for her awkwardness. “It’s…been a minute, since I’ve done something like this. What I’m trying to say is, ‘You clean up well.’” She huffs a sigh, and smiles, desperate to change the subject, “I take it this is Charlie’s?”

 

[Obuzeti]

Olivia makes her entrance, and Raim is reminded, pleasantly, that in the rest of the world people do wear things like skirts, and make them look good. It's a touch of casual he hasn't dealt with in a long time, and pleasantly understated rather than brazen. Then she opens her mouth, and what follows is so deeply familiar to Raim that he can't laugh. He just watches, quiet and smiling, and offers his hand to Olivia when she's done. Not a handshake - just a brief clasp of fingers that doesn't reach as far as the palms. It feels surprisingly intimate, and he can't help the little flare of color in his own cheeks in response as he follows his instincts without thinking.

"I'm glad you're here," he says, utterly honest, eyes flicking up to meet Olivia's with a shy smile. "Come on. I'll show you the place."

"Brushed nails, strappy sandals, something scented," Beaumont lists as he idly moves in behind them, keeping a polite distance even though it's unlikely Olivia can sense him in any way. "Good signs, Raim."

He can't help smiling, now.

The door opens almost immediately into a kitchen, where a squat man in an apron bustles around. The ceiling is lower than it should be, each support strut brushing Raim's hair as the taller man instinctively ducks a little. The room is consumed and separated by a counter that leads to a spindly spiral staircase in the corner, leaving the bulk of the room behind it and within the domain of the chef, who narrows his eyes at Raim.

"Moin," the little man says, abrupt, and then ignores them as he checks on some pork knuckle. Raim chuckles as he picks up a pair of menus stacked neatly at one corner of the counter and hands it over to Olivia.

"Ciao, Charlie," Raim says, and indicates Sophie. "This is Sophie."

"Booth five," Charlie replies, then ignores them forthwith.

"He's like that," Raim says, reassuringly, and continues onward. There's not much free room in the improvised corridor - just barely enough room for two people to pass by each other. The staircase is sturdy if bare steel, but the homey second floor it leads to is a wonder all its own - the tight spaces of the downstairs kitchen is replaced with warm wooden paneling, and the heat of the smoker downstairs heats the place quite nicely. The landing between the second and third floor staircases leads to a double row of booths snuggled in against those stained glass windows, and the far wall has an actual dumbwaiter set over a jukebox playing some kind of faintly familiar jazz. Each table has a little radio inset into the wall next to it, and there's no other staff visible at all, although there are two other couples in booths on this floor.

"We order, tell Charlie over the radio, and he sends up the food in the dumbwaiter when it's ready," Raim says with a shrug and a smile. "Dishes go back the same way. He has an assistant cook around sometimes, but really, he likes having the kitchen to himself most of the time."

Booth five - indicated by a little flexible cloth flag hung from the ceiling - is just to their left.

Beaumont, even taller than Raim, is left to awkwardly crouch on the stairs, giving Raim a flat stare as he's blockaded into waiting for them to sit.

 

[littlebluebird]

Olivia’s heart skips a beat when she takes Raim’s hand and follows him inside Charlie’s. She wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but stepping right into the kitchen definitely wasn’t it.

The brusque interaction between Raim and the owner, makes her raise her brows. But, when they head up the spiral staircase, and arrive at the dining area, she can’t help but sigh in awe of the warm and welcoming space. It’s unlike any other restaurant she’s ever been to.

“How did you find this place?” she asks, while taking in all of the details. The stained glass windows and jazz playing in the background lend a level of intimacy to the restaurant that she hasn’t encountered elsewhere in the city.

She slides into the booth, with her bag next to her, and peers at the menu. “Wow - both German and Italian cuisine? Hmm, I’ll have the Chicken Alfredo, if that’s any good? Do you want to share an appetizer or anything? Pierogies? Bruschetta?”

Her stomach growls at the mere mention of food. Olivia meets his eyes with a look of surprise and laughs, "Sorry about that! I had a small lunch earlier, and I guess I'm a little hungry."

 

[Obuzeti]

"One of my old classmates is the coot in question's daughter," Raim says with a chuckle. "She might be around here, in fact, so be prepared for - a singular interruption."

He takes a seat opposite Olivia, mostly to allow Beaumont to finally come up the stairs and settle in next to him, the comfortable plush deforming under his corporeal weight. He's kind of wondering if Olivia notices - her reaction is going to be a good indicator of whether or not she wants a hlessi of her own. "Bruschetta with tomato sounds good. I'm going for smoked salmon myself, he's a dab hand with fish."

He depresses the radio call button and waits for the click on the other end signaling that Charlie's listening. "Table five, asking for appetizer of bruschetta with tomato, chicken alfredo, and - "

A finger reaches over Raim's shoulder and stabs at the call button to keep it depressed. Frissons worked their way down his spine as he saw the forearm was wrapped in something like a labcoat, but significantly heavier and grey with powder that had been blasted into the fabric over time. It was also ragged on one edge where it had likely caught fire.

" - und Käsespätzle, ja gebongt. Moin, Vati."

" - Moin, Schatz. Ja gebongt," Charlie replies to the intruder, voice notably less gruff.

Their uninvited guest is Raim's old classmate, and the woman who singlehandedly terrifies him more than anyone else on the Earth. She's not that tall, maybe five seven as the Americans see it, but an unassailable mountain in person, permanently leaned back and eyes hooded in disinterest. The rest of her coat matches the arm he'd seen, and though beneath it is a casual set of jeans and a T-shirt of some kind, the image it projects is unmistakable. The sucker perched in her mouth is equally recognizable, though it's usually a cigar anywhere she can get away with it.

Her features are strong more than beautiful, and a faintly crooked nose that's been broken once, at a guess. Her jawline is too sharp to be classically attractive, and her casual dress doesn't flatter her figure, which is slim and lacking feminine curves. But her stare bores through whatever's in her way, and she already looks to have been through enough havoc to drop a man twice her size. A faint scent of charring still hangs over her, like the aftertaste of smoke.

"Raim," she says with a nod, and simply drops herself directly into where Beaumont's sitting. He grunts, and she glances down at the invisible body blocking her entrance to the booth, unimpressed and leaning against him with complete disdain.

"My bad," she says, blase, and instead plops herself down next to Olivia. "Hildegarde Degenhardt. Classmate of this loon. Charmed. Call me Klassewitz."

The words come out punctual and rhythmic, like a typewriter, unpausing for interruption or comment. She's running down a verbal checklist more than making conversation.

She turns back and aims the world's most indifferent stare at Raim, who's smiling uneasily. The sucker stick in her mouth rolls from one side to the other. "Read your last article. Dean still riding you?"