Dreams of Fire

[Thalia]

"Tretyakov," she repeated. "It's sort of south of the Kremlin - you couldn't miss the building. It's very striking, in a fairy-tale-esque way." She leaned forward a little, wrapped her arms around her knees, and idly watched as he retrieved his Wallet. Then stopped himself. When he looked up at her, he really looked; she might have been charmed by the earnestness of his expression if his scrutiny hadn't reminded her she was drenched in paint. Far from making her self-conscious, it beamed a smile that threatened to spill into genuine laughter, though the self-effacing humour cut short when he spoke. She blinked surprise. The way he laced his fingers. The way he crossed his legs. She'd assumed, and even now she wasn't sure; her head tilted, not particularly in consideration of an answer, but in realignment of her perceptions.

She didn't have a great dating history for the same reasons she had no close friends; after a certain stretch of time, things got complicated. It had never stopped her forging relationships, but it did lead them to premature ends. With everyone but Aylin. As such she was disposed to an immediate affability, and as quickly as she had accepted Katya's company for a cup of tea she was inclined to receive Dane's invitation with equally authentic enthusiasm, regardless of context. She flowed through life like that, a petal caught in the smooth rush of a river.

He forestalled an answer and Thalia obliged, legitimately curious. She forgot, for a while, of blood and ashes and fire, of black windows and faces that would unravel her sanity. Those were all very good things to forget, and she was grateful for the diversion. Dane was almost playful in the way he tilted the screen away from her eyes, but she waited patiently, and accepted the card when it was finished. She held his gaze for an inquisitive second before she looked down. His eyes were flat pools of grey.

Thal hummed amused laughter when she realised what he'd done, unfeigned and honest in her reaction. It wasn't a bad sketch, particularly for one so quickly rendered, but she wasn't vain enough to overlook that he'd been overly generous. She knew herself to be delicately featured, a little frayed at the edges, but her face was inoffensive; forgettable. For a moment she fluttered between being flattered at the flamboyant lengths he went to, to unease at the insistence. She erred on the optimistic after only the briefest dip of doubt. She wasn't sure why he'd presumed her answer to be a no - she'd actually been about to shrug and say sure before he'd held up a silencing finger. Though now the nonchalance seemed ill fitting. Fortunately, Dane had provided a storybook script, and if the words weren't exactly her own, the light cadence of sincerity she wrapped them in was genuine. "I'd love to, Dane."

She laid the card on her knees. Tart sherbet bit through the sweet in her mouth. "So you draw?"