His eyes, the haunting eyes that pierce & follow, they are intense & oh, yes ! they are truly golden ! Improbably so, & it’s easy to see why that would be a descriptor to stick out in the mind when they are so yellow that it should seem impossible, a shade so rare it must be one in a million. Like this meeting. The eyes, fixed on her, offer silent promises of answers & conclusions & a thousand things more, all reflected citrine in the depths of them.
& that they should belong to a detective, of all men ; a stray with no past on the hunt for some mystery killer ! Even, or perhaps especially one so close to home for her. Of course it would stir up the imagination, even hope, laying down the foundation of a thousand conjured scenes of lost love & woe, sleepless nights spent remembering, or forgetting, all that happened 18 years ago.
The impressive height of his solid frame, the lines that draw maps on his sharp features, the quirk to narrow lips, the reminiscing of a scar cutting gently across his brow all come together to fan the spark of what could be into a flame, while he stands here now thinking only of a case.
( Yet, he is completely unaware of who this girl may be that stands before him now, while he asks her questions only about heinous murder & bloodshed. how ironic that seems‒‒‒‒ painfully so ! he doesn’t even suspect ! )
❝ Some, ❞ he answers accordingly, with the deep & rolling accent of someplace far away from here, ❝ I’ve heard about attacks that don’t quite fit th’ description of any local animals. Some people were figurin’ it for coincidence, a bear or a cougar, but… ❞ he trails off, shakes his head. Makes an empty gesture with the unlit cigarette in his left hand.
Still, what he lacks in empathy he makes up for in understanding, & his tone softens as he looks at this girl on the verge of tears & realizes that’s not the right tack to take. She looks like she’s on the verge of a nervous break. Poor thing, been witness to too much. It’s a sad world. Nobody ought to have to go through so much.
❝ Hey, take it slow now, ❞ Valentine says, ❝ Anything you can tell me about what happened would help me a lot t’ catch this thing, but don’t force it out. C’mon, I think I’ve found all I’m going to here for th’ moment. Why don’t I buy ya a coffee while you collect your thoughts ? ❞
Peace has got a story. As he’d thought, she knows something, something big. About the attacks, maybe about the killer behind them. Of course he’d want little more than to know what it is she’s got on the beast, what happened to her friend, but he’s smart enough to know that’s something that needs to wait until after he’s got her calmed down. He’s not here to break witnesses, he’s here to get justice for the victims, the dead & the living. Besides, there isn’t much a detective stands to learn from somebody too shook up to speak.
He almost touches her shoulder with the right hand, but not quite. Not quite. It ends up back in his pocket instead, contemplative.
Take it slow. Breathe. One step at a time, she knows, but the more she talks the more likely, the quicker he’ll catch this THING (of course they’d think it’s a bear, a cougar, convince themselves it’s within the realm of human scope) and it’s the fear again, catching in her throat until she forces it out, again, breathe. The edge is there but she can see it now, ready, push it back a little farther and scrub the threat of tears from her eyes. He offers a coffee and she almost smiles; his tone is gentle, and she almost feels safe. Almost. Is it worth it? Maybe she’s not—but maybe he is. And maybe...
In through the nose and out through the mouth and her hands lower, clasp and twist in front of her. A wall of sorts, if one is into reading body language. Her hair, shaggy and self-cut, still curtains her face as she looks up at him, eyes searching in that peculiar way as when she was first staring. As though looking for something familiar. Wanting him to be familiar. Before she can give too much away her gaze drifts back down, settles somewhere near his knee. It’s been too long. (She doesn’t see the way he almost moves to comfort her, and it’s just as well.)
“If..” Once more to clear her throat, more words at once than she’s spoken in months rusty from disuse, mangled by stress and everything she can’t say. It’ll take some getting used to. “If it’s not too much trouble—”
Her stomach growls. Blood rushes to her cheeks, lips pressed tight and arms folding across her middle like that will help somehow, like swallowing her mortification might be enough. Peace’s metabolism grew right along with her and she knows it’s not forgiving, does nothing for her shabby appearance, hounds her despite the dinner she’d splurged on the night before. After a pause in which she fights the urge to simply excuse herself and run, she manages, “I didn’t, um...have time to eat anything. This morning. If you don’t mind...”
A longer hesitation and she seems to shrink slightly, a wilting flower. Ever quieter. “I can pay. There’s a convenience store, they give discounts on...on food, sometimes. I can pay.”
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