( closed ) when we die, i believe we go to a better place; no where.

[asklepios]

Who: "Vanessza Bernát" and Jason Todd
What: Winning friends and influencing people.
Where: Benny's apartment in Syriac Well.
When: Vaguely nowish.
Notes: JILLI AND I HAVE BEEN REALLY EXCITED ABOUT THIS, IT'S KIND OF PATHETIC.
Warnings: Threats of medically expert violence, discussion of alarming things, specifics to follow when the thread progresses.

She takes her shoes off outside the apartment.

It means she's quieter when she comes inside, slipping the door open and closed again with so-gentle hands, stocking-feet and carpet and experience, the kind that means she already knows there's someone inside who shouldn't be. She can hear him in the next room (the scrape of the entrance to the crawl space, that's going to be a problem) and she makes a decision without breaking stride, a side-trip into the spare room for syringe, pulling the cap off the needle with her teeth as she keeps moving.

The apartment is too cramped for the sword and he's between her and the crossbow. It wouldn't have been ideal, anyway.

While there are worse ways to be greeted by a woman than her hand on your inner thigh, Jason would be forgiven for preferring some of them to the prick of a syringe through his jeans and a (mostly) French accent floating up with her perfume (Guerlain, Shalimar, he probably saw the bottle while he was going through her things): “An air embolism is not a fool-proof method of killing someone. An artery is almost ideal, but how much air is needed and what it will actually do to your body, these things, they vary. If I don't care for your explanation -- and you will give me an explanation -- then you and I, we will play the odds. Regardless of whether you live or die, it will not be pleasant. Am I understood?”

(She sounds like she's talking to a patient.)

Comments

[asklepios]

In response, her fleeting smile is reflexive (a reflex that she allows) and aware of the inquiry and its conscious transparency. Though, as come as no surprise to him, she politely declines to answer. Typically.

“That will change, too.” This is a sink or swim thing that he's talking about - they will get good, or they will get dead. There's only so much she'll be able to do for them, as much as some people do seem to have an alarming amount of faith in the godlike powers of the medical profession. (Striving to meet it is exhilirating; failing it exhausts her.)

After a moment, “I accept but do not require payment for what I do,” because she is that kind of idealist, but not so starry-eyed she doesn't grasp that there are many people who can't trust getting something for nothing and feel more comfortable paying her somehow, “and I will do house-calls if I need to. I'd be very grateful if your network could contribute to the cost of my supplies, but I won't make that a condition of my involvement. We can call it a trial basis, for now.”

It is, at least partly, because at this point she'd rather keep Jason where she can see him.

[goodsoldier]

He lets her see that he has to mentally shift around some expenses to calculate what he can give her before he nods. Not many, though, he's just very careful about money now.

"Then thank you," Jason says, shifting his weight slightly before taking out his notepad and a pen. While writing his CiD number down, he thinks vaguely and insanely of having business cards made. Civil Unrest Inc. No. Closing the space between him and the island she stands behind, he offers her the paper rather than putting it on the counter.

[asklepios]

Accepting it with a brief glance at the number written (she'll commit that to memory, later), Benevenuta holds the paper between two fingers and taps it absently on the island before she folds it neatly in half, pinches the edge with her nails and tears along it to trade him back her own CiD number with the pen from her pocket. It's readily available on the cohort network, but even so.

The small smile she offers him, polite but not insincere, is more or less the same expression that appears in a number of photographs from her suitcase, beneath blonde pin curls and a dark red bouffant and long, straight center-parted hair with oversized white-rimmed sunglasses. Unchanged and always changing; immovable. Incongruously with that impression, the expression peels back the weight of experience that she'd let herself wear for the conversation-- all at once she's only Vanessza Bernát, twenty-something Parisien doctor with a bleeding heart and quiet lifestyle.

“I will forward you my new address,” she says, use the goddamn door next time implied with figurative underlining. “There's an apartment at ground level with more space.”

It'll be more convenient, for numerous reasons; she'd been planning the move already, but 'I hate other people knowing where my things are' is sufficient impetus to move it up.