He helped her up, and she fought back the urge to stutter useless apologies for her actions. If it wasn't enough that she had gotten herself into trouble...again, she had done it in front of Martin.... again. Her day..er, night, was getting worse and worse. And now clothing was involved. She dropped her eyes to her coat, and then what lay beyond, and frowned in a confused manner. What was wrong with her clothes?....stab wounds aside. Instead of asking, she softly accepted his offer for a drink, retook her hand for her own, and followed him as he led her home. His home. "Yes...that-... that is probably a good idea."

She was suddenly very curious, anyway.

Andrea had always figured that he lived at the mansion, since that was where he worked. She had been wrong, as it were. Andrea spent the majority of the walk stumbling over her own words in her head, trying to figure out what you were supposed to do again when invited into someones house. She had been to Aurum's before... but that had been disastrous. Cooking mistakes and shy chatter that probably made her seem like a child, above all other things. She would try to avoid that, this time. Thinking back, she realized that she had relatively little to cling to when it came to playing the role of a guest. Normal customs from her culture had been abandoned in her household due to her...situation. She had never had the chance to practice skills of such a nature.

While Martin led, she kept a hold of her arm gently. Sloth wrapped around her shoulder like a makeshift sling, which kind of set her off balance on one side. She tried not to stare at things, or people.... like Martin, all while glancing about to keep track of her position. The same grizzled neighborhood, but a building she probably would have shied away from, bad attitude or not. She shot Martin the most polite look of 'Really? that she could from behind glasses, but followed him anyway. She had seen him fight... he could take care of himself. She was as safe as she could be- ..in the middle of a rundown street, hiking into an apartment complex that rivaled the motel she has stayed in when she had first arrived in New York. Yeah...

She dearly hoped this place at least lacked giant cockroaches.

The climb to his room was... interesting. Andrea ran across smells she could never even have imagined, and found herself vastly interested in trying to decipher what words were being flung behind the door of one apartment in general. She was sure that more than a few of those words would have turned her cheeks dark brown if she were in any other mood. When her eyes finally fell on Martins... home... she struggled to find words. One was supposed to compliment the drapes, or the style of couches, were they not?.... What was one supposed to do in a situation like this?

".... This is... nice." She added a little extra cheerfulness into that nice part, in hoped of covering up the awkwardness. "...You have very nice...um..." Was that carpet?...she couldn't tell. "...walls." She winced. Her room back at the sanctuary wasn't like the rooms at the mansion, but it still felt more homely than this to her. More put together and less... cheap. "...I had always figured you lived at the mansion, like I had." Feeling guilty for her inability to play the part of a proper guest, or even come up with a good compliment, she remained close to the door and eyed the floor, and then the walls. Unsure of how exactly to proceed.

The walk, the walk. It was not a thing of beauty. There were only the two of them. One bloodied and clutching his hand like a crutch. The other simply looking around with quick glances. Much too quick to see anything really, but he was who he was and there was no too quick for him. There was never too much caution when night and these streets were involved. And they arrived quickly. Just like that it was there, peeling out of the darkness into the light of broken lanterns. Flickering lanterns, making the shadows flee erratically around them. Andrea had been silent, of course, wounded as she was. His head was spinning a bit.

Home. If there was such a thing, it lay not here, would not lay here in this dump. There was no better word to describe the place. The outside walls were full of nice little paintings that indicated this or that gang was claiming or had claimed possession of this street. The door had been strengthened with metal and would, quite probably, survive the next world war. He shot half-a-smile at Andrea, who seemed to be a bit disbelieving. And on. Inside. His keys were making those chiming noises of metal on metal. His nose smelled the air. The familiar scents of tobacco and strange spices made for an odd potpourri. And there were other things. More rotten things as well. And screaming. Always screaming.

He ignored it. He was home here. For a while.

Another tingling of keys as a few deadbolts were removed. Security devices. And then some more. It was not like Martin lived in fear. But he did not walk the line between self-assurance and stupidity on the wrong side, thank you very much. The main room presented itself as a mixture of sleeping and living room. There was a dingy couch. Probably also a bed, judging by the slightly worn cover that had been neatly folded (much too neatly, it seemed to be made for those right angles) and stored in a corner. There also was a flat table of wood. Worn wood. The paint (black, what did you expect?) was coming off not in flakes but in mounts that made the table seem to have a dandruff problem. Also: A single raw bulb was flickering light from overhead with all the continuity the houses electronic system would allow for. (Not much in case you didn't notice.)

>"...You have very nice...um... walls..."

On the other hand, maybe he had walked the line on the wrong side. Maybe he did. Why did he have to bring her here again? Right, because she was wounded. And scared. And alone. Three very good reasons. But why did he have to tell her again? Why her? That spinning in his head, it was the sign of a headache in the making. So was looking at her face. He could have groaned. Instead he made it a smile. She was here now. So he would have to make the best of it. “It is not much I know. And yes, I did live at the Mansion, while I worked there.” He winced internally. She needed to forget this quickly.

Smalltalk. They needed smalltalk.

“Thank you very much!” He said in a much-too-cheery tone. And a much-too-broad smile appeared on his lips. “I'm going to get the drinks and the clothes. Just a second!” And with that he disappeared through the only other door. It was shut quickly and with some finality behind him. He loosened the unnatural smile knotting his facial muscles immediately. Glasses. There. Sweater. Bandages... There were rumpling noises as he quickly rummaged through his few stored things, upsetting their order. And no, there were no giant cockroaches. Just small ones. One of them was presently staring at Andrea. If a cockroach could stare that was.

His cheery tone made her wince. She had never heard him use such a... voice.. before, and could only assume she had insulted him with her comments. "Oh...er, yes. I had forgotten... I will be right here." She laughed back, nervously, and scratched at the back of her head. Here. Yes.. she would be... here. In the living room, with the peeling walls and the couch... thing. She realized that she shouldn't pity him. Pity was an emotion that rarely every did any good... but she had plenty of empathy for him.

Before she had time to wonder which room he was disappearing off into, or how or why he was no longer the gardener, she found herself locked in a silent staring contest with... a cockroach. It was looking at her... antennae twitching. She didn't really know what to do. The light flickered off for a moment above them, she blinked, and when it flickered back on she was staring at one cockroach, who suddenly had a friend. Now two pairs of antennae were twitching in curiosity. She was a little afraid to move, or blink again for that matter (in case more were to appear), so she stood as sill as a statue and merely stared. She really didn't want to get mobbed by a hoard of the little insects and dragged under the fridge or something. Sloth on the other hand wasn't one to sit still for any amount of time, and chose to yawn widely right at that moment.

Both little roaches darted away, back under the couch-bed that they had skittered out from under. Andrea shook herself, and glanced back in the direction Martin had gone. Behind the closed door. Yes... she had surely upset him.

A frown settled on her lips and she gripped at her arm again- and winced. Andre had neglected the wound so far, and it was probably a good time to take a peek at it. She shuffled further into the room, glancing about slowly, while peeling her coat off. Not all that hard, when only one set of buttons was left intact. The majority of it came off easily, but the arm that had been sliced gave more resistance. Blood had dried into the fibers, which were stuck painfully to her skin. Ripping the fabric away almost felt like it hurt more than getting the gash, not unlike pulling a band aid from a scrape. Andrea realized two things once she had her coat free of her. One was that her clothes were very dirty, which made her understand why she required different clothing... and the other was that she apparently bled like she was anemic.

Dried, sticky red streaks all down her arm, one even made it to her glove, made it look much worse than the little inch long gash said it was. Her frown deepened, and she folded her coat in her arms. It was good that it had mostly dried... she didn't want to bleed on Martin's floor. Clicking her tongue against her teeth, she picked at the wound a little, whining to herself in her head, and propped herself on the corner of the couch with her coat folded in her lap. She squirmed in her clothes and eyed her sandals, before reaching up to fiddle with her glasses again. The crack was going to start to drive her crazy... she could already feel it. Like having a split in reality that you couldn't look away from. While she wrinkled her nose and more or less pouted, one of the little roaches from before made another appearance behind her on the couch. It eyed her for a moment, before making a break for her arm. She didn't notice it, but Gula sure did. The snake sprang down from her hair and latched onto her shoulder... and the roach. Andrea squeaked in surprise and toppled off the cough, sending her coat flying. It landed promptly on her face when she crashed into the floor, as she set about prying the snake off of herself.

The used sweater settled on what was supposed to be a shower floor. (An incubator as I said before)
The toothpaste wanders to the trash – galore (An incubator as I said before)
The socks... well need them still but whew... no, lets not talk about the socks.
Lets talk about the two wildly differing glasses pulled from somewhere dark and nasty, that were cleaned under running water that held just a tinge of rust. Lets talk about the fresh sweater that was removed from the pile on the floor. And the pants. Lets talk about the bandages taken from the over the sink and behind the mirror cupboard (Where the bottle of Bourbon was also stored) that went into the pile of items-to-be-used. A swig of Bourbon went into Martin before that happened. Just because he felt like it could be useful. A white bottle of iodine came flying as well. The cap stayed on, thanks. Then all of that was rolled into one. And Martin stormed out of the bathroom. Barely two minutes had passed since he left. What he found greeting him was... * crunch *

The pile dropped to the floor. (Bottles staying whole thanks to the clothes) He turned on the spot, facing the slightly flaking paint of the bathroom door. His back was very, very straight. His eyes found the handle of the door mildly interesting.

“There are clothes over here.” He managed to state in a perfectly calm voice. He very much wanted that bottle of Bourbon in his hand right now. But no, he would not turn around. Not now.

The struggle was short, and thankfully successful. Andrea won over the wiggling of her snake, who, thankfully, hadn't sunk his fangs into her shoulder.... again. He had however managed to eat the scurrying roach, who was surely not wiggling around in the snakes throat in a panic. With the snake clasped in both hands, she sat up and held it before her, a triumphant grin on her face.

...until she noticed that she was no longer alone.... The serpent wiggled, and Andrea shifted awkwardly on the floor. Her host, and sort of back alley savior, was turned all the way around so that his back was facing her, which she was more or less staring at. She cleared her throat, and scrambled to her feet, freeing the snake in order to straighten herself out. He mumbled something about the clothes being there, by him... and she glanced at the pile on the floor curiously. Apartment conditions and snake troubles aside, she didn't exactly know what to do.

With his back facing her, and the pile on the floor being pointed out, she assumed she was to walk on over and pick them up, which she set about doing.. But.. what was she to do once she had them? She eyed the door he was staring at, wondering if she would be allowed to change in there, or if he had some other room stashed away somewhere. Dipping, she retrieved the pile- which was heavier than she had expected- and she blinked. Inside, wrapped up nicely, was a bottle. A bottle she had never seen before, filled with something she had never heard of. "...What is this?" Turning the thing over in her hands, she peered at the back, not really sparing time to read anything before turning it back over and placing her attention elsewhere. It looked familiar... but she couldn't place it. Her eyes fell to the white bottle, and the bandages wrapped up in the clothes as well, and everything kind of clicked.

They were things to deal with her wound! That made sense. She eyed the clothing last, before retreating a few steps and turning her attention back to Martin. "...Where do I...um, change?"

The door handle. So interesting. His back was still straight as if someone had put a broom behind his spine and just slapped on enough tape to still permit movement of the legs. Arms? Still at the sides. Hands? Straightened out and unmoving. He was not. Moving. Not even at her questions.

“The clothes are there. I am looking at the wall. This is the only room.” Yes. Yes. Yes. Truth. She would not get to go into that bathroom. That was his. And she might feint. From the air alone. Had there been a question? “Also there is a bottle. Please hand it to me.” Because, you know, alcohol is maybe not a solution, but it can sure help you forget about a lot of problems. So his hand went up, ready to receive something handed to him over his shoulder. He wanted to forget about things he had seen.

Especially snakes trying to eat their barely-clothed mistress. This night just would not stop getting worse. Maybe it had to do that before it got better. “Please give notice once you are proper.” Yes. Proper. Because right now... well you can imagine the rest.

Side note to Andy: Feel free to chug Martin the Bottle of Iodine instead of Burbon. Would fit with everything else.

She blinked. And then blinked again, clearly taken back by such a prospect. There were no other rooms? ... and... he would keep his back turned?. Her face turned the equivalent of crimson, a darker reddish brown that over took her cheeks in mere seconds. Oh, this was not good... But, she supposed she didn't really have much of a choice. It was either remain is dirty, damaged clothing, or accept his thoughtful, nice offer and changed into new, clean clothing. She only had to glance at her coat across the floor, to know which option she would be choosing.

Donotarguewiththehost....donotarguewiththehost!

"...Ah... oh..kay...." She needed to change, and he was going to remain looking at the wall. She could trust him, right? He had never done anything to prove otherwise to her. She had many reason's to believe that he was a perfect gentle man.... Now she just needed to get over the modesty hump. Lacking a coat was already putting her on edge, because having so much of her arms exposed just didn't feel right. Lord, not to mention her collar bone! She self consciously placed a hand at the hollow of her neck, tapping her fingers on the bones of her sternum. She had never felt so massively under dressed before. About to turn away, and move as far across the room as she possibly could, he mentioned a bottle and held his hand out for it. Andrea blinked, and dropped her eyes to the two bottles nestled in her neat little clothing pile.

...which one did he mean? Brown, or white? With a shrug, she picked up the white bottle, seeing as it was closest to her hand, and deposited it into his hand, before quickly stepping away and depositing her clothing pile on the couch. "Yes..of course..." She would tell him once she was properly clothed again. First would be her shirt, then the pants. A tank top would gladly be replaced with a sweater. She just needed to... take it off, first. Tusky teeth chewed on her bottom lip harshly, and she decided to remove the bloodied tank top as if it were a band-aid. Quickly, and without hesitation. It was as easy as that, right? Except... the whole bing in a room with another person, and nothing to hide behind thing. Easy as pie... Closing her eyes, she tugged the shirt off over her head, and grabbed for the sweater, intent on scrambling into it as fast as mutantly possible.

No, Martin did not look around. He did neither need, nor want, to see more of what he already had. The young gorgon was, after all, young. Much too young for him. Aside from the fact that relationships with immortals were a bit off anyways. And the fact that a kiss would probably strain it to breaking point. To clarify: He had no issues with nakedness per se. Just what amounted to naked teenagers of foreign parentage (ouch!) walking around in his home.

Now there was the bottle in his hands. Blissful forgetfulness, oblivion of mind. Just screw off the cap. And take a swing of goodness.

Well he tried to. The bottle went to his lips. It was turned near-upright for a moment. Martins eyes, all of them, were closing in expectation. And then there was a loud sound of Prrrsh as the brown liquid that was decidedly not Bourbon and decidedly not made for human consumption left his lips again.

Brown drops were splattered over the peeling paint of the bathroom door in an interesting pattern. Brown were Martins lips (not that he could see them) and his oral cavity. The drops he had made, they looked like an abstract painting in the making, slowly coalescing and making their way downwards. Some staying as they were, brown splatters on white background. Lazy. Martins voice was utterly calm and composed. His hand was lightly dabbing at the corners of his mouth, trying, searching. Maybe pushing things away. Just a little bit. “I would be deeply ingratiated to you, if you could hand me the other bottle.” Yes, he could calm, so very calm. Like a still lake in summer. Like wind blowing through trees, just like that. No emotion. Just calm. “This instant.” Maybe. Not. Ice was snapping in that voice. Trees breaking. You could drown in most pools in summer. Drown and die. This was not summers voice. Not dulcet.

The sound of something wet being violently spat out made her jump and scramble to pull the sweater on. She turned, to make sure he was still looking at the wall, and alive.... before tugging her shorts off and stepping into the provided pants.

>>“I would be deeply ingratiated to you, if you could hand me the other bottle. This instant.”

She paused, pants half way on, and blinked over her shoulder at him. Had she handed him the wrong bottle? It appeared that way. In a slight panic, she jerks the pants into place, squirming in the ill fitting clothes, before reaching for the other bottle and scampering across the room. “I am... decent...” She had to kind of shuffle into place next to him, eyeing the brown splatter on the wall with a curious glance, before she lifted the bottle and handed it to him. “Here... what was in that one?”

Her lips pursed, and she eyed the other bottle for a moment, before returning to fiddling with her borrowed pants again. With the sweating being mostly too big for her, she was more or less drowning in it. Andrea paused in the fiddling with the pants, to fix the problem with her top half. The moment her hands drifted away, Sloth chose to shift his weight suddenly she felf herself tip sideways. The action of getting her feet to follow and catch herself sent the baggy pants straight to the ground. They caught around her ankles, while she squeaked and pulled the sweater low enough to hide her shame. Her face lit up in many different shades of brown, before she was able to dip and jerk the clothing back into place.

She would not be letting go of it again... not ever. “Sorry!”

She was decent. This was a small comfort at least. No more nakedness going on, Martin hoped. He also hoped for the horrible, burning taste in his mouth to abate quickly. Or rather now. He therefore turned around, spun, to get himself what he was now needing. A method to scrub both brains and mouth. The one needed to forget the horrible things he had witnessed. (Not that stabbing, that was kindof usual) the other needed a good bit of good burning to take the bad burning away. Also the horrible taste needed to leave. Now.

“That was Iodine. I got it for you arm.” Yes, this was what courtesy gave to you. A burned mouth. Because nothing ever went the way you supposed it to. Just to spite you. Reality spitting in your face and somesuch. Gratefully he took the bottle. Or wanted to. A swing of the biggest snake of the hairdo-lot send Andrea spinning for balance. And her pants spinning down. Martin still stood, behind his back the brown liquid lazily oozing down the wall, and simply, without hesitation, unscrewed the bottle with almond-colored liquid. He took not one or two sips (as was decent) but two gulps that filled his mouth.

His brain... needed that right now. He wanted, waited for that pleasantly damp feeling in his head, his brains, that covering of white fluff around his thoughts. He wanted to get drunk. Now. Lest he remember things that he was not supposed to. Like seeing Andreas legs exposed. To her panties. More Bourbon. “Ah, pardon, where are my manners?” He murmured after the third gulp (He began feeling better now) leaving the accident totally uncommented. Maybe except for the swig of alcohol. And for the slight redness in his cheeks. This could have come from the liquid, too. And instead of complaining he bent down to retrieve the two disparate glasses. And the bottle of Iodine. And the medical supplies. It was quite an armful.

The glasses were set out on the table with clinks. Filled to the very brim. “Ill take care of your arm now. You might want to drink to your health. All of it, mind you.” For Andrea did not need to remember much of this night either. So he began... with the iodine. And a piece of gauze. Working on wounds. He could do that drunkenly. He really could. It was just swaying slightly. The world. It was. The wound was deep. Nothing he couldnt handle. His hands knew what they were doing. Touching slightly, here and there. His brain was off to somewhere else. He was humming. Again. (And going to drink himself into a stupor!)

Thank god he didn't comment... And thank all of the saint's too! She didn't think she could take any jokes right now, or lectures. Then again, Saph wasn't around to comment on the particular color of her unmentionables, or name some awful joke... and she had yet to hear Martin lay in on anyone other than Saph with lecture worthy talks. But... that didn't change the fact that she had all but flashed the guy. She also didn't protest when she was sat down on the couch, and told to drink something. He sat down as well and she went ahead and rolled her sleeve up as much as possible, picking up her glass carefully. "Thank you."

He wanted her to drink it all, but one curious sniff burned her nostrils and forced her to blink a few times. Drink to her health?! The stuff, whatever it was, reminded her heavily of the drin-...oh... oh god. Things finally clicked into place and she remembered the color and name of this particular drink. It was just as bad as what Lenna had ordered for her, if she remembered correctly. The poking and prodding at her wound did hurt though, and she could remember those drinks from before working very quickly at making pain from scraped knees and banged elbows go away... among other things. She raised the cup to her lips and took a small taste. It was dry, and kind of burn-y...

She would just have a sip or...OWOWOW! Iodine hurt more than she figured it would... stinging like angry bees, combined with the poking and prodding at her arm as Martin treated it. Without really thinking, she gulped down a mouthful, and coughed. It was a lot less tasty than the last drink... and a lot more like acid to her poor taste buds. She felt a coolness wash down to her stomach, where it settled and made her shiver a little. Since her mouth was already on fire, she went ahead and followed his directions, choosing to gulp down the rest of her glass as quickly as she could, just to empty it.

By the time he finished wrapping her up, she was already feeling a little bit... different. A little heavier, but also a little lighter. And when she turned her head the room was pretty slow to catch up. She wondered idly if that meant she was moving faster than everything else. Coughing once more, she scratched at the back of her head and wiggled her arm around, inspecting the bandaged and how her wound felt. It felt like an arm, but a little stabbed. She giggled to herself. "You did a really good job... do you do this sort of thing often?" Pictures of the gardener wandering through a hospital popped into existence in her mind, followed by soap opera type scenes where he saved lives and declined praise and thanks you's, because 'It's his job, he's a doctor!' She snickered, and rolled her sleeve back down, while her snakes wiggled in her hair, not understanding why they suddenly had the urge to sleep. "What does Iodine taste like? It must taste really bad... It made pretty wall art, though..."

With a clink of glass on glass the bottle emptied another swing of the brownish liquid into Andreas glass. No ice there. Just straight alcohol with a bit of taste. Martin was moving with the precise deliberation he usually kept hidden under a blanket of socially acceptable forgetfulness and distractions. Now there was nothing but mechanics in his limbs. Precisely turning. Robotical.

“I had to do that far too often in the fighting. But at least the military was good for teaching me something practical.” He almost sighted, eyes darting off Andrea and to the brown abstract on the bathroom door. “Iodine is better on the wall then in the mouth. Kindof burning.” Martin commented in an almost sombre voice, the tones forming in the same, abstract, way that his arms had been moving. His mind being elsewhere right now. Eyes were looking out, far into the beyond. In a sober mind he would have pointed out that this was precisely the reason you did not give your common war-veteran and sometime assassin greater amounts of Alcohol to drink. It made them sentimental. And made them remember...

Murders. “You know killing someone always makes a mess.”... Ops. Shouldn't have said that. Probably. Have another drink! He slowly raised his glass to his mouth.

He filled her glass again like a ninja. All she heard was the clink of glass on glass and then the weight gripped in her hand doubled. It took her a moment to drag her eyes away from the wall, to stare at her now full glass. Did he honestly think she could drink that much? She glanced down at the rather baggy sweater he had provided.

...Well, she had put on a little weight... and she could very vaguely remember someone commenting on body size being relevant to how much a person could drink. Maybe that meant she could stomach more than a few glasses without completely forgetting the night's events?... and possibly, hopefully, not retching her dinner out somewhere on Martin's floor? The Greek blinked at her glass, amazed at how her gloves stuck to it because of the latex, and a few seconds later the little angel on her shoulder caught up to her rapidly moving mind and reminded her that she ought not to test her luck.

'Yes.That sounded smart. Something I should definitely do, moderation... ' She thought, while lifting the glass to her lips. She took a sip, realized what she was doing, and had to force herself to drop her hands to her lap, glass and all. The creeping curiosity that had snagged her the first time, the temptation, was crawling up the back of her neck again. She felt the need to feel delightfully wonky, and the devil on her other shoulder taunted her with memories of how good it had felt to let loose and just not care about anything. Andrea found herself glaring at her cup, and had to drag her eyes away when Martin started talking. He spoke of fighting, of military... She saw him in a whole new light. Of course! It explained nearly everything. Past military experience would lead to his wicked moves, which let the part of her mind that was still worrying about the fight in the alley rest.

It also explained a lot of things about him to her. The formal way her acted, so reserved and polite... yet strong and commanding when needed. She contemplated that, while sipping at her drink again- which had risen to her lips without her realizing. She had turned her attention back to the wall, eying his new iodine painting, when he chose to speak again, and mentioned something about killing. The green mutant on the cough beside him froze up, mind still clear enough to go into full blown panic mode, and she choked into her cup. With her mind slowing down ever more, pulling gradually on the mental breaks, she found herself momentarily struck by fear... Until she remembered that bit about the military. Suddenly, the sympathetic part of her jumped at the chance to take over, and she found herself frowning into her cup. Not the best emotion to go with alcohol, nope, not at all. She didn't turn on the couch to look at him, or give him that knowing 'I pity you' face she had seen others used on her many, many times. Instead, she opted for fingering her mostly full glass, and staring pointedly at the coffee table. Thinking about the friendly gardener in the service, any service, made her wonder what he had seen. What he had done... She thought about all of the various reasons someone would have to take a life, and it led her down a dark road to her own past experiences.

She didn't have the ability to blame her actions of duty, or a job, though. "I know." Was her reply. Two short words that were somewhat bitter and cryptic... and yet filled to the brim with shame. She had seen a lot of things since leaving home, and was unfortunate enough to have been a part of most of them. Eying her reflection in the caramel colored liquid in her cup, she watched as Sloth shifted around her shoulders, and the darker snakes settled themselves in her hair. They were tried, sleepy. It wouldn't be long before they passed out all together. "...What is it like?... going from something so... violent, to something so peaceful?.... Did you enjoy working in the garden?" She shook herself and tried to think of happier things.

I made a Gorgons hair drunk! Martin thought as he noted the change in Andreas companions' behavior, trying not to muse on the fact that he had just made her privy to a secret very few people were supposed to know. A thing that made him smile a little bit. I made hair drunk! This might, one day, become a story. The valiant knight having defeated the Gorgon not with a reflective shield of metal, but with a simple bottle of strong liquor. A wonderful story. He would need to remember that for the future. The smile vanished again in the depths of his frozen and reduced facial expressions, drained away. I might have to kill her for that one day. Just to keep my secrets. It was not a good though. It made him sip his drink. And then grimace as it had turned bitter... Killing people he knew was just... wrong.

As she spoke up again he stared at her with open amazement in his eyes. She had killed, had she not? This part was where normal people would be shocked and irritated. Martin was a bit tipsy. Maybe a bit more than tipsy. So his other side showed up clearly. The colder side was quite satisfied with Andrea having killed actually. To find that they had something in common. And maybe that she was vulnerable there. “You need to stop thinking about that, Martin.” He mumbled to himself. She was not going to die by his hand. Nope. His mouth spoke without him thinking much. “Growing things is good cover. You are part of a household yet free to move around everywhere on the grounds and almost anywhere in the houses. Makes many things easier.” He had spoken in that strange voice he sometimes used. Assessment of a military nature. Terse, short speech. Ouch. Double ouch. This was not going to be good, rational Martin was having a hissy fit inside the many-winded paths of his brain right now. Alcohol made that voice very hard to hear. It was good. Hissy fits are nasty. Especially in your own brain. “And if you remember that in the morning I might have to kill you.” He added in a voice that gave no expression. Not a hint that this had been a joke. He took another sip of alcohol. A rather big one.

The bottle was already half-empty he noted with a casual air. He was seated on the couch beside Andy, facing her. His legs were crossed. He looked slightly thoughtful. “I would regret that.” Yeah. Right. Another sip. “To memory loss.” It didn't taste any better. It made the voice shut up though. Finally, finally, beyond rationality. His stomach was burning pleasantly.

>>“Growing things is good cover. You are part of a household yet free to move around everywhere on the grounds and almost anywhere in the houses. Makes many things easier.”“And if you remember that in the morning I might have to kill you.”

Andrea froze, staring at the man for a moment, before a grin took over her face. "Ha! That's funny... you know, it has taken me a year to identify what American humor is... I almost believed you for a moment!" She laughed, chuckling, and lifted the rest of her drink to her lips. It burned a little, but with the cup already settling in her stomach she was already swimming. "To memory loss!"

She clinked glasses with him, and finished off the rest of her drink. Her stomach was cold, and her mind was well on its way to never never land. She was losing control, and Martin was sitting next to her. Turning, she copied his crossed leggedness and waggled her empty cup at him. "You know? I told myself I would't.. I wouldn't drink again, after... after the last time. It's so hard to think, while drinking."

She grinned, and tipped her glass toward her so she cold blink at it's sudden emptiness. When had she drank the last of it?... "I so...unused to this. All of this... I never had such ex...experia..ces.. at home. Everything was so.. so... calm... so placid."

her cup was starting to remind her of things she didn't like.. and she didn't know why. She could see faces in the last bit of bourbon clinging to the bottom of her glass. Her mother, her father.... Saph.

"... I miss him." She said, before holding her glass out for a refill.