no promises. [ian]

Ian
The Buell Theatre is listed as one of the largest stages in the Denver area. The space is clean and modern, with comfortable seats and warm lighting. Kiara's ticket places her near the front and center of the main seating area, leaving her a good view of the performance. By the time the House lights begin to dim, many (though not all) of the seats in the theater are occupied. The audience rustles as they get comfortable, murmuring to each other in hushed whispers while they wait for the show to start. Some of them flip through the program - which contains short bios for each of the dancers and a brief piece about the themes of the show (as well as, of course, local advertisements.) Evolution marks the first time the company has been able to hire a back-up corps to support the principals. It's a bigger show than they're done before - in both size and scope. But so far the reviews have all been favorable.

Finally the house lights go off, and the audience goes silent as the curtain opens.

The dance is a modern piece, in both choreography and design. The lighting and the costumes are sleek and clean. Sharp lines and a cool tones. The choreography begins with characters who seem together but separate - dancing in synchronized styles without ever touching the others. The piece transitions into a more intimate space, leaving the six principle dancers to pair up. They come together for a time, then break apart. Change partners. There's a fickleness to the way they interact. For a time it looks as though it might become something else - something open and expansive - but instead the dancers break away to dance alone. Ian is the one left on stage at the end. His next piece begins as a solo. The stage closes in, trapping him in a clean white box. The choreography is tricky and elegant, but grows progressively more frustrated as he tries (and fails) to escape the limited space. He leaps onto the wall and slides down, turning the falls into part of the dance. Finally he escapes.

The show moves on. More dancers join the stage as they gradually begin to explore each other in more meaningful ways. The choreography moves from exploration to experiment to a kind of shared connection. It feels, over all, less romantic in nature than simply intimate. Like a representation of the human condition. People finding each other - opening up to each other - becoming pieces of a greater whole.

In the end, they are bathed in starlight and dancing in the heavens. (Ascended, perhaps, to some higher communal state.)

When the show finishes, the dancers take their final bow and the audience gives a standing ovation. Afterwards, they begin to slowly filter out. Before Kiara can leave, Ian sticks his head out of one of the doors leading backstage and gestures for her to follow him.

KiaraIt's not the first time she's seen Ian dance - but in many respects, it's the first time she's seen Ian.

There was an inherent vulnerability to art, of course. A requirement to strip away the barriers between yourself and the world and allow expression to take hold and be all that remained. To speak and interpret, at least as far as dance was concerned, through the language of the body. The Verbena is seated close enough to see detail that those seated further back may not; every nuance and twist and expression is laid out for her visual consumption and Kiara, practitioner of the human body and healer that she was, engaged and watched and devoured every last morsel of it.

Her eyes unerringly found Ian throughout the performance, drawn back to watch the way he interacted and intercepted the other dancers; the precision, even in their own space, was breathtaking. She smiles throughout much of it, though it dims, briefly, at the point in his solo where he flings himself at the wall; the Verbena's eyes dropping away as if conflicted at watching any further. They return, of course, a moment later, but there's a brightness to them that only passes once his escape is realized.

The brunette on her feet to applaud as the dancers take their bows.

-

She's standing beside her seat in the aftermath; audience members slowly departing in a murmur of discussion and appreciation for what they'd just seen, when Ian re-appears briefly to beckon her backstage. She's noticeable, the Verbena, if only for the fact she's wearing the boldest combination of colors (red pumps with a black evening dress Ian may well remember from another function months ago) and a shawl that combined both with streaks of white threaded throughout wrapped over her shoulders with a beaded black purse held in one hand with the program.

The cut of the dress leaves her arms and legs bare to the knee and shoulder respectively and her hair's been tamed for the evening, at least, partially. Bundled high with strands framing the sharp contours of Kiara's face; it accentuates the pagan's cheekbones, the long elegance of her neck. Pulls focus to the glittering length of silver around it adorned with a rather impressive ruby.

"Oh, will you sign my program?" It's a tease, her greeting. Her mouth curled in a smile, eyes glittering under the lights. "I'm a fan."

Then, leaning in, closer. Intimate.

Her hands on his sides. "Congratulations. I couldn't take my eyes off you up there."

Ian"Sorry, I don't have a pen on me." Ian's response is light and equally teasing as he holds the door open, allowing just enough room for Kiara to slip past before closing it behind her. He's still in his costume and stage makeup: shirtless with white leggings that sported an angular patch of thin mesh material across one section of his thighs. The makeup is fairly minimal apart from the dark liner and stardust glitter around his eyes. Up close, it looks more dramatic than it had on stage. Mostly, he looks tired and sweaty. His hair is damp from it in places, and his skin has a noticeable sheen. He smells like someone who just danced for two hours under hot lights.

The area backstage is laid out in a long hallway. Dancers come and go between the dressing rooms and the green room. Some of them are milling in the hallway, speaking to each other in excited tones about the show. Everyone seems to be in a celebratory mood. The performance went well - probably the best of the whole run. Ian and Kiara have a brief moment to take each other in. Kiara leans close; puts her hands on Ian's sides. When she congratulates him, the smile she gets is slow to materialize. An almost self-conscious flicker of gratitude that spreads into something brighter - gleaming (happy.)

"Thanks."

Then someone runs by and jumps onto Ian's back. A blond man in his early twenties with a radiantly impish smile. "Ian! We're done! You were awesome! Everyone was awesome! I am going to get so drunk tonight!"

Ian huffs a breath in surprise but mostly manages not to let the sudden onslaught unbalance him. "Go jump on your boyfriend, Benji." He says it like a chastisement, but there's a lingering smile that betrays his good spirits.

"Oh, I intend to." Benji hops down and gives Kiara a little wave, then dashes off to the green room. Ian exhales.

"Sorry. We get a little crazy after shows. Do you maybe want to take a walk? I can get changed, if you don't mind waiting a few minutes."

KiaraHe smells like someone very much alive in their skin at the moment and the Verbena's response to it is to slide her hands along his ribcage and lean in to press her lips to the edge of his jaw. It's a fleeting, private thing. A gesture that leaves little but the vaguest imprint of Kiara's lipstick before someone is on Ian's back and she's pulling away to allow room for the festivities.

There's a camaraderie between the men that she cannot fail to notice and, returning the blond man's wave, the brunette's expression reads it. Her lingering amusement, her interest in this side of the man she's gotten to know in glimpses and stolen beats of insight. "No, don't apologize. I think it's great." There's a flash of teeth as Kiara's eyes flit toward the green room where Benji had no doubt gone to leap on top of his unknown boyfriend and then shift back.

Her mouth quirks, dark eyes dropping momentarily to admire his costume, the expanse of bare skin visible, the sheen of sweat and glitter and the way the leggings wrapped to the contours of his thighs. She takes a step closer and lets out a tiny, thoughtful noise. "I might mind you changing a little, I think I like this look on you." A beat, her eyes return to his face, her chin lifts, that edge of slow, easy flirtation resurfacing; the ever-present gleam of challenge contained there.

"Yes," she lifts a hand to touch his chest, "I'd love to. As long as I'm not stealing you away from the party too long. You should celebrate with them." Her eyes return to the door, just for a moment.

"It's good to have people to do that with." There's the tiniest suggestion buried in Kiara's voice that speaks of a kind of unconcealed envy, a flicker of some emotion latching to it that shadows her expression for a moment before it's gone, smoothed over and sealed beneath a returning smile; her hand sliding away with a linger as her eyes follow it.

Tick back to his face. "I'll wait out here."

IanHe laughs when she teases him (flirts with him,) and this time there is little trace of self-consciousness. He is more at ease with these kinds of compliments. For a moment he rolls his lip between his teeth and smiles as though he's half-considering humoring her. But the costume (what little of it there is) needs to come off at some point. Better to do it now than later (before the makeup starts to run.) She puts a hand on his chest. It makes the skin below her palm grow warmer. There is a faint stain of lipstick on his jaw where she kissed him, but as yet he hasn't noticed. Later when he glances at it in the mirror, he'll run his thumb across it thoughtfully and smile.

She doesn't want to steal him away from the party, and there's a flicker of longing in the way she says it that makes Ian cant his head and look at her as though he's trying to read something in her voice; in her eyes.

"They'll be out all night. I can catch up."

Before he goes, he leans in close and presses his lips to hers - seemingly unconscious of the other people in their vicinity. He lets the kiss go for a long beat, lets himself remember the taste and feel of her. When he pulls back, his lips are a little red. "I remember that dress," he offers quietly. Then he pulls away and disappears into one of the dressing rooms.

Kiara has about seven minutes to wait before he returns. During that time a woman (Indian descent, dark skin and hair) appears from out of the other dressing room and shoots Kiara a curious look. She's already showered and changed into jeans and silk top. There's a moment where she looks like she might say something to her, until a man who looks like he could be her brother runs over and throws his arms around her. When she sees him, her face brightens, and the two of them make their way down the hall together.

When Ian reappears, he's wearing casual clothes (dark jeans, boots, white t-shirt.) His skin is clean, and his hair is still damp from the shower. He has a messenger bag slung over one shoulder.

"Hey, sorry. I tried to go fast. That fucking glitter never wants to come off." He starts to head in the direction of the green room, walking backwards as he watches Kiara. "I just need to check in quick, then we can go." When he reaches the doors, he pushes them open and glances over the room. A number of the dancers are already there, either showered or still in costume, laughing and talking excitedly. A number of family members seem to be present. Parents, siblings, spouses - even a couple of children. Ian pauses a moment as he regards them, and something a little quiet and reserved comes over his face.

Finally he glances toward the woman Kiara had seen in the hallway. "I'm going to take off, Emma. Text me about the bar. I'll meet you there."

Emma nods at him, glances at Kiara again and smiles as though he just answered a question. Across the room, a man with red hair shouts "Don't you dare ditch us on closing night, Ian!"

"Don't worry, Kane. You'll have plenty of time to dance with me later."

Before anyone else can accost them, Ian shuts the door and leads Kiara away.

KiaraShe stains his mouth and he offers remembrance of her dress before he goes and her smile is tipped low, chin dipped and her face still angled to receive his kiss as she offers back in a low murmur, "Oh, I know," an echo of what she'd said to them then, that night. Their first together. Kiara's eyes read it, the deliberation behind choosing them, it. He pulls away, then and she doesn't cling to him as he does.

Not that he would have expected it. Not from her.

When he's gone, Kiara doesn't linger by the door he'd vanished into, but wanders along the length of the backstage hall, there are voices coming from behind closed doors; raised and excited, the sound of celebration; of performers thrumming with post-show exhilaration; the most concentrated source of the chatter from the green room but the brunette doesn't venture any closer to it than to mill down toward its end and then return back; thumbing through texts on her phone, frowning down at something she reads on the tiny glowing screen.

When a door opens and another female emerges to shoot the Verbena a look; it's a near miss of a thing. Kiara's attention wholly and totally drawn in by something she's reading; the cast of her offered is a semi-profile; a slender, black-clad stranger leaning against the wall with her legs crossed at the ankle.

She does not belong.

The presence is not quite that of a dancer but yet - she doesn't offer the bright-eyed enthusiasm of a fan, either. When the closing of the door does draw the woman's eye to the other - there's a beat where they observe one another and the flicker of recognition is stagnated in the Verbena, though it does flare to life after a pause - there's a mutual hesitation that stretches too long, she's swept up by another and they make their way down the hall, wrapped up in one another.

Kiara turns to watch them go. She seems thoughtful, looking after them. The door clicks again and Ian re-appears, shower-damp and clean; his bag slung over his shoulder. She cuts him a smile, slips her phone back into that beaded purse and winds the strap of it over a shoulder; the shawl half-slipping to bear a swath of bare skin to the world. The green room is swarming with people and the pagan leans into the doorframe when Ian opens it; props herself there with a shoulder pressing into it and lets her eyes travel over the gathered.

Families. Loved ones. Gatherings of adulation and appreciation, Kiara's focus hovers for a beat on what must have been the parents of one of the dancers before it ticks to Emma. There's a smile, then. There hadn't been before, in the hallway. Just - veiled interest, it surfaces now and Kiara's smile grows at the shouting and as she's led away, she offers: "He's cute. I wouldn't ditch him if I were you," before Ian closes the door on their presence.

-

Outside, in the hallway, she takes him in for a beat and then: "How long have you known them?"

IanThere's a little huff of laughter when Kiara comments on Kane's attractiveness. "He's straight. And he has a girlfriend."

How long have you known them?

"Some longer than others." Ian leads them to a set of doors marked with an exit sign. When he pushes them, they empty out into another corridor. This one is quieter - empty apart from a row of stage lights lined up against one wall. "I used to dance with Emma and Shannon in the Colorado Ballet, before Shannon left to start this company. That was... almost two years ago. Benji we hired during our first audition last summer. And Kane and Melissa started last winter. The other dancers were only contracted for this show, but after rehearsing for a couple of months together, you kind of build up a dynamic."

Still, he doesn't seem reluctant to leave the celebrations behind (at least for the moment.) If anything, the relative quiet of the empty corridor seems to relax him a little. Maybe it's the kids. The families.

"I'm glad you came," he offers after a moment. "It was nice to see you, after. I don't get to perform for people I know that often."

KiaraThere's a low noise when he mentions Kane is straight and has a girlfriend. Faux disappointment coloring the brunette's voice as they exit out into a quieter hallway, Kiara's heels offering a hollow reverberation as they do. "How unfortunate." The tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth, the way her arm brushes his as they walk as suggestive as her tone that she's not serious in the slightest. When Ian starts to speak of the company, though. Of the connections between himself and the people Kiara had glimpsed inside the greenroom her interest sharpens and becomes a considering, wholly focused thing.

"That happens," she notes after a pause. Her long lashed eyes flicking to read his expression and search his face. "You spend any kind of time with people in close quarters, you get to know them on a totally different level." She winds the ends of the shawl around her arms, folds them over her chest, there's that hint again, for a moment. A sort of low key awareness to Kiara's expression, her voice. A dulled edge of pain. "Sadie and I were like that. We'd barely spent a day apart since we met before Denver and then - " A little hitch of Kiara's mouth, sloping into an edged smile.

"It's hard to replace that." Quieter, then. "I miss her."

I don't get to perform for people I know that often. She looks about to say something, the brunette, it's there in the look she casts him, on the heels of her confession. There in the way her arms unfold and the fingers of one hand slide down and curl around a wrist, not quite halting his momentum but - anchoring there, just lightly.

"It can be scary to be that honest in front of people you know." She leans into his space a little. "I'm glad you let me see it."


Ian
[Per+Empathy - you seem sad]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 8, 9, 9, 9) ( success x 4 )

KiaraShe does seem a little sad tonight, there are traces of it he's picked up since she met him at the stage door but Kiara being the sort of creature she was - didn't speak on it.

Didn't exactly hide it, either but - she wasn't planning on sharing whatever exactly it was on her mind. At least - not tonight. He can get a sense of it, though.

The size and shape and form it seems to take from the way she sounds when she mentions her former room mate. There's a closeness there, a kind of familial fondness and subsequent ache that only losing people close to you can bring. She's not dead but - Kiara is grieving, in a way. There is also a sense that beyond that, somewhere, buried in the things Kiara isn't really saying out loud - she's perhaps a little lonely with her sister gone. Something about what he says, too, about never really performing for people he knows makes her look at him in a way that says she knows he doesn't. That she invited herself into his world, there's an awareness of that, of the fact it's hard - for them both - to let their walls down.

Even for the right reasons.

IanIt can be scary to be that honest in front of people you know.

There's something a little reserved in the way Ian acknowledges Kiara's statement. A hint of something like a smile touches his lips, but the depth in his eyes seems weighted. His attention holds on her, casting down a moment to take in the touch of her fingers on his wrist. She can feel his pulse moving there, tapping out a faint rhythm beneath his skin.

He doesn't agree or disagree.

When his eyes come up, his attention lingers on her. He's quiet for a long moment as they walk the corridor. Finally he says, "They're friends. I wouldn't call them family. But I suppose they've grown on me." A beat, and his voice dips into a softer register. "What was she like? Sadie." They reach the next door, but he pauses there, leaning back against the wall. His hand turns in her grip, tugging her closer.

"Unless you'd rather not talk about her."

KiaraThey reach the next door but don't exit through it, instead he leans back against the wall, pulls her closer. She smiles a little at the gesture, this brief upturn of her lips, Kiara, as she allows herself to be drawn in. Close enough that her knees brush his, that he can smell the wash of her perfume, the soap on her skin.

Her fingertips skating over the delicate skin where his pulse beat beneath it.

"I don't mind." There's a hesitation, there. A certain shadow that falls across the brunette's features that drops her eyes from Ian's face; draws her brows together. "It's just - " The Verbena's mouth compresses into a line and there's a spark of something like agitation when she looks back at him, the twist to her mouth when she smiles is as much a schism of recognized pain as humor. " - she drives me a little crazy. I can feel her, out there. We're - " Kiara's breath cuts out of her sharply; she cants her eyes toward the wall, lets them tick back to Ian after a pause and they're very dark in the hallway.

Mutable and framed by lashes she's painted with dramatic flare for the occasion.

She turns his hand over, traces a fingernail over the lines on it; life; head, heart. " - people talk about connections. About feeling like people are their family, are so close to them but I have that literally with her." Kiara frowns, lets go of his hand and severs the contact; wraps her arms firmer around her body and steps to settle against the wall beside him, there's a sliver of space there. Their shoulders brushing as she turns her face toward him.

Strands of loose hair fall over her cheek and she looks, momentarily, far younger than she by rights should have; vulnerability cutting through her cosmopolitan veneer. Softening her expression; the solemnity in her voice. "The night I met Aisling. The Verbena - all of this - Sadie was there, too. She was hit by a car and I was right there when it happened. I followed them to the hospital. They didn't think she'd make it through the night, but - " a tiny smile surfaces, a hint of something tender. " - she did. That's what she's like. This constant, stubborn force of nature. She and I joined the Verbena together, Aisling told me that was how it was supposed to be. And then -" Kiara shifts her weight a little; rubs her hands over her arms.

"They had ways of making sure you were ready, the coven Aisling was in. The way they tested us, the way we woke up - " Kiara can't quite disguise the distaste in her voice, written in the fine twist to her features. "It was harsh." Her eyes search Ian's face, then. "Even when Sadie isn't here, I still feel her. Here." She puts a hand over her chest, lets her head settle back against the wall.

"I think I always will. But she was - moody, sometimes. Could brood for hours. Or - light up a room, depending." A tick of her eyes over him, a teasing curl returns to her mouth. "She'd have liked you, though. Once she figured you out."

IanThere are people outside the doors - distant enough that their voices are a dull murmur through the barrier. Perhaps that's why Ian decided to stop - conscious as always of the delicate nature of intimacy. Kiara explores the lines on his palm, and he allows it the way he often allows her explorations. Like a docile tiger going still beneath someone's hand. If there are claws in him, she has never seen them (not really.)

He lets his hand drop to his side when she falls back next to him. Listens quietly while she talks about her sister - a woman who does not share her blood but is closer to the meaning of that word than most biological siblings will ever be. His attention follows Kiara as she moves, taking in the shifting tone; the details in her face. The way her emotions rise to the surface - but do not quite break open.

He laughs softly when she says that Sadie would have liked him. "I'll have to take your word on that. Like is not a word that gets applied to me that often." He leans his head to one side, turning to place a lingering kiss to the arc of her cheekbone. "I think people have to find their own way sometimes. Even if it means someone gets hurt. Or left behind." His eyelashes lower, and he leans his head against hers a moment before pulling away. "I'm sorry she left you alone."

His posture shifts as he steps away from the wall and one hand goes out to push open the door at his side. "We should get some fresh air."

The doors lead out into an open courtyard, partially covered by an arched glass roof. Various theater-goers walk past or stand milling together in conversation. The space is lit up with warm, ambient light spilling off from a little cafe across the way. Their particular exit is tucked back a little from the stream of pedestrian traffic, affording some momentary privacy.

KiaraAs is often the case between them - physical affection is given freely. He presses his mouth to her cheekbone and Kiara makes a quiet, nearly aggrieved noise and turns to press her cheek against the contact for a moment; their faces close together until he pulls away and her eyes follow him, her mouth offering a vague impression of gratitude - for the understanding (for pulling away).

"I'm sorry she did, too," she murmurs after a beat almost as an afterthought, her eyes lowering.

-

The courtyard they step out into is impressive after the hallway; space falling away on either side; the café's warm glow enticing post-show traffic with the enticing aroma of freshly ground coffee and comfortable little tables, arranged against the windows for a vantage of the pedestrian traffic as it trickled past. Kiara's eyes travel to it, the few lingering theater-attendees conversing in soft tones, the crimson-gold light cast off by the light fixtures inside the café.

It strikes her that they might, the people here, the theater faithful, those who had attended the show Ian's company had put on tonight, recognize him. Look at him with a sort of recognition that would seem entirely alien to her - his being seen not as Ian as she knew him - but Ian as the rest of the world did. The disconnect seems to jar her for a moment, she looks across the distance and curls the edges of her shawl around her arms for the second time tonight.

Reaches to thread her arm through his and guide him into step beside her. There's almost something possessive to that, an unconscious owning. Of him. Of their space separate from the others present.

"Did you know there was another Node here once," she says after they've walked for a few moments, her heels clicking against the pavement, voice lower, pitched so it doesn't carry. "In Roxborough State Park," she looks across at him, measures his profile for a beat, her mouth dipping into the slightest of frowns. "Annie took me out there the other day. It was - " there's a hesitation, Kiara breathes out. " - I had no idea how bad it got here, once. It made me wonder, with what Alexander said about them being in the Department, too - " He can feel the slight tension in Kiara's frame growing.

"How close they probably are."

That scares me, she doesn't add.

IanThe atmosphere is different outside than it had been backstage - crossing from one territory (that of the dancers and the designers and the stagehands) into another (that of the general public.) Kiara becomes aware of that change almost immediately. Ian is aware of it too - knows that if he walks out into the courtyard and stops, his presence there will attract attention. It's why he turns away from the cafe instead, why he lets Kiara take his arm and claim him (even if only for a moment) as they walk. People recognize him as they pass. Some of their eyes linger. One or two look as though they might approach, but ultimately none do.

Ahead of them, the architecture of the arts center opens up to the city, its dark skyline illuminated by man-made light. A large stone abstract sculpture sits in front of the archway. Ian's eyes are drawn to it for a moment before Kiara begins to speak. When she does, he regards her quietly.

"I didn't know." His voice is pitched low, intended for her ears only.

There are, in fact, a great many things that Ian does not know about the Technocracy in Denver. A great many things that none of them know. The thought of them unnerves Kiara. Unnerves him too, if he's being honest.

"There were a lot of them in New York. I don't know if you ever encountered any, living there. I hope not. I never did, but I heard stories. Here... I don't know. I guess I always assumed they were around somewhere, but no one ever talks about it." He looks at Kiara's arm, latched firmly around his own. Looks at her eyes then; at the way she looks at him.

"Are you worried?"

KiaraIt could be nothing, the way she curls her fingers around his arm when he mentions the presence of the Technocracy in New York. It could be, but - the way that frown on Kiara's face deepens, the measure of unease about her increasing, it seems unlikely that it is. That she's not - worried. Her expression shifting as they walk and she ducks her face; chin falling and dark strands of that wild hair of hers unravel over her face; refusing to remain bound for long.

"They were around." She confirms in a small voice and then, a little stronger: "I heard stories. Some of the Cultists I used to club with had run ins. One of them never came back. I never got closer than the day I found Aisling, but - " She slides her arm out, her fingers trailing over his arm; down the slope of an elbow, to cup his wrist, turning him to face her.

There's that contraction of the brunette's brows again, a sudden constriction when she breathes in, releases it sharply. "They know about me. About Sadie. They knew there were more of us there that's why we left. If they really are here, if they're half as resourceful as I've heard - " Kiara drops her eyes to his chest; her fingers drop away from his hand and she turns at the sound of voices in the distance, echoing laughter that somehow translates into something eerie and mocking.

When she looks back, her expression seems, outwardly, a touch calmer. Her control sliding back, her mouth offering the slightest of smiles, though its a weaker attempt than usual. "In their hands, I'm worried I'd get people killed. I don't have the control yet to protect my thoughts from them. My memories. The idea that I could be a liability to everyone?" Her eyebrows lift, smile faltering.

"I hate that."


Ian

He ought to have made the connection earlier. Somehow he’d thought… Nephandi, Night Folk, maybe even a group of rival Tradition mages. There are things one tends to hear about the Technocratic Union, and one of those things is: they don’t leave loose ends. So when Kiara mentions Aisling now, the weight of her words hit Ian sharply. He doesn’t speak right away - his response caught somewhere between warring impulses – but he looks at Kiara with a sobered expression that quickly begins to fray around the edges. There are subtle hues of anxiety in the shape of his eyes.

He doesn’t look away, even though he probably should (anyone could be watching them right now.) In the distance, someone laughs.

Finally, Ian just nods. The way he does it, it doesn’t feel dismissive. There’s a purpose and a gravity to it. He heard her (the things she said, and the things she didn’t say.) Then he takes her hand and gestures toward the street, taking off at a brisk pace. For a moment he almost forgets she’s wearing heels (and that her legs are shorter than his,) but a few steps onto the sidewalk he glances back and slows his stride to match hers.

There’s a park a few blocks away (one of those green landscaped areas that tend to crop up in the middle of urban centers.) This is where Ian starts to take them. As they walk, his grip on her hand tightens subconsciously.

“I can help with that, if you need it.” He looks over, and there’s something searching in his eyes. “I don’t want you to be vulnerable.”

Kiara

It's funny, the way they inevitably seem drawn back to nature.

Even here, in the midst of the city with its blaze of lights and skyscrapers and noise - Ian leads Kiara toward an area far more verdant than others and she doesn't pull him up to question it; doesn't falter for the fact his strides far outmatch her own; she lets him set the pace in the aftermath of that confession. It hangs there between them like an omen; an ominous promise of retribution, at some unknown point, at some unspoken hour. They'll come for Kiara Woolfe. There was only so far you could go, after all, before you found the edge; before the question ceased to be run or walk and became instead - jump or surrender.

Became a matter of what you were prepared to do. To become.

There were some things about Kiara that seemed resolute. For all her talk of never looking back, for never living in the past, it didn't even seem worth questioning whether or not she'd allow herself to be taken by the Union without a fight (if at all). When he tightens his grip around her hand, when he says he can help, she cuts a look at him from under her lashes; a sudden, sharp thing. The way her focus is all there suddenly when she'd seemed anywhere but focused on the moment, pulled along beside him bodily but her attention directed inward; insulated and inverted by what she'd said, by the very fact of it. That as real as tonight was, Ian's dancing on the stage, his friends, the easy banter - beneath it there was another reality. Their reality, one wholly possessed of death and mayhem and the eternal dance on the knife's edge.

She averts her eyes when he searches her face, looks instead beyond him. Toward the park, the breeze rippling through the thin material of her shawl; bracketing the sleek lines of her dress against her legs. Curls her fingers around his hand and guides him along now; into the depths of it; the soft give of grass compressing beneath Kiara's heels; the way the shadows slide over them; over her as she twists to look at him. Her expression unreadable as it travels down to where their hands are linked and the edge of her mouth gives, then. Red lips offering a hint of something touched by emotion.

She steps closer to him, puts her hands on his face, sculpts the contours of it and kisses him. It's not exactly sweet, the way Kiara kisses. Not now, not tonight. There's too much urgency to it, too many unspoken things she's articulating through it: grief, uncertainty, gratitude.

She breathes against his mouth rather than break away: "Dance with me?"

IanThey are fragile creatures, in their way. Prone to mistakes and human frailty. A year ago, Ian would have reacted differently. He can look back now and remember all of the times he snapped and bristled at Kalen, at Elijah, because of threats both real and imagined. Maybe it's only luck that lets Kiara see a gentler side of him. (People do change, after all. In these small, incremental ways.)

That's part of it. But it isn't the only part.

Skyline Park is heavily manicured. A stone fountain occupies one end of it, and benches lie in neatly spaced intervals along the perimeter. Kiara pulls Ian up onto the grass. There are people walking by on the sidewalks. A man with a small dog is throwing a tennis ball at the other end of the lawn while a couple of kids make out nearby. It's late enough that the park isn't busy, but no place in downtown Denver is ever quiet. They can hear the cars rush past. Smell hints of various foods from nearby restaurants.

It isn't any more private than the theater had been. But it's green and open and the air feels less... claustrophobic.

There's something about the way Ian responds to Kiara's kiss that feels... inhibited. He doesn't pull away, and his lips move softly beneath her own, but his body is rigid and his breath is quiet and so much of his sensuality is dampened. Then Kiara breaths against him and says: Dance with me? And something breaks.

He puts his arms around her - pulls her close in an embrace that stops just sort of being crushing. And when he kisses her temple he says, "Okay."

But what he really means is: Don't go.

When he pulls back, he takes her hand and sets his other on her waist. There isn't any music for them to dance to. Only the sounds of the city. But he finds a shaky rhythm in their shared heartbeats.

KiaraIntimacy is a feat of perception, as readily as trust. You can be surrounded by people and still convey so much of it by touch, by look, by a refusal to acknowledge anything else beyond the person you want to be close to. They aren't alone here, the park is active with pedestrian traffic; they're glanced at where they stand on the grassy square, eyes tick over them when Ian pulls her close.

To the strangers passing through though, they are just another couple, ostensibly one dressed in slightly nicer clothing than most in the park but not so out of the ordinary that they draw more than the occasional lingering look. Skyline Park was pressed into the cosmopolitan surface of the city; a compacted, artificial deposit of lush green manicured lawn and flowers; planted into grey concrete slabs that bordered the buildings on every side; trees that seemed as much an afterthought as planned design to add to the aesthetic of it.

They are, however, the only ones who can feel the heartbeat of the place. Can feel the pulse of the very fabric that knit it together, underneath it all.

They aren't alone, but - the way Kiara holds his face for that measure while she kisses him; the frantic way she presses her mouth against his - they could be. The Verbena certainly doesn't pay their surroundings any mind when she asks him to dance with her. Doesn't offer the kids making out or the dog chasing a ball or the gurgle of recycled water in the fountain a thought or a glance. She does smile, though. Her eyes do lift to meet his when they find an unheard rhythm there and Kiara drapes both her arms around his neck and loosely cages him there against her.

Leans close and rests her cheek against his; fingers stroking the tiny hairs at the nape of his neck, there's something subtly soothing about it, as if she were unconsciously seeking to soothe a startled animal.

"My family used to have these stupid functions in New York. All these people gathering to laud one another. They'd dress up and drink french champagne and talk about changing the world." She's speaking softly, Kiara, her voice close to his ear. He can hear the apathy in it, the distaste even now for a world she'd come from (run away from). "They never actually intended to, of course. It was all posturing. My mother would force me to go for appearances sake."

She draws back a little, so she can search his eyes. "One night, when I was fourteen, I climbed out the window and ran away." The corner of Kiara's mouth lifts. "I spent the night at my friend's house. When I came home, my father just looked at me. Right through me. Like I was something that was broken, he'd have to pay to get fixed." Her smile fades a little. "That terrified me. That look." She slides a hand down to his; threads their fingers together.

"I've known since I was fourteen what I'm not." I know what I'll never become, she doesn't say. Heartless. An automaton.

IanIt's different, the way Ian dances now. It isn't like the way he moves on stage. This is subtle, contained, intimate. They're slow-dancing in the grass to music that isn't there, pressed close enough together that they hardly need to speak above a whisper. To the people watching them, it looks... romantic. The way they lean into each other; the way Kiara strokes the hair at the back of his neck (it's been trimmed recently, and feels buzzed-short and soft beneath the pads of her fingers.)

Kiara tells him a story about running away when she was fourteen, but what she really means to say is that she could never become what the Union wants to make her. It's another brief glimpse of her life. Who she is. Where she came from.

"I think I would have liked you when I was a kid." There's a bit of banked warmth in his voice. Maybe it's the story, or the way she's touching his neck. Maybe it's the dancing.

He can't bring himself to say: I won't let anything happen to you. Because the truth is, he can't promise that, and they both know it. No matter how strong he is; how imminently capable of lethality. So instead he says, "If anything ever happens... if you need anything. Tell me." His voice dips to a whisper, but the force of it somehow comes out stronger. More purposeful. "I would tear apart an army if I had to."

(To keep you safe.)

KiaraSafety isn't really something any of them can promise. Not with any sincerity, anyway. It's why Ian can't bring himself to say it and why Kiara can't articulate what she's really trying to say. Because it's impossible to be sure it won't happen. That the day won't come when they have to break their word. Run away. Let go of each other to spare lives for the greater good.

(If such a line even existed in this so called war they were caught in the endless loop of).

There's a want for it, though. The way she stops stroking his neck and lets her fingers splay there against his skin; skims her palm down and presses it against the slope of a shoulder; presses her fingers tighter into his hand and there's a quiet noise; a subtle agreement when he says he'd tear apart an army if he had to. That if anything ever happened - if she needed - "I know," - and then, because she needs to see his expression, because the way her mouth gives at this stirring, sweet-sad smile is a concession for the truth they both know but can't say, she pulls back and looks at him, lifts a hand to touch the edge of his jaw with her thumb.

"I will."

(Not would).

She kisses him again. Leans in with her thumb still there touching his face and presses her mouth to the corner of it. This fleeting, barely there brush of her lips that is somehow worse than anything she might have offered for the way it accepts what he's offering. Offers another taste of gratitude for it. She pulls back, Kiara, takes a step back and holds her hand out, head tilted.

"Come on, I think you promised your friend a dance. They'll think I've stolen you."

There's a defiance, to that. The way her eyes brighten with every word; the deliberate way she drags them back. To the park. The people. The distant thrum of the city traffic. Pulls them from the brink of all those almost-confessions and fierce whispered promises made to be broken.

The intimacy shattered but she keeps his hand, all the way back and doesn't relinquish it until the last moment.

(I'll keep you safe, too.)