and there's no remedy for memory

your face is like a melody

Her fingers play at the edge of the wooden bar, the smooth pad of her thumb catching all the tiny nicks made by time and drunken patrons. Her eyelids droop in that relaxed fashion often attributed to the sleepy, drunken, or otherwise impaired but there is still an alertness about her, a certain straightness to her back and though she might seem incapable of coherent behavior, she is listening; her Were blood lends power to her senses even as the whiskey burns and soars through her veins.

She senses the boy - man? - before she sees him, his smell decidedly Were of some sort and drawing ever nearer as she finishes her last drink and alerts the bartender that she's ready to go. Her eyes drift towards him curiously when he begins to speak and she wonders who she might possibly remind him; in a city this large, there's no doubt that someone might share some of her more common attributes. She refuses to let the other possibility cross into her mind - that maybe, just maybe he has seen her darling little sister about. She hopes that he hasn't, in any case. She doesn't trust this pale haired boy to take care of her dearheart sister.

It isn't a personal slight; she doesn't trust anyone with Claire, not after all they've been through already.

"Oh? And who might I remind you of," she asks, her words slightly slurred enough to betray her drunkenness to this pale stranger. She turns towards him as he takes the seat beside her, teetering on the edge of the barstool before regaining her balance and flashing him a shy smile, not quite drunk enough to ease the anxiety that slowly creeps over her. She can feel the flush of fire in her cheeks, the blush coming at the most inopportune moment.

She doesn't want this stranger to witness her discomfort and yet here she is, too reminiscent of a doe caught in the headlights. He offers her a name and she smiles at him, tries to ignore the urge to get the hell out of here before she gets herself in trouble. "Cecily," she mumbles in response, the smile wavering slightly as her curiosity peaks again. "Frost suits you. Is it a nickname?" She grasps his hand and it is warm, inviting. So unlike her own cool, clammy skin. She makes a quick job of shaking before pulling her hand back to her lap, glancing away from him as the blush creeps back into her face.

Why can't she just be normal? She curses under her breath, the muttered "damn it," barely a whisper on the overwarm, stagnant air of the bar.

His voice breaks the growing silence between them and she composes herself yet again, turning her blue eyes back to meet his - a bizarre yet altogether lovely shade of violet that sends her heart to thumping violently with...What? Fear, a little. Her nerves sizzle and snap like electricity dancing across her flesh igniting goosepimples along her arms.

She shakes herself out of the trance, breaking eye contact and whispering a soft apology for the awkward silence she had allowed to open up like a chasm between them. "I uh, don't think we have, no," she says, her voice gruff and strained enough reveal the level of discomfort that has crept its way into her. "I've only just arrived to the city recently and I'm sure I would remember having met you."

She doesn't add what she is thinking - that he isn't exactly forgettable with violent eyes and skin as pale as death. The name Frost couldn't be more befitting.

"I was actually just leaving," she says as the bartender finally ambles back their way with her receipt in hand. "You.. Uh.. You can, uhm. Come with me. If you'd like to. Uh. Talk some more." Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

How stupid could she possibly sound?

She jumps up from the barstool, her face red as strawberries, eyes round and alarmed at what he might possibly be thinking. "I mean to say," she pauses, inhaling deeply to try and control the unease just enough to get the proper words to form. "If you would like to continue our conversation, I wouldn't mind the comapny."

Fail. She drops her gaze to the ground, chastising herself for being stupid enough to invite the stranger to come with her. For all she knows, he's a serial killer.

Or worse, though could there be anything worse than a serial killer? Probably.