absorbed in her work as elisa is, anya is afforded a small window of opportunity to observe her. it is, of course, still shadowed by the veil of her presence, even if the identity is unbeknownst to the underboss at this point in time. she needs only seconds to trace the stooping curves of her taut shoulders, the worry lines of her face - a far different shape than her lines of pleasure. 

her voice will betray her and so she lets that pregnant pause linger, selfishly, a moment longer. her fingers slide from the doorknob, up to the lock. that flicks shut too. 

she wishes not to be disturbed. 

"i assure you, darling, nothing about this was last minute." her voice is sultry. smoky. the same as it was the night elisa's name fell from her libs in a warble of passion. 

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

this woman is a frightened bird. she looks upon anya with a carefully guarded porcelain mask, with the cracks all glued up with a savant's precision. but anya is a surgeon at heart, the mother of frankenstein's monster, and if she hadn't uncovered every thread of elisabeth in that bar of hers, she had betwixt shared sheets. 

so she knows every word that falls from her lips will seem disingenuous. every calm assuage to elisa's fears will only coax their growth further. a puzzling enigma, one that enraptures her.

distractions are not something she has ever afforded herself before. elisa will be no different.

"rocket doesn't begin and end when we leave these walls, darling, but you already knew that." she leans against the doorframe, wishing idly for a smoke. 

"i came only to remark that this changes nothing of our peculiar arrangement."

a fingertip trails to the lock as though to tease it back open. 

"i'm free tonight. after office hours."

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

fascinating. this is a woman well within her faculties, so long as she is confined within these four walls. she looks down at her, sifting through hypotheses. no, this is deeper than just a lack of inhibition. most people do not impress anya fowl. most people have nothing under their masks. 

one brow raises and elisa manages to coax a laugh from the scientist. 

"on the contrary. i know only what your daily schedule permits, as i haven't the faintest interest in looking into you further. and, not desperate. never desperate.

"hungry is more apt."

her hand falls from the lock and rests at her side. curls shift with another chuckle. 

"you'll excuse me if i say not for very long. i've only recently returned to my previous position." her expression is plain, leaving no room for questions. 

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

this strung out, caged in woman, with too many sleepless nights under her eyes. exhaustion bows her shoulders, draws at her face, and anya thinks a few relaxing hours may bring her some peace at mind. but it's a flitting, amused thought; one that she decided does not voice, nor act on. 

"i want only an amicable relationship between colleagues," she assures her with a chuckle. 

her thoughts at elisabeth's musings, of course, drift to FERNANDO SILPH. they'd opted to give her time. allow her to grow accustomed to the shadows, put out feelers for the watch upon her back. her lions have sniffed out their fair share of stragglers and so it hasn't been safe to send him information as promised. 

soon though. soon.

she will pick up the slack left behind by Lulu Flint. she will turn her studies to the dream mist, and of memories, and she will plunder their treasures for her own taking. 

only here, within these walls, will she attempt extraction from elisabeth. call her softhearted. 

"only the careless ones," she says with an offhanded flick of her wrist. "and we are not careless."

she shifts her weight to one side. "i've taken the liberty to sift through flint's studies. shame to lose such a brilliant mind."

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

ah, the world would be so much better off if it were run by women. in the span of five minutes, they've managed to find truce without compromise, mutual respect, and navigate to comfortable, respectable waters. with elisabeth at ease after anya's placation, she leaves her stand by the door and takes a seat across from her. 

the crosses her ankles and languishes in the discussion, eyes gleaming now that they're talking about something of interest. 

"i would by no means claim expertise, but i have studied my fair share of memory. and what are dreams but our mind's conjured memories, written over with emotion?" the painter, molly, glimmers to the surface for a moment. 

"but to know that they can be made tangible is quite curious. imagine what an artist might be able to do, provided we craft the right material..."

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

unwelcome nightmares still haunt this woman. anya's own dreams are fragmented once-wases, distorted with grainy sand and a blood-red siren's song. she wakes, sometimes, with a hum in her throat, lyrics to a song she doesn't know sitting on a tongue that isn't hers. 

and in the mirror, she washes her face and she settles into herself. counts what she knows about this world and her place in it and reminds herself of timelines, tasks, futures. 

"does it ever bother you? knowing that we might be puppeted by otherworldly forces? that we are so behind the curve?" they are picking up breadcrumbs left by malevolent benefactors, more than likely chasing their own doom. pawns on a chessboard and nothing more. 

"there is nothing easy about creation." her eyes glimmer. "true creation requires precision and passion. destruction is chaos and humans by their nature are so full of it."

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉