Whether Absinthe had come to her senses, or Arceus decreed it so, it ultimately did not matter what else they did here– they would be thrown in jail if they stayed. Even if Grigori desired more, it was best to stay his hand. Greed was a dangerous beast, one not to be tempted.

“You should,” he agreed. For hopefully the second-to-last time tonight, he rose back up again. His drink was still intoxicatingly sweet, but with a new hint of history and dark pasts. “Yet I suppose you lack a fresh set.”

What to do, what to do… she couldn’t enter any stores or even leave here. Time was wholly against them, and he could only offer so many articles of his own clothing before it became unreasonable. Perhaps… perhaps…

“As I see it, there might be a few other options: if you possess a Pokemon with Teleport, that might work. Otherwise, Digging of Flying away is obvious, but if no one sees your face and you possess an alibi, you will likely escape. Otherwise, I can attempt you purchase some, or fly to your humble abode and procure them. But blood isn’t something many people forget the smell of. Nor ignore in such large quantities.”

It was Absinthe's call to make, but he'd do his best to ensure her safe escape. Whatever it might be.

---

Absinthe Blackwood

“Do not worry, Ms. Absinthe,” Grigori said. Her slanted eyebrows did little to phase him, as he saw straight through it. Pride goeth before the fall, as some would say. Himself included. “The funds will not be much, I presume. Nor the clothes quality– but they will be clean.”

It wasn’t a standard shopping trip, and she’d likely never wear whatever he bought again. Safe, in case eyewitnesses were particularly observant. They’d be as cheap as they came without falling apart in his hands.

“I will try my best to be quick, but I would consider alternative outlets of escape if something goes amiss,” he warned. Anything was possible. Carefully, Grigori stepped over and past any blood smears that stained the filthy concrete. “I shouldn’t be more than ten minutes, if there are no problems.”

A lot could happen in that time frame. They both knew that perfectly well –the last few minutes had been perfectly demonstrative.

---

Absinthe Blackwood

“I see you are unmoved.”

Grigori emerged once again, with a large brown bag in hand. He had finished and disposed of his coffee earlier, its sweet taste still fresh on his tongue. It masked the bitter disappointment quite well: the idea that he wanted her to be better than he had been, the knowledge that it was an impossible standard.

But that wasn’t truly relevant to the problem at hand. Grigori walked over calmly, back to the lost woman, and offered the bag.

“I’m afraid I didn’t know your sizes, so I had to over-estimate,” he said. It was likely too large. But that was far from the worst thing. Her eyes…

Grigori felt the ever-presented head of guilt reared its ugly head. His heart twitched as the truth presented itself. How could he have been so blind? He knew those eyes. How hollow they were. How still she was. This was a massive assumption, as the lack of light could have told him whatever he wanted to see.

But there was no desire for life inside.

“Who were they?" He pushed for the truth once more, but even he knew this was well into personal territory. Would she put up the walls, or would they crumble just this once?

---

Absinthe Blackwood

It was not the answer he sought, but it was the answer he got. The regard of both William and her husband in the past tense was enough for Grigori. Further cemented them as kindred souls, isolated yet connected in their own burdens. Their faults. And even then, her cause was far nobler than his.

Far more just. Even if its consequences were horrible.

“I’m… sorry,” Grigori said. The bag was sent gently against the ground, and he joined her once more by the dumpster. “Love of that sort is something I’ve never experienced. I fail you, in that regard.”

All he’d ever known was the distant, sporadic love from his mother when she wasn’t escaping from reality herself. And whatever he had called the bond between himself and Gabe. Love of a brotherly sort. The romantic kind was never his. But whether that fueled his lack of desire or his lack of desire made it so was impossible to know or determine.

“But… if I may posit a theory,” Grigori cupped his hands gently around hers, “I think your assessment is incorrect. There is no being good or bad at love, for it is not something we can control. As the logic of our mind, our hearts possess emotion. Our brains think, yet our hearts feel. And feelings are as uncontrollable as the sun, or the stars.”

“There is no good or bad at loving. Only the act of it. Do your tears not fall as we speak? Or your heart ache? You are as capable of loving or having love given to you, as everyone else. And even if you are broken, and there is no putting you back to your original form as you insist…”

“There exists a world where you are rebuilt, with kind, gentle hands, into another form altogether. One where you are whole.”

Damaged, but not broken. To be damaged was to be fragile, yet that was hardly a negative. Everyone was fragile, in their own unique ways. Points that wouldn't break them no matter the pressure, and others that'd scatter their remains all across the floor. 

---

Absinthe Blackwood

Be as abstract, idealistic, optimistic, hopeful, arrogant– It was all he had left to dream about.

There was no longer the time to drastically change his life, nor to seek something wholly different. It wasn’t physically possible. No professions, careers, materialistic goods, anything. All he had left to yearn for was companionship. Familial love. Compassion for the people he worked and toiled with.

“Love mixes with other emotions to become something else,” Grigori frowned. His theory was far from perfect, but he knew it at a baseline to be true. “Like …molecules? What you may be experiencing is perhaps not love in its truest form, but tempered with another feeling. A negative one, perchance.”

Disgust at herself? Grief for what may never be with William? It was, unfortunately, yet another question that Absinthe herself must answer. Just as he his own. Try as he might to help her navigate the start of this journey, only she could choose the roads to travel.

“And you owe me nothing,” Grigori said. He did not let go. Try as she might disagree with him, cast him into the recesses of her mind as yet another idiot who did not see the truth– the sweet, paralyzing idea of warmth was always too much. howard slayte had succumbed all the same, with his own heart. His own love.

“Consider our discussion payment enough, if you’ll humor me. And, if I may once more posit a question…” He paused. This was the last thing he wanted to ask. The rest had felt easy, if risky. THis, though, could blow up in his face and ruin everything.

“What do you plan to do now? And I do not mean about getting home safely, tonight.”

But there was an incorrect path. One that would only further her descent into misery and torment. He had to know. Had to prevent. There could not be two Grigori Sokolovs in the world. One was too much as was.

---

Absinthe Blackwood