ƒ freya mikaelson | the originals

[deathlessness]

	✔ Cʀᴏssᴏᴠᴇʀs/AU ✔ Aᴄᴛɪᴏɴsᴘᴀᴍ ✔ Pʀᴏsᴇ	✔ Pɪᴄᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛs ✔ Oᴛʜᴇʀᴡᴏʀᴅʟʏ ✔ Sᴛᴀʀᴛᴇʀs	♥ F/M, F/F ⏰ Lᴇɢᴀᴄɪᴇs-ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪᴀɴᴛ

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[nascensibility]

[The air is sharp and sweet here.

Drenched in imported liqueur and the heady smoke of cigarettes, scents that permeate fabric and the heavy draperies lining the walls of a cellar venue far off the beaten path. People wander this way now and again for entertainment but the crowd is calmer, their habits less toxic. It may be that the proprietor has something against cocaine and a general dislike of the freer jazz dominating most nightclubs, but Evelyn is grateful for the reprieve.

Sitting at the bar is permissible here, at least, without accompaniment, though a number of well-intended gentlemen have swaggered in to assuage her perceived loneliness. Rebuffed lightly they wandered back to the tables from whence they came, egos bruised, permitting her thoughtful silence once more.

She's waiting.

Evelyn checks her wristwatch, a slim gold piece that matches her jewelry, and reaches for the glass the bartender left on the counter. Freya isn't late, not really, they agreed on a time between hours, late in the evening, to exchange material and catch up. The speakeasy is a far cry from their first meetings at the museum, in libraries, when Evelyn would supplement conversation with the work asked of her, and she likes to think they've grown considerably closer over these last few months.

She knocks back her drink and waves at the barkeep for another, biding time.]

[deathlessness]

[Freya knows she's wasting time.

Not in working with Evelyn, necessarily, but in dragging her feet to get the information from her. She knows this relationship is not about anything Freya may desire beyond her freedom from Dahlia, but at the same time, it's been so long since she's had company of any kind. She misses the companionship of other people.

As much as she may try to be an impassive wall of stone, people were not meant to be that way, no matter their species.

Part of her can't help but note the differences, the change to a more casual setting, the more casual air in general, and there's a flutter of nerves that her ruse will be revealed, that the fact that she's not real person and all the time she's missed will be exposed somehow - or other things will be exposed. Things that she probably shouldn't talk about where there's only six months left before she's bound to sleep again. She's so tempted, to take just this one thing for herself, but at the same time, she remembers what happened the last time.

Never again.

Instead she takes a breath, makes her way in, and goes to slide onto the stool next to her at the bar.]

I'm sorry if I kept you waiting. My previous engagement ran long.