You can pick me up after work, she had said. Meet me outside of the Jefferson building at six o'clock. I should be done by then, and even if I'm not I'll make it up tomorrow. We can go back to my place and Julian should have some stuff that will fit you.
Smith shook his head. He wasn't as sanguine as she about what would happen tonight.
He wasn't even sure he could acquire a car, much less an apartment or any of the other things he was so used to not needing. If he tried to requisition anything within the Agency, even surreptitiously, he would be found and deleted. With each day that passed he was finding he wanted to be deleted less and less. And he didn't understand it. Largely, he blamed Neo. Neo had entered him, altered him, changed him. Neo was responsible for the inquiry and he was responsible for Smith's downfall and now he was responsible for Smith's stubborn refusal to be deleted. It never occurred to him that Solace might also have had a role in anything.
But none of those thoughts solved his problem of where to get a car, an apartment, all the usual trappings of human life. He briefly considered dropping by the house of the woman so quaintly called the Oracle, asking her how she maintained her life in dealing with humans. The ever-ready snarl leapt immediately to his upper lip at the thought. That would never do.
The back doors. He would have to go through the doors, create for himself a bank account in some well-established yet obscure bank big enough to sustain him, with regular and large deposits. There were always habitation facilities on the open market, he could procure a house and a car easily with that money. It was, after all, always money that ruled so much of the humans' lives.
So he had decided and so he had done. For no reason he could discern (he was rapidly growing to despise these strange occurrences that he supposed were whims) he also purchased a motorcycle, which was currently under the shelter of the apartment building's garage. The apartment itself was rather lavish, and he only hoped it was within his supposed price range.
It didn't matter.
He leaned against the side of his 1967 Shelby Mustang GT 500 and waited. If nothing else, he thought smugly, the car got the attention of the humans.
And it got Solace's attention as well. She walked out of the lobby and stopped in mid step and mid conversation with another young man in a suit. She blinked.
"Solace? I am on time, am I not?" He was fully aware that he was smirking. He didn't care.
"Is that..."
"A 1967 Shelby Mustang GT 500, yes. I thought you might have a weakness for classic cars." He permitted a note of smugness to enter his voice, matching the smirk.
Her eyebrows arched. "You're showing off."
"Of course."
She took a moment to digest that, and then smiled. "All right."
He opened the door, gesturing her in like a gentleman. She smiled. As weighty as the past few days had been, even her smile had a relaxing effect, an ability to reduce all dire problems to minor inconveniences in the back of his mind. Her carefree attitude was contagious. Smith noted it in the back of his mind, noted a need to guard against it even as he slowly smiled back. As much as he ever smiled, anyway.
"I don't think I've ever seen you drive before," she said after a little while. He was threading his way through traffic very easily.
"Not when you would have remembered..." Uncomfortable silence. Neither of them wanted to remember the attack in the park.
"Classic cars, permanently grafted suit..."
"My suit is not permanently grafted to my body."
"... I wonder what I'll find when I finally enter the dwelling of the enigmatic Mister Smith."
He glanced over at her. She was teasing, blatantly. But it did serve to remind him that he'd forgotten entirely to furnish the apartment. He would have to remember to do that before she entered... or come up with a decent excuse.
"Furniture neatly wrapped in plastic? An entire refrigerator full of condiments?" she kept on teasing him.
"An entire rack of identical suits, neatly pressed," he drawled, nary a hint of a grin. Solace laughed.
"Who says Agents doesn't have a sense of humor."
"Everybody.'
"Point." Solace chuckled. "It was still a good joke. What's your inseam?"
It was such an abrupt change of subject that even Smith blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Julian tossed me a couple spares from one of his old costumes," she gestured behind her to the duffel bag she'd tossed into the back seat. "Hopefully one or two of them will fit. Just want to be sure you two are approximately the right size... thirty-two or so?" she glanced at him, looking him up and down. It was too clinical to be sexual, and yet left him a little disturbed.
"Yes."
"Good." She leaned back, self-satisfied.
"Solace..."
"Mmm?"
Pause. "Nothing."
They arrived at her building, walked up to her flat. Solace seemed to be unaware of the uncomfortable silence that was threatening to descend; Smith knew better than to think she hadn't noticed. As usual, she was treating it with the same tactful indifference that she treated all other conversational difficulties. She opened the door and tossed the keys on the table, gesturing at the other two doors. "Bedroom or bathroom, take your pick."
He blinked. Changing rooms. She meant changing rooms. "Er..." he headed for the bathroom, stopping only when she touched his arm and handed him the duffel bag. This was starting to become more disorienting than diverting.
"Here's hoping my costume still fits me... it's been a while since I've done any Endless." Her voice drifted in from the bedroom. "Oh, damn..." her voice became inaudible as she muttered what sounded like curses at a recalcitrant box.
Smith sighed and turned to his own costume. There was something profoundly disquieting about removing his suit, the uniform that had been the symbol of his existence for longer than Solace had been alive. Then again, he wasn't an Agent anymore. The suit still clung to him like the miasma of a thick, acid rain. He wasn't an Agent anymore. He had to remember that. Tonight's... festivities... might help. He smoothed the lapels of his jacket down, pressed nonexistant wrinkles out of his pants. He wasn't an Agent anymore. It was okay to be something else. Even if he didn't exactly know what that something else was going to be.
At least the clothing she had chosen for him... the costume... it didn't look like a costume. Not like any costume he had seen. It seemed to consist of dark gray jeans, a black t-shirt, and black boots, with a black leather trenchcoat that had been bunched up and shoved so deep into one side that he almost missed it. Everything went on easily and seemed to fit.
He looked strange outside of the suit.
"Ow!" The sounds outside of the bathroom seemed to indicate that she was tripping over something. "Dammit!" Smith emerged from the bathroom curious.
"Stupid table..." Solace was rubbing her shin where the hose she was wearing seemed to be torn... deliberately? He couldn't tell. His eyes opened wider. She was wearing torn hose, covered by equally torn fishnet hose. Over that was a white crinoline, over that a white dress. Ribbons dangled from her hair, and her sleeves draped tight over her arms and loose over her wrists. She was wearing mismatched shoes, hi-tops, Converse... the brand logo was emblazoned over her ankle bone... and there was a small set of ankle bells around one, which she had been trying to fasten when she had tripped over the table. One-handed, yet, because in the other hand she carried a black leather biker's jacket that had to be three sizes too big.
"Solace?"
She looked up, toppled backwards, and wound have fallen over if he hadn't dived across the table. They ended up in a most undignified position, sprawled halfway over the floor, end table, and each other.
"Oof... sorry about that..." she grinned sheepishly.
"What are you doing, Solace?" He helped pull her to her feet, confused.
"Attempting to put on my Delerium costume. It's going less than stellar, but..." she shrugged. "Here. I brought out some of the comics so you have an idea of who and what you're playing. You're Dream, I'm Delerium... here, start with Brief Lives, that's probably easiest."
She handed him a stack of comics, each tastefully arrayed in a different color of the rainbow. Brief Lives seemed to be yellow. "Dream?"
That enigmatic smile again. "Go on, read. It'll take me a while to do my hair anyway. Is the bathroom safe?"
Safe... oh. "Yes." Human foibles were so strange. She went in. Smith opened the comic book.
-
-
-
-
-
Solace had to clear her throat three times before she finally got his attention. Actually, he had heard her the first time, but as strange as they were the comic books were also compelling. The third time, though, he put the comic book down.
"See something you like?" she was smirking, probably similar to the expression on his face earlier in the evening.
"I see why you chose to play Delerium."
She chuckled. "Might as well put a natural affinity to good use." The blue eye winked. "What do you think of Dream?"
He still wasn't sure what to say of her choice. "I'm not sure if ... should I be worried?"
She looked confused for a second, and then her eyes cleared. "Well, I certainly hope you're not going to throw your girlfriends into Hell, or be forced to kill your son's severed head, but you do talk somewhat similarly to Dream. Very formal, very correct, and ... poetic."
"Poetic?" He wasn't sure whether to be amused or insulted. He settled for amused.
"Yeah."
"Hmm."
She smiled. "Moment of truth time. Hair wash or wig?"
He blinked. "What?"
"Dream's scarily black hair with the blue highlights. We can either use a hair wash, which washes out the next time you wash your hair, or a wig, which looks a little more fake but doesn't involve taking the risk that your hair might turn green."
"What?"
"Kidding." She smiled. "Besides, we have a little time for you to decide. While I paint your face white."
"What?..." Pause. "Oh." Longer pause. "Wig, then."
She chuckled. "All right..." Went and got a compact the size of her outstretched hand and a wig. She had tiny hands. "I'll do the makeup first so that we can see how much I need to patch after the wig is gone... ooh. Hang on."
He blinked. She darted into the bedroom again and came trotting back out with a compact that looked ... smaller, for one thing. She opened it; it had five different shades of blue and gray. "Solace...?"
"I used to help do hair and makeup at college. We had our yearly productions of Rocky Horror... all the weird stuff. Hold still..."
If he had thought that changing into a different set of clothes was disconcerting, it was nothing compared to the feeling of her fingertips under his chin, tilting his face upwards. He knelt on the floor, and she knelt in front of him and applied a makeup sponge to his face. It was very cold, and smelled faintly sweet. If indeed there was such a thing.
He blinked. She moved the sponge over the sides of his face, barely past his eyes.
"Talk about something..." she suggested. "It'll take your mind off of whatever it is you're thinking about that's putting that sad, maybe worried expression on your face."
That was more disturbing than the thought of her fingertips brushing his hair away from his forehead so she could...
"I am not worried."
She smiled. "Good."
"Who else will be there?" It was an irrelevant question. He didn't know any of her friends anyway.
She frowned, perhaps from concentration or perhaps from ... "Tom and Chick probably won't be there... I think they have to work. Richard might be there. Julian and Cassie will probably be there, if her father lets her. Rain, Star, and Lily will probably all show up. I think the Stirling crowd... and Nick."
Of all of the names, only a few were familiar. "What are they like?"
She smiled. The sponge came down over his nose, forcing him to close his eyes. "Nick is... dramatic. Very dramatic. We all think he's been angling for Julian, but he keeps saying he's straight. He's an actor, which explains a great deal about him once you see him... has been all his life. Sometimes I think he acts even when he's not on stage."
He couldn't think of anything to say to that. It sounded too familiar. "Huh."
"Julian you saw, briefly... gay as a goose, and a real sweetheart... close your eyes." He did so. "Richard can be a bit sullen sometimes... most of the time... but he's all right. He needs to lighten up, realize that life isn't entirely a craphole."
He barely registered her words as he felt her soft touch, the sponge over his eyes. Careful dabbing at the corners, fingertips brushing over his cheeks followed by the makeup sponge again. Her voice, from far away.
"Smith... don't fall asleep on me now."
He pried his mind away from the new, strange sensations. "Who are Rain, Star, and Lily?"
"Girls, really... Rain teaches kindergarten, Star's a photographer, and Lily is a musician...They're all very shy, which is I guess why they stick together." Her fingertips brushed over his lips, and her voice faded out again. She was applying the makeup over his lips, and it tasted of her, the underlying taste of the scented soap she used (soft, with oils of vanilla and cocoa butter... or was that lotion) and the overarching taste of the makeup, which was cold and bland. He licked his lips unconsciously, and her laughter brought him back awake. "Don't do that..."
"Sorry..." he opened his eyes. His face must have been completely white by now.
"Careful, I'm going to put on some shading now... give you a sort of blueish, grayish tint." Her fingertips barely touched his cheeks. "And then I'm going to have to go wash off my hands while you let that dry. The good part is, it's good and durable theatre makeup. Once you've got it set in it should stay no matter what you eat."
"Ah..." Pause. "Good."
She stopped after the first cheek, pulled back and looked at him intensely. He blinked a couple of times and then stared back at her when he realized that this was not part of the makeup application process. "Solace?"
"Smith." She mimicked his tone, but her face was no less serious. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
Was he? No, not really. Were there any good reasons for him to do it? Probably. He could think of a few off the top of his programmed head. He should meet Solace's friends if he was going to be spending much more time with her, it was only proper. He should attempt to distance himself from the image of an Agent so as not to draw attention to himself. He might look into how humans behaved, what they did for recreation. Were these really the reasons he was doing it? He didn't know. Ultimately, as with everything else about Solace, it wasn't the reasons he could come up with for doing as she suggested that bothered him. It was the reasons he was actually doing it, the reasons that required justification, excuses.
"No..." he said finally. "But I think that I have to."
She nodded, very slowly, then before he could react she had kissed him gently on the forehead. Comforting to businesslike in seconds, she took his face in her hands again and shadowed the other cheek. "Don't worry," she smiled, enigmatic, mysterious, and very womanlike. "I'll take care of you."
He really wasn't sure what to make of that.
Smith shook his head. He wasn't as sanguine as she about what would happen tonight.
He wasn't even sure he could acquire a car, much less an apartment or any of the other things he was so used to not needing. If he tried to requisition anything within the Agency, even surreptitiously, he would be found and deleted. With each day that passed he was finding he wanted to be deleted less and less. And he didn't understand it. Largely, he blamed Neo. Neo had entered him, altered him, changed him. Neo was responsible for the inquiry and he was responsible for Smith's downfall and now he was responsible for Smith's stubborn refusal to be deleted. It never occurred to him that Solace might also have had a role in anything.
But none of those thoughts solved his problem of where to get a car, an apartment, all the usual trappings of human life. He briefly considered dropping by the house of the woman so quaintly called the Oracle, asking her how she maintained her life in dealing with humans. The ever-ready snarl leapt immediately to his upper lip at the thought. That would never do.
The back doors. He would have to go through the doors, create for himself a bank account in some well-established yet obscure bank big enough to sustain him, with regular and large deposits. There were always habitation facilities on the open market, he could procure a house and a car easily with that money. It was, after all, always money that ruled so much of the humans' lives.
So he had decided and so he had done. For no reason he could discern (he was rapidly growing to despise these strange occurrences that he supposed were whims) he also purchased a motorcycle, which was currently under the shelter of the apartment building's garage. The apartment itself was rather lavish, and he only hoped it was within his supposed price range.
It didn't matter.
He leaned against the side of his 1967 Shelby Mustang GT 500 and waited. If nothing else, he thought smugly, the car got the attention of the humans.
And it got Solace's attention as well. She walked out of the lobby and stopped in mid step and mid conversation with another young man in a suit. She blinked.
"Solace? I am on time, am I not?" He was fully aware that he was smirking. He didn't care.
"Is that..."
"A 1967 Shelby Mustang GT 500, yes. I thought you might have a weakness for classic cars." He permitted a note of smugness to enter his voice, matching the smirk.
Her eyebrows arched. "You're showing off."
"Of course."
She took a moment to digest that, and then smiled. "All right."
He opened the door, gesturing her in like a gentleman. She smiled. As weighty as the past few days had been, even her smile had a relaxing effect, an ability to reduce all dire problems to minor inconveniences in the back of his mind. Her carefree attitude was contagious. Smith noted it in the back of his mind, noted a need to guard against it even as he slowly smiled back. As much as he ever smiled, anyway.
"I don't think I've ever seen you drive before," she said after a little while. He was threading his way through traffic very easily.
"Not when you would have remembered..." Uncomfortable silence. Neither of them wanted to remember the attack in the park.
"Classic cars, permanently grafted suit..."
"My suit is not permanently grafted to my body."
"... I wonder what I'll find when I finally enter the dwelling of the enigmatic Mister Smith."
He glanced over at her. She was teasing, blatantly. But it did serve to remind him that he'd forgotten entirely to furnish the apartment. He would have to remember to do that before she entered... or come up with a decent excuse.
"Furniture neatly wrapped in plastic? An entire refrigerator full of condiments?" she kept on teasing him.
"An entire rack of identical suits, neatly pressed," he drawled, nary a hint of a grin. Solace laughed.
"Who says Agents doesn't have a sense of humor."
"Everybody.'
"Point." Solace chuckled. "It was still a good joke. What's your inseam?"
It was such an abrupt change of subject that even Smith blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Julian tossed me a couple spares from one of his old costumes," she gestured behind her to the duffel bag she'd tossed into the back seat. "Hopefully one or two of them will fit. Just want to be sure you two are approximately the right size... thirty-two or so?" she glanced at him, looking him up and down. It was too clinical to be sexual, and yet left him a little disturbed.
"Yes."
"Good." She leaned back, self-satisfied.
"Solace..."
"Mmm?"
Pause. "Nothing."
They arrived at her building, walked up to her flat. Solace seemed to be unaware of the uncomfortable silence that was threatening to descend; Smith knew better than to think she hadn't noticed. As usual, she was treating it with the same tactful indifference that she treated all other conversational difficulties. She opened the door and tossed the keys on the table, gesturing at the other two doors. "Bedroom or bathroom, take your pick."
He blinked. Changing rooms. She meant changing rooms. "Er..." he headed for the bathroom, stopping only when she touched his arm and handed him the duffel bag. This was starting to become more disorienting than diverting.
"Here's hoping my costume still fits me... it's been a while since I've done any Endless." Her voice drifted in from the bedroom. "Oh, damn..." her voice became inaudible as she muttered what sounded like curses at a recalcitrant box.
Smith sighed and turned to his own costume. There was something profoundly disquieting about removing his suit, the uniform that had been the symbol of his existence for longer than Solace had been alive. Then again, he wasn't an Agent anymore. The suit still clung to him like the miasma of a thick, acid rain. He wasn't an Agent anymore. He had to remember that. Tonight's... festivities... might help. He smoothed the lapels of his jacket down, pressed nonexistant wrinkles out of his pants. He wasn't an Agent anymore. It was okay to be something else. Even if he didn't exactly know what that something else was going to be.
At least the clothing she had chosen for him... the costume... it didn't look like a costume. Not like any costume he had seen. It seemed to consist of dark gray jeans, a black t-shirt, and black boots, with a black leather trenchcoat that had been bunched up and shoved so deep into one side that he almost missed it. Everything went on easily and seemed to fit.
He looked strange outside of the suit.
"Ow!" The sounds outside of the bathroom seemed to indicate that she was tripping over something. "Dammit!" Smith emerged from the bathroom curious.
"Stupid table..." Solace was rubbing her shin where the hose she was wearing seemed to be torn... deliberately? He couldn't tell. His eyes opened wider. She was wearing torn hose, covered by equally torn fishnet hose. Over that was a white crinoline, over that a white dress. Ribbons dangled from her hair, and her sleeves draped tight over her arms and loose over her wrists. She was wearing mismatched shoes, hi-tops, Converse... the brand logo was emblazoned over her ankle bone... and there was a small set of ankle bells around one, which she had been trying to fasten when she had tripped over the table. One-handed, yet, because in the other hand she carried a black leather biker's jacket that had to be three sizes too big.
"Solace?"
She looked up, toppled backwards, and wound have fallen over if he hadn't dived across the table. They ended up in a most undignified position, sprawled halfway over the floor, end table, and each other.
"Oof... sorry about that..." she grinned sheepishly.
"What are you doing, Solace?" He helped pull her to her feet, confused.
"Attempting to put on my Delerium costume. It's going less than stellar, but..." she shrugged. "Here. I brought out some of the comics so you have an idea of who and what you're playing. You're Dream, I'm Delerium... here, start with Brief Lives, that's probably easiest."
She handed him a stack of comics, each tastefully arrayed in a different color of the rainbow. Brief Lives seemed to be yellow. "Dream?"
That enigmatic smile again. "Go on, read. It'll take me a while to do my hair anyway. Is the bathroom safe?"
Safe... oh. "Yes." Human foibles were so strange. She went in. Smith opened the comic book.
-
-
-
-
-
Solace had to clear her throat three times before she finally got his attention. Actually, he had heard her the first time, but as strange as they were the comic books were also compelling. The third time, though, he put the comic book down.
"See something you like?" she was smirking, probably similar to the expression on his face earlier in the evening.
"I see why you chose to play Delerium."
She chuckled. "Might as well put a natural affinity to good use." The blue eye winked. "What do you think of Dream?"
He still wasn't sure what to say of her choice. "I'm not sure if ... should I be worried?"
She looked confused for a second, and then her eyes cleared. "Well, I certainly hope you're not going to throw your girlfriends into Hell, or be forced to kill your son's severed head, but you do talk somewhat similarly to Dream. Very formal, very correct, and ... poetic."
"Poetic?" He wasn't sure whether to be amused or insulted. He settled for amused.
"Yeah."
"Hmm."
She smiled. "Moment of truth time. Hair wash or wig?"
He blinked. "What?"
"Dream's scarily black hair with the blue highlights. We can either use a hair wash, which washes out the next time you wash your hair, or a wig, which looks a little more fake but doesn't involve taking the risk that your hair might turn green."
"What?"
"Kidding." She smiled. "Besides, we have a little time for you to decide. While I paint your face white."
"What?..." Pause. "Oh." Longer pause. "Wig, then."
She chuckled. "All right..." Went and got a compact the size of her outstretched hand and a wig. She had tiny hands. "I'll do the makeup first so that we can see how much I need to patch after the wig is gone... ooh. Hang on."
He blinked. She darted into the bedroom again and came trotting back out with a compact that looked ... smaller, for one thing. She opened it; it had five different shades of blue and gray. "Solace...?"
"I used to help do hair and makeup at college. We had our yearly productions of Rocky Horror... all the weird stuff. Hold still..."
If he had thought that changing into a different set of clothes was disconcerting, it was nothing compared to the feeling of her fingertips under his chin, tilting his face upwards. He knelt on the floor, and she knelt in front of him and applied a makeup sponge to his face. It was very cold, and smelled faintly sweet. If indeed there was such a thing.
He blinked. She moved the sponge over the sides of his face, barely past his eyes.
"Talk about something..." she suggested. "It'll take your mind off of whatever it is you're thinking about that's putting that sad, maybe worried expression on your face."
That was more disturbing than the thought of her fingertips brushing his hair away from his forehead so she could...
"I am not worried."
She smiled. "Good."
"Who else will be there?" It was an irrelevant question. He didn't know any of her friends anyway.
She frowned, perhaps from concentration or perhaps from ... "Tom and Chick probably won't be there... I think they have to work. Richard might be there. Julian and Cassie will probably be there, if her father lets her. Rain, Star, and Lily will probably all show up. I think the Stirling crowd... and Nick."
Of all of the names, only a few were familiar. "What are they like?"
She smiled. The sponge came down over his nose, forcing him to close his eyes. "Nick is... dramatic. Very dramatic. We all think he's been angling for Julian, but he keeps saying he's straight. He's an actor, which explains a great deal about him once you see him... has been all his life. Sometimes I think he acts even when he's not on stage."
He couldn't think of anything to say to that. It sounded too familiar. "Huh."
"Julian you saw, briefly... gay as a goose, and a real sweetheart... close your eyes." He did so. "Richard can be a bit sullen sometimes... most of the time... but he's all right. He needs to lighten up, realize that life isn't entirely a craphole."
He barely registered her words as he felt her soft touch, the sponge over his eyes. Careful dabbing at the corners, fingertips brushing over his cheeks followed by the makeup sponge again. Her voice, from far away.
"Smith... don't fall asleep on me now."
He pried his mind away from the new, strange sensations. "Who are Rain, Star, and Lily?"
"Girls, really... Rain teaches kindergarten, Star's a photographer, and Lily is a musician...They're all very shy, which is I guess why they stick together." Her fingertips brushed over his lips, and her voice faded out again. She was applying the makeup over his lips, and it tasted of her, the underlying taste of the scented soap she used (soft, with oils of vanilla and cocoa butter... or was that lotion) and the overarching taste of the makeup, which was cold and bland. He licked his lips unconsciously, and her laughter brought him back awake. "Don't do that..."
"Sorry..." he opened his eyes. His face must have been completely white by now.
"Careful, I'm going to put on some shading now... give you a sort of blueish, grayish tint." Her fingertips barely touched his cheeks. "And then I'm going to have to go wash off my hands while you let that dry. The good part is, it's good and durable theatre makeup. Once you've got it set in it should stay no matter what you eat."
"Ah..." Pause. "Good."
She stopped after the first cheek, pulled back and looked at him intensely. He blinked a couple of times and then stared back at her when he realized that this was not part of the makeup application process. "Solace?"
"Smith." She mimicked his tone, but her face was no less serious. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
Was he? No, not really. Were there any good reasons for him to do it? Probably. He could think of a few off the top of his programmed head. He should meet Solace's friends if he was going to be spending much more time with her, it was only proper. He should attempt to distance himself from the image of an Agent so as not to draw attention to himself. He might look into how humans behaved, what they did for recreation. Were these really the reasons he was doing it? He didn't know. Ultimately, as with everything else about Solace, it wasn't the reasons he could come up with for doing as she suggested that bothered him. It was the reasons he was actually doing it, the reasons that required justification, excuses.
"No..." he said finally. "But I think that I have to."
She nodded, very slowly, then before he could react she had kissed him gently on the forehead. Comforting to businesslike in seconds, she took his face in her hands again and shadowed the other cheek. "Don't worry," she smiled, enigmatic, mysterious, and very womanlike. "I'll take care of you."
He really wasn't sure what to make of that.