6624/Second Star To The Right

Second Star To The Right
Date of Scene:	19 June 2021
Location:	Lower Bay, NYC
Synopsis:	A secluded second date starts with cocktails and leads to swapping stories, with a light-but-satisfying conclusion.
Cast of Characters:	Kyle Porter, Aspen Matthews

---

Kyle Porter has posed:
Kyle's text is disarmingly simple: 
40°32'35.2"N, 74°05'27.7"W 

Nautical coordinates.  The Lower Bay, about a mile off the coast of Staten Island.  He's spent the better part of the day maneuvering his houseboat out to the secluded location. 

Even though it's past the afternoon and moving well into the evening, it's still warm.  He's dressed down, just a pair of comfortable shorts and a short-sleeved button down, sans buttons.  And a pair of boat shoes, naturally.  All of the above are coordinated in varying shades of blue; even when he's casual, he's properly composed and coiffed.

Presently, he's lounging on the deck with a mojito in one hand and a depth sounder's control unit in the other.  From somewhere behind him, faint snatches of a mellow, jazzy tune can be heard over the splashing of waves against the hull. 

The boat is nice, and then a little extra.  It's been fitted for partying purposes and expeditions; there are coolers bolted to the deck in several places, along with flat screens and appropriately tinted mood lighting, both of which are currently off.  Huge windows in the walls of the cabin display an array of comfortable-looking couches, a full bar, and far more beds than are necessary.   

Aspen Matthews has posed:
Aspen looks up at the message notice, tearing her eyes away from the paperwork that has dominated her life for the past five days.

One tourist has a minor mishap, barely getting worse than a paper cut, and the administration wants answers. And as director of the aquarium, Aspen is the one who has to give them.

Sure, the cut happened while the customer in question was flailing around in a tank with a tiger shark in it. And sure there was a bit of a huge panic. But nobody got killed, nobody even got seriously injured--that cut was probably closed by the next day!--and repairing the faulty glass barrier cost under five hundred dollars.

Admins probably spent more public money than that on an average lunch!

Yes, this break was welcomed. Coordinates. Plug them into the phone and find out ... That cheeky bastard!

What should she wear...

The afternoon leaves and the evening comes with there still being no sign of Aspen: no aircraft, parasails, motorboats, sailboats, windsurfer, or even plain old surfboard. Nothing as far as the eye can see between the ship and the shore one way or the ship and the horizon the other.

"Well, aren't you going to invite me aboard?"

Spoken from out of sight by the stern.

"Or did I misread the message?"

Kyle Porter has posed:
As he's only vaguely familiar with the depth sounder's fish finding function, Kyle's idea of tuning it seems to be occasionally flicking or thumping the side as if it were an old television.  When he sips from his drink, which is frequently, he does it without taking his eyes off the screen.

Unsurprisingly, the unit doesn't warn him of Aspen's arrival.  Probably due in part to the fact that he just bought it and hasn't bothered to read the manual. 

When she announces herself, he tosses the depth sounder aside and waves her in, despite the fact that he can't actually see her at the moment.  "Oh, you're in the right place.  Welcome to the Dirty Deeds.  Permission to come aboard, granted," he announces magnanimously. 

Someone fancies themself as a captain today.

Aspen Matthews has posed:
Aspen rises out of the water up the stern ladder onto the transom deck, wearing an outfit that's ... not really selected for practicality in swimming. Having selected her point of ingress carefully to be spectacularly backlit by the sinking sun, she shakes her head, letting her long, wild tresses fly, spraying water in all directions ... except forward. Or indeed anywhere on the boat north of the transom. A plume of water pushes up a watertight case beside her, a case she picks up and slings over one shoulder.

It's roughly the size of a cabin crew overnight bag.

Nimbly, then, she climbs up the ladder and steps onto the main deck.

"I'm glad I got the message right," she says with a grin. "It was fairly vague. At first I was going to dive down and see if you'd done something crazy like set up a picnic underwater."

A short pause during which Aspen bites her lower lip.

"You haven't, have you? No, of course you haven't. I mean you strike me as the kind of person who'd be that insane, but I don't think you're that insane."

She's babbling. Always a good sign, right?

Kyle Porter has posed:
Kyle is halfway through pouring a mojito for Aspen when her arrival distracts him.  Thoroughly.  He very nearly overfills the glass, only catching himself at the last moment. 

Eyebrows raised, he plops a thin slice of lime into the top and offers it to her.  "I was curious to see if you were up for swimming a nautical mile.  Not only can you, you can look good doing it.  You're exquisite."

Impressed, he lifts his glass in a brief salute that's paired with the small, crooked smile he wears so frequently.  "I canceled the underwater picnic.  Had a big lunch, you know how it is. Is that an overnight bag?" He's teasing, but it's warm rather than mocking. "Someone's feeling confident." 

Mentally, he's writing down the idea of an underwater picnic for future investigation.

Aspen Matthews has posed:
"It's a bag," Aspen says. "Don't read so much into it. I wasn't sure if you'd be entertaining or not, so I have clothes in there to change into should this not have been the right choice."

She won't mention the toothbrush. It seems a bit impolitic all of a sudden. Nor the laptop.

Nor the action doll of Aquaman. (OK, that part is made up.)

"A mile? I've swam a lot farther than that in a day. This was just a nice refreshing jaunt," she then continues with a light smirk. "Maybe if it had been a mile straight down that would have been a bit of a strain."

At this Aspen gives him another reason to spill his mohita. She steps up behind and briefly hugs in greeting.

"It was nice to hear from you, though. Thanks. It's been a week."

Kyle Porter has posed:
"Never take life too seriously when I'm around," Kyle cautions.  "You'll never get out alive." 

He eye-twinkles at his own joke and wraps an arm around Aspen for a quick squeeze.  Unlike surprises, he's equipped to handle this while he's holding onto a drink.  "This was definitely the right choice. If I'd have known you were going to look this amazing, I would've got in touch with you sooner." 

He drops compliments like a practiced politician, but it's also easy to tell when he's being sincere.  For most people, that's not very often.  This is an enjoyable change of pace for him. 

"Truthfully, though, I get lost in my work and I sometimes keep odd hours.  Did you know that it's Saturday?" he asks guilelessly.  "Wait.  It is Saturday, isn't it?"

Aspen Matthews has posed:
"Yes," Aspen says dryly, "It's Saturday. I'm very well aware of it being Saturday. I was commenting upon that fact to myself at length while I was at the office. About how Saturday it was and yet I was in the office filling out incident reports and irritating queries from people who don't know what Saturdays are."

She seems a bit stressed.

"I told you, it's been a week. We had a very minor injury of a patron because of a faulty screw, no less, and I've had highers-up breathing down my neck ever since. And not in the good way."

She turns her head to look at Kyle's face. "And thank you. It's nice to be noticed."

Something suggests this is likely not a problem she has. And that she might not notice that she lacks said problem...

Then a flash of mischief in her eyes.

"But if you're trying to impress me with the yacht, mine's more impressive. It's not as big as yours, but it goes much deeper," she says, winking. Followed by tinkling-bell laughter as she pictures the Institute's cramped submarine being called a yacht. "And nothing impresses a girl more," she adds wickedly, "than a deep diver."

Kyle Porter has posed:
"If I wanted to impress you, I would've gone with the underwater picnic.  Or I'd refer to my expertise in other varieties of diving."  When a person spends as much time shmoozing and being insincere as Kyle does (it's a part of doing business with celebrities and the well-to-do), being genuine can feel... foreign.  He catches himself briefly, not to stop, but to shake his head and banish the thought.  The gesture is coupled with a smile, one that's less mischievous than usual.  "I'm glad you could escape for long enough to join me." 

There's a pause.  "This is nice," he agrees.  "I spend so little time being myself that sometimes I forget what it feels like.  Thank you for coming." 

It's a rare, genuine moment for him that shows a little of what's underneath when you scratch his highly-polished surface.  He almost looks embarrassed.  Almost.

He affects a delicate cough into his fist.  "I very nearly felt a moment of self-consciousness.  Luckily, I've had my shame gland surgically removed.  You should look into that, it's lovely. Outpatient procedure, even."

Aspen Matthews has posed:
"What's the trick for telling," Aspen asks, "when you're being yourself and when you're wearing a mask? Or have you worn so many you're not sure anymore?"

The wording is snarky, but the expression on her face is more puzzled concern. "I don't deal with people often. I mean not in the way that you do, I guess. The world of science and the academe is very different from yours, as is the world of administration. I always wonder how actors, politicians, salespeople, and ... ah ... 'adventurers' cope."

Taking her mimosa, Aspen finds a corner to stow her bag before lounging back in one of the deck chairs.

"Do tell me if I'm getting too personal or making things uncomfortable. And chalk it up to, well, surfer girl turned academic."

Kyle Porter has posed:
"Not at all," Kyle replies, waving away her caution.  "You're right, of course.  Masks are a very important part of my life.  I'm not sure which one I'm wearing at the moment, it's all a force of habit." 

The statement seems genuine enough, and comes coupled with a shrug as he drops down comfortably in the chair next to Aspen's. "I find it helps to have a script," he elaborates.  "Most of my interactions can be handled by one of fifty or so lines I keep committed to memory." 

The explanation comes paired with an almost comically secretive wink, but it's another instant where his verity is apparent.  "No trick, really.  I think I can dispense with the masks around you, so you can assume I'm being honest most of the time.  Or trying to, anyway.  It feels counter-intuitive, but pleasantly so."  There's another cough, then he chuckles.  Mostly at himself.  

Aspen Matthews has posed:
Aspen watches with increasing amusement (tinged by more than a little fascination) as Kyle either gets tied into knots trying to deal with her, or feigns it very well. Either way is impressive to watch. She sips from her drink, peering at him over the edge.

"Well, I'm glad you think you can be yourself around me, at least. I'm sort of your ... Anne Ekoic, if you will."

Her eyes sweep over the deck, and what's visible through hatches and windows.

"This is a pretty large boat for two ... or is it a full-on ship? Is it swell-ready?" Curious eyes look his way again. "Are you expecting more guests tonight or is this just for the two of us?"

Something in her demeanour suggests she's not wanting the first option.

"Also, I saw a nice swordfish on the way. Shall I fetch it for dinner?"

And again mischief lights the eyes, though the grin is concealed by liquor.

Kyle Porter has posed:
The ice in the young tailor's mojito clinks as it begins to melt in his glass.  Almost absently, he raises it to his lips and downs the majority of it.  When he's finished, he sets it down on the deck and uses a toe to push it out of the way. 

Kyle is just far enough from the nearest cooler that reaching it would require standing up, which he's not eager to do.  Instead, he snaps his fingers and relocates a cold, frosty bottle of beer directly into his hand.  Somehow, he manages to flick the cap off with his thumb, which probably shouldn't be possible. 

"Just you and me," he says, and happily.  "I figured it'd be easier for us to be ourselves without any pomp and circumstance.  Plus, I wanted to see what sort of entrance you'd make.  A damn good one, as it turns out." 

There's a few heartbeats that pass while he's thinking.  "You're teasing, right?  Or could you really catch a swordfish?"  Another moment of thought, then his old mischievous grin makes another appearance.  "I wonder which one of us could catch it first?"

Aspen Matthews has posed:
"Me." Aspen says that without even a slight hesitation. "I can get to it before you even get a rod out."

She holds up her hand and averts her gaze. "A *fishing* rod," she specifies, then snickers as she turns her gaze back to Kyle. "And once I spot it, I'll get there before your yacht can move to it, and ... well ... I'll have it." She tilts her head, eyebrows merging into a furrow. "Or is there some trick you have of finding and yoinking one like you did that beer? Because if there is, that's ... impressive."

Beat.

"And a bit maddening that you didn't just yoink me out of my office, instead forcing me to finish off my day!"

She, finishes off her mojito and sets the glass down on the deck idly without pushing it out of the way.

"But even if you could do that, I'd still win. Because I'd cheat. I'd make sure you were worrying about breathing instead of fish, see." Was ... was that a bad Cagney impression?!

Kyle Porter has posed:
"No, you're right," Kyle admits,  fauxly glum.  "My trick doesn't work on anything that's alive.  I've got a dive mask, a rebreather, and a speargun, but somehow I don't think that'd be enough to keep up with you." 

He's comically dramatic for a moment, then he breaks character for a shrug and a smile.  Speaking of masks, with his down and his armor off, he almost looks boyish.  "I could use a few unsportsmanlike tricks of my own, if I weren't such a gentleman.  I think I still have a few depth charges in storage.  Those'll rattle your teeth, let me tell you." 

He's kidding.  Probably.  Maybe?  Either way, he's having fun.  "Don't let me stop you, though.  I could sit here and watch you swim and no part of it would hurt my feelings."

Aspen Matthews has posed:
Ooh! That's going to have to be rebuked!

Aspen stands. Languidly. Showing off her figure and form in ways that suggests she does, in fact, know her impact on people.

"I think a swim would be nice," she agrees, finally, looking back over her shoulder at Kyle.

Then she turns transparent ... a glass statue.

Then the statue collapses into a puddle of water leaving her bikini behind on the deck.

The puddle pours up the side and over the edge, splashing into the water, vanishing beneath the waves. A few moments later a puddle pours up the opposing side of the boat, flows across the deck, slips into the bikini, filling it out with Aspen's form. A form that returns to flesh and blood.

"That was refreshing!" Aspen says with a grin. "Want to join me next time?"

Kyle Porter has posed:
Kyle's first expression consists of understandably widened eyes and a mouth drawn into a small, tight 'o'.  He gaze follows Aspen's path as well as it can.  Well enough that he lets out a small, disappointed noise at seeing a bikini hit the deck without it staying there.  Gentlemanly behavior occasionally requires baby steps. 

He clears his throat, and while he's often so lascivious that it's somewhere between funny and offensive, on this occasion the way he looks Aspen over can be thought of as complimentary.  Surprising even himself, he finds himself looking at her eyes.  Eventually.

A quick blink brings him back to the moment at hand.  "I'm sorry, I got distracted," he confesses, grinning and holding both hands up helplessly.  "If that ride has room for two, I'd love to give it a try." 

Apparently, the roguish, caddish portion of him is genuine enough.

Aspen Matthews has posed:
When he does finally make it up to Aspen's eyes, he'll find them dancing in the rapidly-dimming light, paired with a badly suppressed smile of amusement.

"Kyle, it's OK to look. I picked the outfit because ... well ..."

She shrugs, having the decency to look a little embarrassed. Possibly (and ridiculously, given the setting) even a little shy.

"Obviously it's not something I wear because I want to hide away, right?"

That's quite a roundabout way of saying 'I want you to look' isn't it?

"Yeah yeah," she says, dismissively gesturing. "I know what you're thinking, moral upstanding sort that you are. I must be some kind of horrible hussy." That's sarcasm. "That it's best we met out here so that fine, upstanding citizens don't get you associated with my moral turpitude."

Her eyes lock with Kyle's.

"But ... if I didn't want you looking, I'd wear the outfit in my case."

The case she hasn't even glanced at since stowing it.

A moment of tension ... whose bubble bursts.

"I hope you had dinner planned, though, because I'm absolutely famished!"

And that wicked glint in her eyes. She knows what she just did!

Kyle Porter has posed:
"Are you saying you wore that for me?" Kyle asks.

He lets a few seconds pass before he winks, removing what might be an awkward question to answer and replacing it with a nonverbal acceptance of her implied compliment.  Knowing a beautiful woman wants you looking at her isn't the worst thing that could happen to a person. 

"I thought it'd take a while for us to work up an appetite," he says, returning to his solemn facade.  "But I brought some sandwiches.  Iberico, manchego, and some little peppers I can never remember the name of.  Pequito?  No.  Pequillo."

Only he could refer to the most expensive ham on the planet as being a mere sandwich.  He squints one eye thoughtfully until he singles out another cooler, this one tucked against the exterior wall of the cabin.  "In there, I think.  I'll let you get them when you're ready.  I'm sure I'd hate to see you go, but I have a feeling I'd love to watch you leave." 

It's bad and he knows it.  Once again, that's part of the fun. Gamely, he pastes on an innocent smile.

Aspen Matthews has posed:
The ham would impress ... if Aspen had any idea what it was. Instead it sounds to her like fancy names but ... sandwiches.

But it doesn't leave a negative impression either.

"Somehow, sandwiches is perfect for floating out at sea," she says, neither taking a seat, nor going for the food. Just leaning on the railing.

Letting Kyle look if he chooses to.

"But Kyle? You might want to pick up a book of lines that was published some time after the 1960s." She winks. "Although something tells me you're using terrible, terrible, dated lines as part of a persona you're using to project harmlessness." She takes a step toward him. "And I don't think you're harmless." Another step, and this is a catwalk step. "I think you're probably a lady-killer," she says in her stalking approach. "I think you've got a long line of broken hearts left in your wake."

She stops, just barely out of reach.

"Tell me I'm wrong."

Kyle Porter has posed:
"Oh, you're not wrong.  They don't...  It's not the same, though.  That's basically work.  Which sounds worse than it is.  Mostly." 

Smiling, Kyle trails off.  Sometimes it's alright to shut up and appreciate fine things.  While he's not much good at the former, he's an expert at the latter, so maybe there's a balance to be struck somewhere.  

"I'm about as harmless as your bikini is," he finally concedes.  As always, he finds ways to make the strangest things sound like compliments.  "Which, if anyone asks, we slept together.  Twice.  I have a reputation to maintain." 

Knowing him, he could be joking.  He could also be entirely serious.  Right now he's a Sphinx, he's not revealing which it is.  Still smiling, though.  And he hasn't looked away, why would he?

Aspen Matthews has posed:
"If anybody asks, they get smacked," Aspen laughs. "It's none of their damned business." Her lips purse as she tries to stifle a guffaw, almost succeeding. "And twice? I'm not sure you could survive the first time, truth be told."

There's bravado in the words, but a slight catch in the voice, and a small turn of the eyes away. Someone's fronting, and for a change it isn't Kyle.

"Got one of those brews for me?" she suddenly asks, liquid courage crossing her mind as an all-important topic. "Or mind if I mix myself a mojito?"

Kyle Porter has posed:
"Allow me, it's the least I can do."  Magnanimous in victory, Kyle doesn't press the point of whether or not he might survive or for how long, though it seems like a worthy experiment.  "Hold on." 

This time he opts to do things the old-fashioned way.  He returns to the very first cooler he'd dug into when his guest arrived.  Thoughtfully, he's sunk several glasses full of mint, sugar, and muddled limes into the ice so they'll remain chilled.  A generous dash of rum and a quick stir creates a cocktail. 

He crosses back to Aspen's side and offers it to her.  This time he remains standing and takes a spot of his own on the deck rail.  The sun is just starting to set, which is always beautiful when you're on the water.  It won't be a surprise for either of them, but it's worth enjoying.

  "You never told me if that ride of yours had room for two," he says.  Though it's a statement, there's also a query to it.  "Or was turning me into a liquid an idle threat? Or maybe a metaphorical one?"

Aspen Matthews has posed:
"Turning you into...?" Aspen seems genuinely confused a moment, before catching on. "Oh, no, I wasn't going to turn you liquid. I was just going to fill you up with liquid."

A plume of water stretches from the sea behind Kyle, reaching over his shoulder and moving threateningly to his mouth before collapsing from whence it came.

"I figure if you're coughing up sea water and trying to restart your lungs I'd have a better chance of catching a fish before you." She sighs expansively and joins Kyle in looking down the length of her body. "No, sorry, it's only me that I can make into water."

She settles against the deck rail next to Kyle.

"Honestly this is all pretty new to me. I haven't fully come to terms with it. And now, of all people, Aquaman is asking questions. Questions I can't answer because I don't know anything."

Bending forward to laugh a bit, she straightens up. "Though he did accidentally teach me a cool trick. The way I came on the boat? I saw him standing on the water and figured I could probably do something like that. Not quite the same, but I used the water like an elevator. It's kinda fun."

She regards Kyle once again. "What's the story with you, though? How long have you done the snappy-fingers-make-things-come trick? How did you find out? Or is this something you learned to do?"

Kyle Porter has posed:
"Fill me up with liquid, eh?  I've said those words before, but I've never heard them."  Somehow, Kyle maintains a demure expression.  "Quite an experience." 

He lets that one go, only to move on to the next one. "Snappy-fingers-make-things-come?  That's a learned talent.  The beers, the flowers, all of that?  That comes naturally."  That's a joke he also can't help but enjoy.  "Love, you just make it so easy, I can't help myself. Make things come with my fingers? You're precious." 

Teasing again, but affectionately.  He brushes the backs of his fingers down the back of Aspen's arm. For him, it's a comfortable, familiar gesture.  "The first time it happened I was fourteen.  It was an accident.  I figured out pretty quickly that it only works on things I can see, or if I can remember *exactly* where something is. I can send things away, too, but that's harder. How about you? Did it happen when you were competing? I looked you up, by the way."

Aspen Matthews has posed:
"No, it happened just a few..." She ponders. "It feels so long ago, but it was just a few months back. A research station I was in had a terrible accident. Opened to the ocean at ridiculous depths. A lot of people died. But I wasn't one of them."

She raises the arm that Kyle's fingers had just teased, the arm being transparent and flowing briefly. "I found out ... water and I had more affinity than I'd thought. Then ... weird ... weird shit happened. Dangerous weird. And suddenly I returned to my life like it was nothing different, only ..."

Haunted eyes look across at Kyle. "Everything's different, now, right?"

She snorts. "Back when I was competing the clues were there that I wasn't human. But I was three months ago years old when I found out."

Kyle Porter has posed:
"Oh no," Kyle utters sympathetically.  He experiences a rare, insightful moment.  A realization that now is not the best time for him to be a walking dick joke.  Wisely, he drops what remains of his facade, at least for the moment.

"I'm so sorry," he continues.  "You're right.  Everything is different for you now.  You've changed and you can't unchange, but that doesn't have to be a bad thing.  I know it might not seem that way now, but give it time."  Good advice, but unsatisfying.  Not just to hear, but to say.  Even he's not enjoying it, the words have left Kyle with a bad taste in his mouth and it shows. 

He moves on to a question that's also an offer.  A kind one, without judgement.  "Do you want to tell me about it?"

Aspen Matthews has posed:
"There's..." Aspen pauses, head whirling both from the way she'd just opened up in Kyle's presence, and in the thoughts that this triggered in her. "...lots of stuff I still don't understand. There's someone who needs me for ... something bad. He tried to recruit me for that. I went along, not knowing any better."

Haunted eyes steer their way to Kyle. "Others woke me up to what was going on, so I split. But it doesn't really undo what I got involved in." A wry expression flicks over her face and vanishes. "I guess I was trying to lose myself in my work, but now other people from underwater--Aquaman for one--are getting interested and ... life's getting complicated again. Call it a vacation?"

A fragile smile is paired with that last sentence, rising like the tone of her voice. "But the vacation is going to be over soon and I don't know what the work will be like. It's a bit nerve-wracking. But hey, at least I can disappear into the water any time I want, right?"

A sigh as expansive as the sea she's a part of escapes her.

"Let's just eat, drink, make merry. No point on dwelling on things I can't control, right? If Killian comes for me he comes for me. He can't kill me because he needs me. So I know that much at least."

Of course he can destroy that which is close to her. This doesn't seem to enter her awareness, however. Or she's good at acting. Or she's a sociopath. One of the three.

Kyle Porter has posed:
This is a topic that Kyle can appreciate.  His expression is grim, but understanding.  "When someone has a hold on you," he begins slowly, exploring the thought aloud in a way he rarely has before.  "The weight of that can be crushing.  Not just what they can make you do.  The hold itself, the knowing that they're always there, that's a weight all by itself."

He speaks with the conviction of someone who knows from experience.  Almost absently, he rubs his fingertips together.  Normally he uses drugs or meaningless sex to keep thoughts like these at bay.  This time he lets them happen.  It's a show of solidarity, facing one's demons.  

"Whatever you're in, there's always a way out. Some are easier than others.  I normally don't condone killing.  It's so permanent.  And messy.  I get the impression that I'd make an exception for whoever this is."

It's anyone's guess as to how much of that is a joke. He shrugs and smiles lopsidedly. Rather than make another round of cocktails, he reaches into his pocket for the silver flask they'd shared when they first met. He uncaps it and offers it to Aspen. Meanwhile, he's mentally writing down the name 'Killian' for later exploration.

Aspen Matthews has posed:
Aspen absently takes the flask and pours back a slug. Then starts to cough and splutter, evidently this time not pushing the alcohol aside.

Then she does it.

The cliché.

She pounds her chest with her fist, releasing a tortured gasp. "Smooth!"

The flask winds up in Kyle's hand again, paired with a giggle. She knows what she just did.

"I'm not worried for me," she explains. "Like I said, he can't hurt me. He needs me for something he can't do. Only I can, somehow. I'm more worried for you. Like not just you as a person, but all of the people. He's ... mad."

She means as in 'scientist', not as in 'miffed' judging by her expression.

"So what's your story? Nobody makes a face like that and reaches for the strong stuff without a story. Who's got your nuts in a vice?"

Kyle Porter has posed:
"Memories.  Such a pain in the ass, aren't they?"  It's a mostly rhetorical question, but not completely.  Kyle's still smiling, anyway.  "That's why I work very hard to destroy mine.  Abusing oneself is an art form." 

The statement is punctuated by a long drink of bourbon; several burning swallows taken with an almost alarming ease and level of practice.  Considering how much effort Aspen went through for her swig, it could almost qualify as teasing.  Almost. 

Her antics elicit a more merry expression, along with a palpable relaxation.  "Lucky for you, I've barely begun to defile myself for the evening, so I'm prepped for storytime.  Mine is simple enough.  When you can steal almost anything and your father is a career criminal, there's a natural progression of events.  I helped him build his little empire.  I did things I'll never be able to undo, or forget.  One day I woke up and I couldn't do it anymore.  Not for another second." 

He considers the flask, then drinks again, this time more sparingly.  "He taught me too well.  The plotting and the scheming and the ruthlessness.  I realized my only way out was to have *his* nuts in a vise.  Him and my brother. Blackmailed the hell out of them both.  These days our relationship is... distant. I'm oddly comfortable with that." 

It's as much as he's ever spoken on the topic, and more honestly.  It's a puzzling feeling that he shakes off with a shudder.  "Ick.  Telling the truth makes my skin crawl."

Aspen Matthews has posed:
Aspen laughs at that final line after listening with unnatural attentiveness for most of the rest, as if trying to place herself in Kyle's shoes.

"I wish," she finally says, after a few seconds of silence, "I could say I understand ... but ..."

She shrugs helplessly.

"I don't."

Then an evil glint enters her eye.

"Because I was certain you were planning on defiling me this evening, so hearing that you wanted to defile yourself instead hurts, Kyle. It really hurts."

And then she dissolves into musical giggles. Like a whole lot of tension bursting loose in a single tsunami release.

"Oh, wow, I can't believe I just said that!" she gasps between guffaws. "What the Hell are you feeding me in this flash!?"

Yes. She said 'flash'.

"Or maybe it was the drinks earlier. Whatever." She takes a deep breath. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make it sound like I wasn't taking it seriously, but you look like you're hurting and ... humour is about the only thing I can think of to drop that. I didn't go too far did I?"

Kyle Porter has posed:
"'Too far' are words I try to keep out of my vocabulary."  Kyle's mischievous grin matches Aspen's expression.  His accumulated tension also seems to be melting away.  "Self-abuse is a necessary portion of my diet," he confides. "But I'll save room for dessert.  I prefer to devour before I defile."

What would normally be a risque suggestion sounds awfully normal coming out of his mouth.  Unsurprising, at least. 

"Anyway, I abhor being taken seriously," he says, on the topic of his story and the emotions attached to it.  When he elaborates, his tone is falsely solemn.  "It may shock you to hear that I also use jokes to handle a number of situations.  Unless you weren't entirely joking, of course.  I hadn't scheduled you for a defiling, but I could pencil you in."

Aspen Matthews has posed:
Pinching the bridge of her nose, Aspen shakes her head ruefully. "I walked into that, didn't I?" she asks rhetorically, muttering to herself. Then, louder, adding, "I'm going to hope that you're the kind of gentleman who wouldn't take advantage of a lady who has a serious illness."

Beat.

"Foot in mouth disease. It's a deadly condition that leads to terminal embarrassment."

Her eyes stray to the basket previously identified as containing food.

"Let's get some nourishment ready. Then, since this is the second date, and since it's going oh so well..." The final three words spoken with exaggerated sarcasm. "...I'm pretty sure we're down for at least some light intimate contact. Defilement might have to wait until date three or four, even."