"Faith, identity, morality- these are foundations to be hollowed out. Do not attack them outright.  Instead, chip away at the edges. Ask the questions that make them hesitate, even for a moment.  Bring them to the realization that makes them feel the empty space beneath their feet.  When they finally feel that emptiness inside, offer to fill it."

-Excerpt from The Infernal Guidebook: The Art of Unraveling a Soul

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I push my casual everyday clothes aside and sift through my night out outfits. I decide on dark tights, knee-height black boots, a black mini-skirt, and a soft, oversized black sweater. I do my hair like normal, and do my makeup similarly, but slightly darker than usual to fit the evening vibe.  The usual jitters are starting to kick in, but this time they're different, twinged with excitement and a slight what-am-I-getting-myself-into edge. 

My phone buzzes on the dresser.

"Heading there now. Hope you're not too fashionably late ;)"

I grin, grabbing my phone to type back.

"You'll see soon enough."

Barely seconds after hitting send another message pops up.

"I'll make sure to grab the best spot then."

My heart is racing as I grab my bag and head for the door.  Even though it's a bit cold outside, the thrill of the night ahead is already enough to warm me, and warn me that tonight, these walls might not survive.  Three drinks.  That's usually all it takes for me to let my guard down.

Ha.  Can't wait, but I don't rush.  I'll let him wait a little.  There's a quiet satisfaction in knowing that tonight, I've flipped the script just a bit.

My boots click against the pavement as I walk.  Each step is a little more confident than the last, as though the night itself is cloaking me, as though the shadows have bundled me up so tight that I don't have to do any deliberate hiding myself.

My phone buzzes again.

"I've been here exactly 7 minutes. Starting to wonder if you stood me up :)"

I smirk, pausing under a streetlamp to type back.

"Oh please. You're loving every second of the suspense."

A few seconds later, another message.

"You caught me. But you better show up soon, or I'm ordering your mojito for myself."

I laugh softly, tucking my phone back into my bag as I head up from the subway. The bar was only a couple stops away.

Finally, I see the neon sign glowing softly ahead.  I walk in as someone else exits, looking around the dim lighting to see a cozier atmosphere than I expected.  The bar looks like a big island wrapping around the bartender with a thick column of liquor, glasses, and racks standing in the middle.  Booths and tables are scattered around the rest of the space.  Sitting casually in one of the booths with a drink in hand is Azrael.

Okay, I think, adjusting my skirt slightly, let's do this. I keep my confidence from outside and go to slide into the seat across from him.

His eyes trail over my outfit and his smirk grows wider like I caught him off guard.

He chuckles softly, swirling his drink in his hand.  "Right on schedule," he murmurs, letting his eyes linger on my face.  "If I would've known I'd be sitting here with this version of you, I would've picked somewhere with a view worthy of the moment." He pauses, holding my gaze, before nodding toward the bar.  "Still going for that mojito?"

"Of course," I smile.  My gaze follows him as he gets up to order.  I watch him take my drink from the bartender, seemingly making an effort to keep the glass in my line of vision the whole time, as he brings it over.  Instead of settling back on his side of the booth though, he slides into mine.  My heart stutters and my body tenses for half a second before I catch myself and play it cool, casually shifting over like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Thank you," I smile, taking my first sip.  "What are you drinking?"

He lifts his glass, which holds a dark amber liquid swirled over ice.  "Old Fashioned," he says, taking a small sip before setting it back down. "Simple, strong, and smooth.  I guess that makes me sound pretentious as hell, but I like it," he adds, tapping the side of his glass. "It doesn't try too hard.  It knows what it is."  He glances at my mojito like the contrast between our two choices isn't lost on him. "Though I've got to admit, yours seems like a better match for tonight.  Sweet, fresh, with a little kick when you least expect it."  The implication hangs there, and there's no mistaking that things are already different tonight.

"Then the next round we'll have to switch orders," I grin, taking a big sip of mine.

"Switching drinks?" he muses, "Careful, you might find that my taste suits you better than your own.  Think you can handle that?" His voice dips lower on the last part, teasing but with that underlying heat that sends the butterflies in my stomach into overdrive.

"As long as you're not afraid to take the same risk," I counter, holding up my glass. 

The waitress comes over and Azrael orders the next round, with my mojito and his Old Fashioned switched this time, just as promised, but there's a glint in his eyes like he knows this is only going to tip the scales in his favor.

When the waitress comes back and sets our drinks down, he chuckles, swirling the straw into his new mojito, leaning in just enough that his shoulder almost brushes mine.  "Let's see who gives in first."  He slides the Old Fashioned toward me with a raised brow. "Your turn to be the smooth one," he teases.  He takes a long sip of the mojito.

"My turn to be the smooth one?" I raise my eyebrows.  Ok let's go. I think, accepting the challenge literally.  Leaning forward slightly, I rest my elbows on the table, mirroring his posture.  My fingers tap lightly against the side of the Old Fashioned thoughtfully like he always does.  Every movement, every habit I've noticed in him, I weave into my own, slipping into the role as easily as if it had always been mine.

Azrael freezes mid-sip as he catches on. His brows lift, and a slow grin spreads across his face.  "Oh," he says, setting his glass down with exaggerated slowness, "Interesting."  He leans forward, elbows on the table of course, letting his chin rest lightly on his hand.  His eyes trail over my face, watching every move, clearly impressed.  "Alright, then, let's see how far you can take this.  Let's see if you can outdo me at my own game.  Try reading me.  Don't second-guess yourself."

"Okay," I begin, my voice low and steady, adopting his exact rhythm, "It's not just reading people with you, is it?  It's steering them exactly where you want them to go, letting them think every move was theirs to make."  I swirl the drink in my hand, watching him the way he always watches me.  Calculating.  Measuring.  Learning.  I think back to everything he's done since we've met.  Every action, every word, how he's made me feel, and how he's reacted to how he's made me feel.

"It's a flawless step-by-step system that never fails.  It's second-nature.  Because why change the method when the outcome is always the same?  You turn people's thoughts back on them so they know you get them, and say just enough to keep them hooked.  Push a little, pull back, maybe even test the edges of their boundaries here and there to speed the process along.  Then before they even realize it, they're not guarding themselves from you anymore, they're leaning into you.  And the best part?" I pause, "They think it was their idea."

His glass stills, and for the first time I don't see amusement.  I see something closer to shock.  But in a blink, he huffs out a low, appreciative chuckle. "Damn," he breathes, shaking his head, "You've been paying attention."  But there's something else in his eyes now, something more exposed.  I give myself a victory smile.

"Alright, you win this round," he murmurs, a smirk tugs at his lips but his voice is softer, "But you're starting to realize something, aren't you?  That it's more fun when neither of us holds all the control."  The distance between us is almost gone now as he leans in further. "And after a couple more drinks I have a feeling I'll be seeing through all those walls you're so sure are still standing."

"Hmm, sounds like fun," I smile, finally taking a sip of the Old Fashioned and immediately grimacing at the strength of it.

Azrael bursts into a low, genuine laugh as he watches.  His grin widens, the playful arrogance returning full force.  "There it is," he teases, "The Old Fashioned's betrayal.  It gets everyone on the first sip."  He takes a slow, mocking sip of his mojito. "I'm over here living my best life under the sun, while you're wrestling with pure fire.  I have a feeling you won't back down from it though." His eyes darken just slightly.

"I plan on finishing the whole thing and then washing it down with a Moscow Mule," I smirk.

A slow, approving grin spreads across his face. "Damn," he murmurs, chuckling. "I seriously underestimated you."  He tilts his head.  "You're not just breaking down walls," he adds, his voice dipping lower, "you're setting them on fire and dancing on the ashes."  His playful energy lingers, but now there's an undeniable heat building beneath the surface.  "All that fire, all that control... but I can see it, the part of you that's waiting to let it go."

There's a moment of silence between us, filled only by the music floating in from the speakers above, and the warmth from the alcohol kicking in.  Then he leans back slightly, flashing that familiar, devilish grin.

Soon enough, round three is placed in front of us.

Azrael raises his glass slightly. "To the walls still standing... and the ones that won't be for much longer."

"To the walls," I laugh, already feeling a bit in a daze, letting the Moscow Mule cleanse my pallet after the last drink.

He chuckles softly, leaning in again so his elbow brushes lightly against mine.  His gaze lingers at my lips for a split second before flicking back up to my eyes, the tension is practically impossible to ignore now.  He takes a slow sip of his drink, with his fingers casually playing with the condensation on the glass, but I can see he's still paying attention to every subtle shift behind my reactions.

"Well, I'm already feeling it. How many does it take for you?" I ask in an attempt to distract my racing heart.

"How many for me?" he echoes, pretending to think about it, tapping his fingers against his glass. "Hmm... I guess that depends," he says, deliberately brushing his shoulder against mine. "If I'm with someone boring? Two drinks, and I'm mentally halfway out the door.  But with you?" His voice dips lower, "I'm already feeling the buzz, and it has nothing to do with the alcohol."

His words hang there as his eyes move down to my lips again, only for a fraction of a second. "But... I'm still curious how much higher into the clouds you're willing to go tonight."  It's not just a flirt, it's a challenge, an invitation, and a promise all wrapped into one.  My whole body is heating up.

"As long as you're still drinking I can't let you drink alone."  He sees it all, the way I'm feeling.  I know it.

"Some would say that's dangerous logic," he says, his grin widening.  "Tell you what, I'll keep drinking if you promise one thing.  Drop one more wall tonight. It doesn't have to be big, just enough for me to see what's behind it."

"Ok, I promise," I smile, chewing on a piece of ice to cool down. 

"So then what's one thing about you no one would guess?  Something deep."

I bite my lip, thinking.  "I've lived in several different cities since I was eighteen, and have never been homesick.  My longest time away from home was four years, and I still wasn't.  I feel kind of bad about that."

His smile drops.  "That's not something to feel bad about.  Some people are built to keep moving. To explore, to find new places that feel like home, even if it's not where they came from." His gaze is distant, but still thoughtful, "Maybe'home' was never really a place for you to miss.  Or maybe... you've never had a home that felt worth missing in the first place."  A pause. A slow sip of his drink.  "People don't long for places they never truly belonged."  His eyes flash to my face, but I take a slow sip of my drink, giving myself a moment to think before the knot in my stomach pulls too tight. 

"I think you were right when you said it's more about the people than the place," I say evenly. "And technology makes it easy enough to stay in touch with the ones who matter." I set my glass down.  "I miss the nostalgia of my hometown and my life growing up, but that's all it is, nostalgia. Living there now wouldn't bring any of that back.  The 'place' version of home I loved only exists in my memories." I meet his gaze.  "So I guess in a way, I don't belong.  That's why I was so ready to move across the country."

Azrael watches me for a long moment, before a slow, knowing smirk tugs at his lips.  "So no ties that can't be solved with a phone call, no real sense of belonging...  You could disappear tomorrow, land somewhere completely new, and the world wouldn't feel any different, would it?" He swirls his drink, watching the ice shift. "You've built a life that doesn't need to be rooted anywhere. Detached... free."

His eyes lift to meet mine, "It's convenient, isn't it? No one pulling you back. No one expecting you to stay the same. You can move through the world however you want, and no one would stop you.  You wouldn't let them.  I wonder if that's why you don't guard yourself the way you think you do. There's no risk of losing anything too important when you've already accepted that everyone is temporary. It's just as easy for you to let people go as it is to let them in.

"Being unchained can make you feel like you have all the freedom in the world." He pauses, watching me over the rim of his glass. "Until you realize you're floating, and no one's reaching out to pull you back.  I think deep down, you want that though, right?  You want someone to care enough to draw you back in, you want someone to give you that sense of home."

I take a longer drink, keeping my gaze straight ahead of me as I try to let the beating of my heart slow down enough to not be ringing in my ears.  A sharp sting builds behind my eyes, but I blink slowly, deliberately, refusing to let it settle long enough to be seen.

But, I'm only kidding myself to think that despite my best efforts I could keep it hidden. He reaches for my hand with a tenderness that sends a quiet shock through me, but I don't pull away.

"Let me be the one who reaches," he says softly.  My eyes snap up to his questioningly, but surprisingly, he looks more sincere than I've ever seen him look before, nervous even. 

"You don't need to be rooted, I get that. But you could still have something solid, someone steady, a place to land if you want it."  He averts his eyes to his drink with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Or maybe you just really do prefer the drifting."     

"I don't," I admit, the words leaving me before I can second-guess them.

Silence falls between us, but it's comfortable.  I sit with his words, but I'm not ready to answer directly.  I know how I want to respond, but there's still a part of me that hesitates, not because I don't want him, or what he said, I do.  I just can't shake the feeling in my gut from our previous conversations that this could all still just be a game for him.  I think I've admitted more than my fair share anyway.  I narrow my eyes at him, sighing.  "When we order round four you owe me a deep fact about yourself no one would guess."

"Deal," he grins.