"That's really too bad," Hart said reproachfully. "I can get more towels, or make myself another rum limeade—" he took the empty glass back, "—but from what I've been taught, we've only got the one soul each. Taking that from a few people isn't something you can undo. When did you learn that people aren't objects? Last Wednesday, I suppose."
"Touche. I suppose I do have a bad habit of ignoring people for being people, but in all fairness if you've been around since the 1400s it's bound to make you a little jaded." he said. "But if the only semblance of blood family you had relied on souls every hundred or so years to keep him around and safe, wouldn't you give it all up for them? Besides, the more I give to him, the more the Devil lets me roam free, happy if you could call it that. Honestly, it's not that complicated, if you don't have a soul you don't need to bother with heaven or hell. You can go about your life until you die, feeling a bit empty but who's complaining? Then, you get sweet, empty void, an eternal sleep, and you don't have to worry about afterlives or any of that crap. Really, I'm a saint."
"That sounds a steep price for what you can do. Then again, if I recall correctly, the qualifications for sainthood are at least two miracles—and a painful martyrdom. Better the Devil you know, eh?" Hart took a swig of just the rum. "About that amulet…I don't think it likes me."
"Oh, don't worry about it. He hates everyone. It's nothing you've done, although I think that in retrospect I might've done better not to lose him in the first place so you wouldn't have to deal with me. By the way, what happened to good ol' number fifty-one? Did you see the body? Or what was left of it, at any rate." he asked, sitting down on the small couch and stretching out.
"Not a trace," Hart replied. "What's next for you, Venus? You'll need a place to stay, I gather—Materializing clothes from thin air doesn't bother city planners or tax collectors, materializing real estate in the middle of the city just might."
Whatever infinitesimally small gift that Hart seemed to have, seeing the future wasn't any part of it, but a thought crossed his mind with more certainty than it'd earned, that Hart would be telling Venus that the couch folded out into a bed—and that there was a laundry room behind the kitchen.
"I can't make a whole fucking house out of thin air. That would require a lot more innocent blood than I currently want to get on my hands." he said. "Anyways, I have friends. Or, well, business partners who occasionally lend me their couch in exchange for my services, whether it be murdering someone they don't like or more likely doing things with a… well, that they would make your very sensible blood curdle is true enough, that you wouldn't enjoy thinking about it is another so I'm not going to go there."
"Much appreciated," Hart said with a wry half-smile. "I suppose I've been volunteered as one of your friendly business partners, in any case." He sat on the armrest of the couch. "I'd like to get as familiar with the paranormal as you are—at least, in the theoretical sphere. I have questions, and you have answers.
"I doubt that's a fair exchange, though, so: What do you need? What would you want?"
(OOC: Does the Shakespearean play Hamlet exist in this world, or is it only patchily-documented history that Venus lived through?)
(it's very badly documented history, deliberately because Horatio didn't want people getting any ideas…)
"Just a place to live, work. I could even help as a secretary or something, if you have a spare room for it." he said. "We could make a good pair, you and I." he sat closer to Hart, picking a piece of lint off the man's shoulder. "If only I knew your name."
Hart caught Venus' hand, not aggressively but not with any coquetish playfulness either. "I don't pair all that well with anyone," he said. "And I doubt I need a superpowered secretary any more than you need to waste your extraordinary life ingratiating yourself to mere mortals."
He gently released Venus' hand. He hadn't wanted to keep the lint anyway.
"Not that I can keep you out, but you are welcome to stay. There's no extra bedroom, but the sofa unfolds into a bed, and right now I can afford to give you an allowance on par with minimum wage for at least the next year or three while you figure out what you really want to do.
"I'd prefer that you don't take guests up in here without warning, and I'll be certain to like you a lot less if I don't get a good night's sleep in a whole month because of you, or if you get your area of this place messy enough to attract rats and roaches, or if…" he trailed off, struggling to think of other examples, "…if you use my toothbrush to pick your nose, or any of that sort of thing—but the absolute non-negotiable of my part in this arrangement is that You Don't Meddle With My Soul, directly or by proxy to any degree. I've heard your arguments for the benefits of doing without one, but I'm still very attached to my own.
"If that's all understood and it suits you, then I'll give you every mispronunciation of 'Fortham' that people have thought up—but you can call me Hart."
Venus snatched his hand back. "You do realize I've made an entire living on trying and succeeding to appeal to men, right? I can't always give you a warning when I have to bring someone up. I will try for a hotel, or their place if I clock them as safe, but I have a business and I'm not going to let some moron who couldn't get a man of my caliber in bed even if he wanted it more than anything in the world boss me around. You don't know me, I don't know you, and I'd prefer to keep it that way so no hard feelings arise. But I will tell you this-I've worked too hard to lose my entire livelihood to some wannabe Sherlock Holmes who hasn't received a decent paycheck since he first got his stupid job. Capiche?" he snapped, standing up to come just about eye-level with the much taller man.
"Hotels when you can are fine, a notification when you can is even better. I wasn't expecting you to sacrifice your entire livelihood only because you like the interior design of this place." He'd mentioned living during the 1400s, that probably meant around five hundred years of successfully appealing to men. Hart fully believed Venus could do it, even if Hart wasn't one of the ones. "Far be it for me to whinge about being criminally implicated in 3rd Party Involvement when—" he stopped, stared at the wall and into a distant memory for a moment, made a small 'huh' sound of personal epiphany, and then continued as though he hadn't missed a beat, "—when you've obviously found an underappreciated vocation, and damn the laws. I just don't want my soul eaten.
"I've literally said that I won't be your boss. Are there any other details you would like to negotiate, or does capiche mean you reject the entire premise of the offer…Wannabe Watson?"
He's about to turn me into a newt for the insult of my toothbrush protectiveness, isn't he. Hart's thought was deadpan.
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