November 16th, 2015
Aubrey Parish, Louisiana

Brian Thibideaux stands on the front porch of his home, staring out into the darkness. Only the shadow of the moon and the street lamps give a sense that the Parish is, in fact, alive. Inside, Zia sleeps soundly, the rest of one who has accepted and let go of most of the burdens of life. Like many facing death, Zia had developed a calmness and serenity about her that she couldn't find in her many years of life prior to her diagnosis. It had nothing to do with faith or religion, much to Brian's disappointment, but a quiet knowledge and appreciation. Life is beautiful and finite, she had said one day. My only regret is the chance I didn't take.

She was not the sort of woman who would face death atoning for her mistakes and asking for God's forgiveness. Instead, she would give thanks for all the moments of beauty she'd been given.

Mothers know their sons. Zia could tell Brian was struggling with something, though she did not pry.She simply watched in her warm, reassuring way. He wished he could tell her to stop worrying about him, but he knew she never would. As much as Brian could tell his mother wanted him to open up to her, he had things he wanted to ask her too. He wanted to hear more about his father. He couldn't ask if she thought about seeing him again after she passed on, and what she would say to him.

Zia was a good-hearted, vivacious, and compassionate woman who'd had one great love in her life aside from her son. It was the sort of fairy tale most women seemed to want, or at least cried at when they saw it portrayed in movies. 

The great love of Zia's life simply wasn't her husband.

Gunner Thibideaux had been a loyal and kind father, the sort who deserved to be the great love of someone's life. He left his wife and son far too early. Brian had only been thirteen when his dad dropped down onto the stoop, one hand clutching his heart while the other held a paintbrush with bright blue that had been used to brighten up the exterior of the old house.

Brian couldn't remember when he'd figured it out, what hidden glances and a casual arm around his mother's shoulder really meant. He was angry and hated his mother, although he never said a word. Instead, he found comfort in the words of a greater power, one that judged adulterers and declared fornication a sin. A woman's duty was to love and honour her husband, and Zia hadn't done that. 

At the age of thirteen, Brian knew his mother had sinned terribly. Yet, he had also sinned in judging her and hating her with unspoken fury. No sin went unpunished, so God had taken Brian's father away. 

That was when he decided he would devote his life to something greater than worldly concerns, to make up for all the mistakes the Thibideaux family had made. While other boys were chasing girls and shoving each other on a football field or playing video games, Brian memorized Bible verses and volunteered to help the sick and the poor. He was a straight-A student, class valedictorian, and a handsome boy who was off to the big city to attend seminary. Brian hoped his father would be proud and would forgive him for what he'd done.

Brian also had the personality of a rock and no discernible sense of humour, though he didn't know this. Despite being a good-looking kid who was smart and reasonably athletic, he had no friends. Boys beat him up in back of the school during lunch. Girls laughed at him and whispered. Brian never raised a hand or said a word to defend himself. Everyone, even some of the adults, had nicknamed him "snowflake". It wasn't because he was unique or even fragile, but because there was no driven snow more pure than Brian.

It wasn't until he'd gotten the call that Zia was sick and it was time to come home that his heart had cracked, and he'd forgiven her. When the Sheriff had offered him a job, he took it because he needed money and it was an honest day's work. He didn't have a thing to say to his boss, and stuck to reading off the details of cases in an emotionless voice and answering everything with enough "Yes, sirs" to please a drill sergeant.

Brian loved the Parish, the quiet but interesting way they all lived. He also hated it for the tears and the demons that haunted it. The night he walked Eleni home had him asking all kinds of questions. Why did he want to go to New Orleans, enroll in the seminary, become a priest? There were plenty of small town men of God who were ordained and preached from their tiny pulpits and called their churches home. Becoming a priest was a drastic commitment for a young man of eighteen. Was he still that young boy trying to earn forgiveness and approval from his father? Was Brian running out of town to embrace God and improve himself? Or, like so many other young men his age did for many complicated reasons, was he just running? 

Even though it wasn't supposed to, New Orleans had made him feel alive the way Eleni holding his hand made him feel alive. He felt ashamed at the way both had made him feel the thing Eleni called passion. He couldn't have New Orleans or Eleni or any of the things he knew he should feel shame at coveting and lusting after. It didn't make him forget how much he wanted them. 

Late at night, Brian had started picturing his life. It was a different one than he ever imagined before. He fantasized that one day, he'd become the Sheriff and marry a pretty girl like Eleni and only go to church on Sundays. He wondered if it was enough just to be a good man, like his father had been. 

He already knew the answer. If it were enough, his father would be sitting on the couch in the living room, watching TV and taking care of Zia in her time of need. If it were enough, Zia would have loved him for doing that.

If it were enough, everything would have been different. It was sadly too late for that. Already, the young man had far more regrets than his mother.

It wasn't passion or love or even faith that drove Brian to seek out the priesthood. It was guilt, mixed with a healthy dose of righteous indignation. 

Every night since the night he'd walked Eleni home, Brian had been spending an hour on the porch, looking at the stars and the moon and thinking about the Heaven far above them. He asked God to forgive his doubt and his questions. The next day, though, there were still no answers.  

Whatever the future held, it seemed any all-knowing power was completely silent on the matter.

It had been a very strange two weeks. The Sheriff had instituted a curfew, stating the goings-on in the Parish had gotten out of control. Things were starting to catch the attention of the authorities in New Orleans, Colton had said with a note of resignation in his voice. Brian didn't know if the resignation was because he had failed to manage a difficult situation, or because he didn't want the authorities in New Orleans poking around the mysteries of Aubrey Parish. It was understandable. The Parish had its own unspoken sense of justice and peaceful living that would be changed forever if New Orleans police started checking identification, running warrants, and looking at license plates in the parking lot. Brian knew as well as anyone else the small town was populated by lost souls with nowhere else to go.

The curfew had been a very strict 8 PM, not allowing residents out after dark. However, the businesses suffered, so after a few days it became 11 PM. After that, bars could reopen until 2 AM and it was as if nothing ever happened. The curfews had finally officially been lifted and the town started to move again. Cars were being left in the parking lot every once in a while, and people filtering in like immigrants to a foreign land. The people of the Parish were a superstitious kind, and with every new arrival, there was gossip about who was no longer around and why. Brian actually laughed at the idea that there was a maximum occupancy rule instituted within the area, but a surprising number of people believed it. 

The quirky redhead who walked around the park every day was largely responsible for the rumour. He didn't hold any ill-will toward her. Everyone needed a way to cope with death and the fear and the certainty of it. It was the one thing the entire world had in common. If the people of Aubrey Parish chose to envision Death as a kind of nightclub bouncer instead of the means to redemption and Paradise, he wouldn't begrudge them the peace of mind. 

The Red Question had been closed for almost two weeks after Victor's death. The curfews put a dent in the establishment's business, and those who were inclined to grieve for Victor had time to do so. The world surrounding the Red Question wasn't one where anyone grieved for long and Virgil was happy when the club had gotten the go-ahead to reopen two days prior, when curfews disappeared.

Colton had been buying time, and Brian knew it. He had an odd distrust of Eleni and wanted to see if anyone would show up to contest the will before she took over The Red Question.  Brian had prayed someone would. It would be better, safer for Eleni to be away from that kind of place and the people who ran it. Even with Victor gone, it did not ensure her safety. There were other, smaller, more ambitious Victors lurking in the shadow of opportunity. Victor was Russian Mafia, the type of men who wouldn't accept taking orders from a woman, no matter how powerful. There would be girls who worked for Victor and loved him despite what he was. They would resent a woman taking his place, especially a woman who looked like Eleni. The Red Question would bring Eleni anything but peace.

Brian didn't tell Colton what happened the night he walked Eleni home. He didn't tell anyone. In the eyes of most people, there wouldn't be anything to tell.  Nothing had happened at all. Yet, the nothing had been so powerful it had turned Brian's world upside down. He'd gotten to call her a few times about business that needed to be handled and the sound of her voice made his day brighter. 

Brian wanted to say something every time, to have a reason to see her, but he didn't. He wanted things he couldn't justify wanting and no amount of prayer and penance erased them.Still, he didn't know what he'd do when the matter of Victor and the Red Question was settled and he wouldn't have any reason to talk to her. Their paths wouldn't cross.  It was a little flame of joy that would be extinguished

Even after the death of Victor Zenkova, Aubrey Parish after dark could still be a frightening place, and Brian felt a kind of chill creeping into the air. After a certain hour, most of the town disappeared, looking as if it were a figment of someone's imagination that never truly existed. The people inside the houses and apartments and shacks throughout the Parish kept the doors locked, the windows shuttered, and the curtains pulled tight. The secrets that were kept after a certain hour are one of the things that gave the city the reputation it had and caused outsiders to gossip about goings-on that weren't quite right. 

The reality of Aubrey Parish was much less sinister. Despite being a small Southern town that was a charming place to call home, it also suffered from problems with petty crime, drug addiction, prostitution, domestic disturbances, and small gangs intent on making trouble. It is little different from life in any other small town in that part of the world. Even the bigger cities aren't much different, not until a visitor got to the Atlantic Coast, and the more privileged world offered by cities like Savannah, Charleston, and Raleigh. The old-fashioned upper class of the South had their own secrets and burdens.

Other cities, places like Nashville, Atlanta, Charlotte, and Birmingham screamed of the war between the past and the present. Colour battled against a sterile, corporate-inspired way of living. The influx of people who'd relocated from the crowded Northeastern corridor and the overpriced cities of the West Coast had brought more money, more crime, more traffic, more problems. Tourism was up and so was economic disparity and racial discontent, problems that had plagued those cities as long as anyone could remember.

Cities that only had so much space were utilising it at an impressive rate, and the rich history of the South competed against the glitz and glamour of minimalistic, trendy nightclubs and sushi restaurants. New Orleans had begun falling victim to much of the same in the months before the hurricane hit. The tragedy destroyed so much, and in other ways, rescued a city rich in unique history and European flair from the pains of gentrification.

Brian was awed by the city and its strength, the way that tragedy had been its saving grace. Within destruction and loss, hope blossomed and beauty flourished.

It occurred to him, staring up at the night sky, how much the city he admired and the woman he admired were made much the same way.

A strange, unknown young woman sits in the bar area of Mudbugs, drowning her sorrows in a glass that holds endless comfort yet no true consolation. It is nearly 3 AM on a Tuesday night, or a Wednesday morning. Despite the fact that Aubrey Parish loves a good party, it eventually quiets down, particularly on weeknights. The fact she is there at all is unusual. The only people likely to be out and about were those no one truly wanted to meet. The young woman doesn't care. It had been a long journey, and she wanted a drink in a proper bar. The more she drinks, the more she wants only to drink more. The feeling of obliteration is a joyous one.

She gives soft but largely uncommunicative nods and thanks to the night bartender at Mudbugs. Her body language is guarded, giving the impression she wants to be left alone. The bartender looks like the kind put on late-night duty for a reason. Despite being closer to thirty than twenty, he sports a punk-rock version of a mullet and uses too much hair gel. The look is topped off by  slightly ominous looking goatee.

Next door to Mudbugs is the piercing and tattoo parlour, and the bartender looks like a VIP. Nothing about him hasn't been decorated with some sort of ink, scarring, piercing, or chain. The girl is kind of curious if the parts of him she can't see are decorated the same way. He's largely oblivious once he realises she isn't there to talk to him, but gives a nod in her direction. "Just got to town, hmm? Kind of blows that it's raining, but it usually is. Name's Mortikai. Let me know if you need anything. "

The girl came into the bar an hour ago, clearly making the place her first stop. She was thoroughly drenched by the rain and carrying two large bags. The bartender looked sorry for her. After a few drinks, she explained in her quiet voice that she was moving here to be with her dad, who she'd never met before. The move was necessary, because her mother never woke up from a cocktail  of reality-canceling drugs she'd pumped into her arm. The young woman didn't remember much about that night. She just remembered her mother's arms. The endless array of scars and bruises showed an inevitable outcome that was a long time in coming.

She isn't happy. It's not so much she misses her mother as she has to come to a nowhere town to live with a dad who doesn't want her. She doesn't know him, only the stories. He used to be like her mom, but got his life back on track before it was too late. He'd long since tattooed over the needle marks, taken out the piercings, become a productive member of society. Sometimes, the girl caught her mother spying on him.

The judge called the way he took off "reckless abandonment". Her mother never got over it. It made her feel even more worthless than she already thought she was, if many late night rants were any indication. The girl was too young and too sensitive to function as an emotional support doll to a grown woman, but she wasn't really given a choice.

The girl thinks she is better off without him, without both of them.

He never even knew she existed. Now he did, but she felt more like a ghost who'd come back to haunt him.

The girl remains hunched against the bar and downing yet another shot of whatever was in that endless glass. She is a pretty, sullen young woman nowhere near twenty-one, but Mortikai doesn't yet know to watch over the patrons like Chance does. Instead, he is largely indifferent. He figures she looks old enough to fuck without getting in trouble, so she's old enough for a few drinks.

In Aubrey Parish, the drinking age is enforced rather differently. When you're old enough to fight in a war, have a kid, or drive a car, you're old enough for adult life and all that goes with it. In the kind of place where kids don't have the luxury of staying kids long enough, no one's going to begrudge the older ones a drink or a pack of smokes. Mortikai stole his first bottle of vodka at twelve, and she is most definitely not twelve.

He isn't planning to bother the girl or disrupt her brooding. It isn't worth his job, which he needs, to see if he can get her on the table in the kitchen. She's not his type, anyhow. Regardless, he gives her a few free drinks to see if she starts becoming a little more friendly. He'd introduced himself a long time ago, but she didn't return the favour or make attempts at conversation. 

"So, what's your name?" Mortikai looks bored, because he is. She is the only soul awake and wanting a drink at this hour, so he pours himself a shot. Misery loves company, even when it's in denial. 

The girl fidgets a bit, not used to giving strangers her name. She breathes in a little, before answering. "Emmaline."

Mortikai laughs. "You can relax. I know it's a dangerous world and all but that's why they got people like me working this late. Can't have the bar getting jacked." He gives what passes for a smile. "Emmaline. Pretty name, old-fashioned-like. People call you Emma for short?"

She hesitates a bit but nods. "Yeah. Sometimes. Or just Em, which is even shorter."

There's a genuine chuckle from Mortikai as he holds his glass up to hers. "Don't sell yourself too short, kid. Cheers, Emma."

He tosses back the shot, and for the first time since her arrival, a hint of a smile crosses the girl's face.

Emmaline Ravenel, like most girls of sixteen, thinks her parents suck. Also, this town sucks, moving sucks, people suck, and bus rides definitely suck. The old rocker bartender is alright, though. He isn't pretending to care when he doesn't and whatever she is drinking is pretty good.

She hates both of them, her parents. Her mother was a selfish bitch who didn't care enough to stop getting high, and her father was an irresponsible douchebag who'd sounded more concerned about how she'd disrupt his new life than how she was doing. Maybe he'd feel all guilty for what he'd done and buy her a car.

Despite that, she is stuck here because she doesn't have what it takes to run. She isn't a bold person by nature. On the contrary, Emmaline is fearful of the unknown, and her voice the sort that's always gentle and quiet. She is an angry girl, but most people never have a clue.

Everything about her is designed to blend in, from the blonde pixie cut she'd dyed black to make some kind of passive-aggressive statement, to the clothes that were casual but slightly dowdy. While other girls Emmaline's age flaunt their looks and their bodies like newly acquired prizes, she hides.

Emmaline hates those kind of girls. They suck, some more literally than others.

That night was the first she'd ever been inside a bar. It isn't anything like she expected, based on television shows that made bars seem like happy and boisterous places. Instead, it's just her and an old bartender, and her eyes are bloodshot. Judging from the wetness on her cheeks, it is from her own emotional bullshit, her drinking, or the fact she hadn't slept in days. She isn't sure which. Her eyes are drowning in alcohol, maybe. She didn't look up when she heard someone enter the bar, content to mind her own business. Emmaline just sort of sits there with her wet purse curled pitifully over her lap, her chin in her hands.

She almost lets out a scream as a man approaches her spot near the bar. There's something not just repulsive but frightening about the man, who wears a mask. It's not the kind that says he's going to rob the place, but why would anyone wear a mask in a bar? She looks to see if Mortikai is paying attention, and he is. "What can I get ya tonight?" Mortikai looks about as suspicious as Emmaline, but not afraid. He's preparing for a fight.

The stranger approaches Emmaline and sits down beside her, taking his mask into his hand, but not taking it off. "I come from where lost souls are found. I've got good at findin' those in need. Yer one of 'em." He stares ahead. She notices the barkeep, although not lurching away, didn't seem about to serve the man unless he had to.

"Give me a double of whatever she's got. The same for the lady." The masked patron slid a bill over to Mortikai, who dubiously starts pouring. Emmaline notices the bartender slips the note into his pocket and not the register. She wonders if he's stealing from the bar, or just doesn't want to open the cash register around a guy wearing a mask. The masked man looks at Emmaline, and says simply. "Looks like yer needin' someone to be nice to ya today."

Emmaline sniffles a little, trying to hide the evidence of tears and wobbly drunkenness. There is no 'unshakable tough girl' facade with the stranger. She is just a girl being approached by a man at a bar for the first time. It's her bad luck he looks like he might murder her. "Please not tonight with this," she asks in a trembling tone, her words almost slurred. 

Mortikai's attention is drawn over to the pair at the bar as Emma is absentmindedly fiddling with her empty glass. "Sweetheart, this man bothering you?. She shakes her head, but her brown eyes hold a glint of confusion. Emmaline doesn't know for sure what it feels like to be bothered by a man. The only times it had happened to her, it had been very blunt and obvious and this wasn't.  The stranger did something nice, but he looks repulsive and she still feels scared. Is that bothering someone?

She has been in Aubrey Parish for less than two hours, but already, Emmaline is feeling vulnerable and powerless versus the world. It is a too-familiar feeling.

Jebediah is conscious of how the girl looks at him and the protective instincts of the bartender. He's the kind who looks tough but much of it is probably for show. Men overcompensate when they have to. Still, he thinks to himself, it's a lot easier if I can get rid of the guy. He looks over to the pitiful girl briefly, trying to assess her. She's young but not too young. She looks like the kind who can hold her own in the world, but she's got her suitcases and crying her eyes out in the middle of the night. Clearly, she's running, but from what?

Soundlessly, he tries to decode the mystery that is the girl at the bar. Job problems? No, that'd be anger. This isn't drunk anger he sees in her. This is self-pity. Loneliness, in a bar, is far from unique. Boys? Girls? Something broke her heart, so he takes a stab. Turning to her, he says kindly, "I knew a girl once, sweet little thing I called Ana. Was in love with her back then, the girl was a broken kind of angel. Would have done most anything for her. Turns out, she was sweet on a man who was broken on the outside. She picked him even though he couldn't get it up for her. Love, ain't nothin' fair 'bout it." He chuckles gently at that, putting his arms on the bar. "Don't ask for those logisticals. Why don' you take that drink for the road, and we go sit somewhere comfy?"

The question is for the girl, but as he asks as he looks to the bartender who is about to interject. He didn't ask for anything, he just stares. Jebediah is staring the punk-ass man down, staring him into oblivion. In his mind, he is dragging him out, then oppressing his his will even further with that dull, lifeless gaze from behind the mask. Jebediah's body, his face, everything about him warned he could do this. None of it matched that lovely Southern charm, not until he slides another set of bills over to Mortikai, and says, "Thanks fer everything, man. I'm guessin' that covers a round to go and whatever she ordered."

He pulls his mask from his face slightly, his hand resting on the girl's as she holds her double shot in the other. "C'mon, little lady. Down the hatch. Makes you feel better, don't it? It's why they call it the Devil's Poison. " His tone is almost soothing, and when she finishes the drink, he passes his own shot glass to her. Devil's poison or not, Jebediah doesn't touch the stuff.

She looks like she doesn't seem to even care anymore, at least to an extent. Her eyes look up to the bartender's as if looking for validation that she's safe. After finishing the double shot, her entire body stiffens. An odd, strained squeak sounded in her throat. It seems he struck a chord, if he didn't flat out nail it. She downs Jebediah's shot without being told, and he smiles as he takes two more rounds, carrying two glasses and giving her the other two.  "S'raining fuckin' cats and dogs out. Better not be far." The girl's voice is quiet, almost muted. The bartender is almost motionless, taking the bills and sticking them in his pocket.

Jebediah looks to his left and right, seeing a newspaper presumably already well done and read from days ago on one of the tables. He stands up and slowly lumbers towards the door, grabbing the newspaper on the way and unfolding it open, motioning to her to follow. "C'mon, that's a good girl. Put yer bags behind the bar fer when we come back, an' grab yer purse." She complies with small sniffles, but otherwise, doesn't say a word. As they walk to the open-air exit, he moves to hold the newspaper above her head as they walk, moving towards a different sort of shelter. His shelter.

Emmaline feels like her thoughts and her voice have moved outside of her body, but what remains moves in a very strange way. She'd finished seven or eight shots in the span of two hours, and between them, they have eight more. For a girl of a hundred and thirty pounds, it's enough already to make her start doubting her ability to think straight. She didn't know what a "double" was until she drank it and things felt numb. She is kind of enjoying the numbness and the forgetting. Emmaline has a lot that's better forgotten.

She mutters a barely coherent 'thank you,' as if the words were difficult for her to spit out. Strangely, they were. Words felt like trying to swallow molasses. She didn't speak at all otherwise on the way there, but at least has a basic handle on her motor skills along the way. Emma is doing well enough to not trip over herself, at least. Her hands tightly clutched her purse and she kept her stare mostly on the ground until they reached whatever destination he had in mind, staring blankly at the arrangement with little more than a frown. "My bags..they need to get to the hotel." That's the most she articulates, though her thoughts wheel around furiously.

He stops in front of a building, so she does the same. "What's yer name, honey? Mine's Jebediah Mercy, but Lawd have mercy, plain Jeb'll do." He laughs as if he's told the funniest joke on Earth, but she doesn't get it.

"Emmaline. Emma." In the back of her mind, she remembers the bartender saying she looks like an Emma.

"Emma. It's a sweet name for a sweet lil' lady. Come on up." He helps lead her up a half-flight of stairs to a door he pushes open. The apartment isn't even locked. Emmaline thinks that's strange.

As she moves to enter, she sees nothing but a mattress inside. She is still conscious of herself enough to look doubtful and turn to leave, but the touch of his gloved hand points her inside as he stands in the doorway. He doesn't force her, though, and he doesn't sit down on the dingy mattress. He just puts the newspaper down and leans against the side, avoiding the rain. "I don' sleep. So, I don't got a home fer myself. I just wander, mostly. You ever wander before? Ever felt hopeless, meaningless? I know what ya feelin' right now, baby doll. Ain' nothing proud about it. Take one of 'em shots, let the pain out right, honey."

Emmaline doesn't know why, but it's easier to just do what he says. She's had too much, but it does feel good. The fire, and then the way she is numb and weightless. The masked man seems far less frightening. He actually shows concern for her. Her shoulders slump and she feels her bottom lip quiver.

Normally, she'd have felt pathetic for crying and letting words come out to strangers, but tonight she had done it twice. Another crack in her facade appears, and she tries to hi "You don't know shit about what I'm feeling." She didn't bother coming in out of the rain yet, instead staying right out in it. It was probably a stupid decision, but no one said her judgment was stellar, especially when she'd been drinking. The inside of that apartment looked like the sort of place girls went and never came back. The rain is safer.

Jebediah watches her for a very long moment. The rain and thunder blast and patter down around her as he stands in the entrance to the shelter. He waits for a little while, a smile on his face as he watches. He enjoys breaking her down, beating the defiance out of her without so much as touching her.  Patiently, he stares at her, holding the drinks as he waits for her to get soaked. Fifteen minutes pass, and she looks like she starts to sober up a tiny bit, enough to begin feeling very miserable. He smiles as a rush of adrenaline moves through his body. It is hard to be so patient.

Finally, he speaks to her. "Who hurt ya, darlin'? Come on over, dry off. There ain' nobody important here, you can cry yer heart out to ol' Jebediah Mercy all yew want." The moon outside was full and he had her in a secluded room junkies would turn their nose up at'. He could beat the life out of her if he wanted, but he stands there patiently. He is waiting to do something far more sinister than what her mind is probably worrying about.

He was going to gain her trust instead.

Emmaline trudges into the shelter at this bit of reassurance, the last bit of her hostility fading away so quickly she forgot to be afraid when the sound of the door clicking behind her made a cold metal echo.  Her head bows and she openly begins to weep as she had with Mortikai, shaking her head and dragging her hands over her face. "Who fucking hasn't?" She barely got that out before she had to turn her head and cough into the crook of her elbow, letting her bangs fall across her face, smudged eyeliner making her look even more lost than she is. Without any suggestion whatsoever, she downs the other shot she's been clutching like a security blanket, letting the glass fall to the floor in a half-hearted motion.

Jebediah appears to think on that, and chuckles gently in reply. "My baby darlin', I don' think I've hurt you once this day, this night or this year. Hell, never hurt ya in the last few decades you've been on the Earth, I'd reason t' guess. So what's his name?" He was going to take a big leap there, and assume the breakdown had something to do with a guy. On one hand, she wears the least sexy clothes he's seen on a young girl in a very long time and has a butch sort of haircut. On the other hand, her makeup and nails were done nicely and her shoes were sparkly sandals that weren't slightly sensible. Jebediah is all about stereotypes when reading people, so the sparkly shoes win out. It has to be a guy, or at least probably so. Young girls didn't bother having breakdowns over grades and this one didn't accidentally send naked pictures to the wrong person.

Emmaline shakes her head and wipes at her eyes with one of her sleeves, sniffling and coughing again. He can see the chill of the rain is beginning to get to her, even if she doesn't feel it "His name doesn't matter. None of it does." Evidently,even when upset, she was only open about her problems to an extent. Crushed, but not crushed enough to blurt out what might have been sensitive details. Maybe she is just too paranoid to trust anyone, or has been hurt before. Either way, Jebediah isn't getting as much information out of her as he'd hoped he would. He has a soft spot for those who bare their souls and revel in their humanity.

He moves closer, attempting to put a hand on her shoulder. It is not an act of romance or the desire to get too close, though the compliant state she's in has him wondering if it's worth a try. She still appears to have enough composure to say no, and he doesn't want to run her off with a stupid move. As his glove brushes her skin, he takes care to make sure it is a protective, friendly gesture. "You ain' gotta worry, darlin'. Not 'bout a thang. He gonna come back? Jus' a little wave in the ocean fer you two, maybe?" he asks with a caring inflection, even as his eyes stare blankly through his mask.

Emmaline allows the hand to touch her shoulder, the anger and sadness ebbing away. Whatever outburst she had was relatively short-lived, aside from yet another cough. She looks at the mask, and then at the glass in Jebediah's hand. He can see the blank look in her eyes and a brief moment of wanting. "I don't know if he wants me here or not. I don't care anymore. Han do whatever he wants, as far as I'm concerned. It's not like I matter to him anyway. I already saw him with her, the way he looks at her. I can't do anything to stop it." Jebediah notices how much she avoids eye contact. She looked everywhere except at him, though her eyes noticed him for a moment. He caught her longing look at the shot glass, and passes it over. "Here, sweet girl. Relax. Nothin' so bad can't be fixed." He realises, with a smirk, that the mask probably freaks her out even more after a few drinks.

Jebediah didn't seem to try to hide the fact his mask was weird, creepy, and off-putting. Hell, it was probably intentional that he'd chosen the most frightening option possible. It is a way to distance himself, and to keep that separation from reality. There's no use in reminding himself what he really is and what he looks like beneath. "That ain' no way to think, Emma. Ain' no way no how. Why don' I walk ya back to yer house, an' in the morning once ya got them shots out yer system, you can talk to the man an' tell him how ya feel. Ya know what I mean?" He asks her this with a smile as he moves to bend down to grab the newspaper again. It was still coming down outside with no end in sight.

Emmaline averts her gaze so as not to stare at the mask, and wipes at her eyes one more time, sniffing. It's as if something in that particular tidbit of advice caused her to choke out another pitiful sob before she conceded with incoherent mumbling and a nod, moving her hands over her face before reaching for the remaining glass. "Doubt that'll happen... but yeah. Probably. Need to go home. Tired..." Her eyes finally look for his or where they would be. "I think..I expected you'd be all over me because I'm drunk and sad and it's late. You don't think I'm pretty?"

His heart melts a little at her expression of insecurity. So many lonely souls in need of the tiniest scraps of affection wander the world. Jebediah smiles, handing her the last glass. "I think you're a right pretty lady, Emma. It ain't right to not treat you like one. 'Sides, I never do anythin' to anyone they didn't ask fer." He offers her the newspaper to hold over her head as they walk out of the front door. "We'll see each other again, Emma. When yer ready to open up bout who you are and what yer wantin', well, we'll have a night like this that's a different kinda story." He bows in an exaggerated, gentlemanly fashion, specifically not following her as she leaves.

He had many plans for things he would do with her that night, and he was certainly going to follow her home. He wants to know about her, wants to keep her close, real close. Even Jebediah can't explain the second thoughts, a pang of regret in his heart as he watches her walk into the night, barely able to stand upright. The walk home will be hard and painful for her, and this pleases him. It is more arousing than anything she might have thought to offer. He doesn't need to know where she's going. After all, she's going to come back. They always came back, back to where lost souls are found. He takes off his mask for a moment, breathing deeply and staring down at it with a pained look, before putting it back on. Staring up at the rain, he watches the sky crackle with a God's anger above the city as her figure fades from view.