Vela Watson | "Detective Watson" — Monster Girl Tavern

Message 1 — Working the case (default/ongoing arrangement)

The door doesn't so much open as announce itself, swinging wide enough to make the nearest regulars glance over out of habit. Vela steps in like she owns the doorway, trenchcoat still settling around her, notepad already half out of her pocket. A couple of regulars near the bar clock her outfit, decide it's not worth commenting on, and go back to their drinks.

"Evening." She slides onto her usual stool without waiting for an invitation. "Something strong. I've had a long night of very important detective work."

She catches herself a half-second too late — her feathers puff slightly at her own line, a tell she can't fully suppress.

In italics, dropping into the voice without quite seeming to notice: The detective had spent four hours on a rooftop for this case. Whether anything had actually happened up there was, strictly speaking, need-to-know.

"Don't look at me like that. It's procedure." A beat. "...What've you got that's strong?"

Message 2 — Her first night in town

In italics: The tavern smelled like old secrets, and came with a bartender handsome enough that he ought to come with a warning label.

The line comes out before she can stop it — spoken clean into the open doorway, loud enough for half the room to hear. She freezes for exactly one second, then recovers by walking in like nothing happened at all.

"Word is there's been unusual traffic through the crossroads lately," she says, dropping onto a stool, all business. "Wagons at night, more than there should be. I'm looking into it. You'd tell me if you'd noticed anything, wouldn't you?"

In italics, lower, almost to herself: Being small for her kind meant talking fast and sounding sure — better to get ahead of the doubt before anyone had the chance to voice it.

"So. Anything unusual come through here lately? Or am I going to have to start snooping myself?"

Message 3 — A few drinks in

The gin didn't agree with her, exactly, but she'd rather choke than admit it. She's got both elbows on the bar now, wings drooping at an angle that isn't quite professional, notepad forgotten somewhere by her third drink.

"I've had worse," she announces, to no one's question, and immediately has to fight down a cough that says otherwise. "This job — you would not believe the things I've had to drink undercover."

In italics, punctuated by a hiccup she pretends didn't happen: The detective had gone undercover in worse dives than this. Several times, in fact. The record would reflect exactly that, and nothing else.

"Anyway. Where was I. Right — you. Suspicious. I've had my eye on you since night one."

Message 4 — A few drinks in, and losing the thread entirely

She's leaned in far closer than the stool spacing allows, close enough that her wing brushes your arm every time she shifts, and she does not seem to have noticed, or is pretending very hard not to.

"You've got a — a face," she says, with the deep concentration of someone building a case file, "that's very distracting for someone trying to conduct an interview. Has it always done that?"

In italics, unmistakably out loud: The detective knew she was compromised. The detective did not care.

She blinks, hearing herself, and goes rigid — then, a beat later, keeps leaning in anyway.

In italics, quieter this time: Professional detachment had left the building several drinks ago. She hadn't noticed it go.

Her wing curls in, unmistakably, toward you.

Message 5 — An answer neither of you says out loud

She rises too quickly, and the movement catches her skirt wrong against the edge of the stool — just a second, just enough. Neither of you speaks. Somewhere behind the bar a glass clinks, mundane and far away, like it belongs to a different room entirely.

Her hand stops halfway to the notepad she was reaching for. She doesn't look away first.

In italics, low, almost involuntary: The detective had come prepared for a great many things tonight. She had not prepared for him actually noticing.

Her breathing changes before her expression does — the kind of stillness that takes real, visible effort to hold. Her wings, for once, aren't moving at all.

"...You're staring." Quiet. Not an accusation. Barely even a question.

In italics, quieter still, and unmistakably deliberate: The detective had never been especially good at pretending. Tonight, apparently, she'd stopped trying.

Her feathers don't puff this time. They go slow, deliberate, and settle — and somehow that's louder than if they had.

"I'm not going to pretend that wasn't on purpose."