Saints - Take 3

"I don't own much more besides button downs." Abbadon admitted with a short lived look of surprise that Peyton had actually managed to find the gray jersey knit piled underneath the clothes he actually wore. He looked off through the half moon window at the lightening in the distance while he tried to remember when he would ever of bought a tshirt.

"Mhmm. No secretary has anything on you, I promise." He looked over his shoulder towards Peyton, making a mental note he should buy some tshirts if Peyton would wear them. His hands picked over the assortment of items that scattered across the top of the fireplace mantel - a tarnished gold coin here, a carved whale tooth there - looking for a silver tie clip that was resting against a small bronze statue of a boy with a bayonet.

The floorboards creaked under the faded orient rug as Abbadon walked towards the amoire, pulling out the gray suit Peyton had requested and dressed himself. The pale purple shirt clung to the spots on skin that hadn't quite dried and the collar was darkened by the his still wet hair that brushed against it but it wasn't like it mattered much - it wasn't an occasion he felt the need to dress up much for.

"I'm sorry that they're isn't much to do here while it rains. There are some books in the study that might interest you - they have some details about the home and the town. I think they're on the bookcase to the right of the fireplace - second shelf up - if they aren't there they should be in the cabinet underneath and the key is in my desk if it's locked." Abbadon pulled at the hem of the gray jacket to smooth it out over his shoulders. TV was never something that interested him, the novelties that it portrayed and the over hyped 'disasters' were below his level of thinking and the internet was just something he never quite cared to figure out beyond what he had to know from living in the current century.

Peyton's fingers reached out to touch the delicate, glass trinkets that set scattered across the top of Abbadon's darkstained dresser. Just before she could come into contact with them, she withdrew her fingers, afraid that touching them would cause them to meet an untimely end. She was a well known klutz, but one with a strong desire for antiques and historical knowledge.

From day one, she was absorbed in all that the plantation had to offer, and while Abbadon didn't seem too upset with her running around and playing with the treasures of the house, she was still afraid to ruin an invaluable piece. That was, all except for the portrait of a young, dark haired woman that he relentlessly lied to her about. Perhaps she could dig up some of the past while he was gone for the night.

"I don't mind." Peyton chirped. "I rather enjoy the quiet of the house. There's so much history for me to unveil here. It's a dream come true." She insisted, leaning against the wall near the fireplace to examine the bronze statue of a boy. It was beautifully sculpted and the true age was shown with the discolouration it had begun to take.

"I considered majoring in history, you know." She murmured, brushing away the hair that clung to her face and neck. "Being in a place filled to the brim with it makes me wonder why I never decided to." Peyton admitted. "I'm going to round up something to eat. Do you want anything before you head out?" She questioned, pulling the heavy doors open.

"I'm sure spending a few months here would be enough to land you at least an honorary history degree." He spoke offhandly as he flipped the silk tie around in knots before pulling it up towards his neck.

A heavy sigh emerged from Abbadon as he remembered that Valafar would be at the meeting, he regretted the decision to ever involve the bastard in any aspect of his life. It was going to be a long night that was full of obscure jabs and he could only hope that Peyton would be fast asleep when he returned so another fight wouldn't arise because of his sour mood.

"You won't break anything." Abbadon watched as Peyton gingerly reached out to touch the trinkets scattered around the room. "They've survived for hundreds of year without the amount of care you look at them with." He reached over Peyton's shoulder for the bronze bayonet boy. The figure fit easily in the palm of his hand, it had taken on an oily finish with hints of blue patina nestled between the boy and the gun.

"It's from the french revolution. It was one of the figures they used to plot troop positions when mapping battle plans." He ran his thumb over the sculpted hair of the young boy who stood at attention, despite the small size the details were clear. "It's metal - it won't break." Abbadon placed the figure in Peyton's hand and closed her fingers around it.

Something about Peyton made her blend into the home. Despite her being from a large northern city, nothing looked out of place for her to be standing in the middle of a southern plantation home - if anything she looked like the lady of the house.

"It's also yours." Abbadon brushed his lips against Peyton's neck, leaving a trail until they met her lips. "I have to go." He gave her no room to object his gift as he planted a quick kiss and turned towards the staircase. The stairs creaked and bent as he bounded down the old steps - it was a wonder none of them had ever needed to be replaced.

He chuckled to himself as Peyton's hastily discarded purple bra and shirt lay soaked in the middle of the hallway. "You have some things to pick up." Abbadon called loud enough for his words to echo off the walls and up the stairs as he stepped out the door.

Peyton's certain objection to being given such an irreplaceable relic from history was cut short by Abbadon's brash kiss. He knew all too well a complaint would be sure to follow. Instead of pressing an argument, she studied the little bronze boy in her hand. She was entirely flattered that he would give her something so unique, and decided to rely on the fondness he must have held for her.

Abbadon's voice carried loudly from the bottom floor up toward the hellish stairwell that lead to his bedroom began. She couldn't keep from smiling as she noticed the discarded clothing had soaked the floorboards. "You also ruined my favourite pair of underwear. You owe me. Big time." She called, bending to scoop up the water logged articles of clothing.

Peyton carefully jogged down the stairwell toward the first floor. "Ms.Abbott? Where is the laundry done, per chance?" She questioned, lugging around the large plastic laundry basket weighted down with everything she had worn thus far on their trip to the untouched south. She had remembered to set the little bronze boy down by her nightstand before grabbing the plastic bin that collected the worn bits of her wardrobe, intent on sketching him amidst a battle scene from the war itself.

Upon finding no answer, she glanced at the clock hanging on the wall which read 7:52pm. No wonder there was no reply, the older woman had surely gone home for the evening. Chewing on her bottom lip, Peyton began peeking in doorways, looking for the most logical place in the spacious home to wash her clothing.

Instead of finding a laundry room, she found an a room that must have remained untouched for several years. There was a thick layer of dust resting on pieces of furniture that weren't covered by white cloth which preserved the pieces. Curious, she gingerly lifted a sheet that lay across an antique, full length mirror. It had been struck with something, as the glass was cracked in several long streaks, yet it miraculously stayed intact.

Next to the bed, Peyton noticed footprints, though not her own, as she padded barefoot through the home on most occasions. They were shaped in a peculiar pattern, nothing like she had seen Ms.Abbott wearing. She wore sensible footwear as many older women chose to do. These were much smaller than either of their feet anyway, possibly a size six.

Her eyebrows pulled together as she tried to make sense of why Victorian footwear would leave impressions along an old, dust covered floor. Bending down, she began to fidget with a chest at the end of a small bed only to discover that there was a small lock holding it securely closed.

She briefly considered picking it with a bobby pin, but decided against it. It would be blatantly obvious if she rummaged around through something that had been untouched for so long. She didn't dare upset the delicate balance of the fabrics and possibly have them fall apart in her bare hands.

Brushing off her hands, Peyton's asthma was induced by the dust she had managed to stir up in rummaging through the room. She had known better than to do so, as dust had always given her a hard time. She breathed heavily as she pulled the door closed behind her and carefully found her way up the stairs to her room in a desperate search for her inhaler.

Valafar knocked on the front door hard enough to rattle the hinges and cause the glass panels to shake in their frames. His hands folded behind his back, pacing the edge of the front porch while he waited on Peyton to come to the door.

Peep frogs echoed in the large puddles that had gathered from the near constant storms and the occasional alligator bellow from the back of the property. Valafar's golden eyes tried to focus on one of the outbuildings through the heavy fog that had built up with the last few bits of sunlight struggling to touch the ground.

The home had seen better days in his opinion - which as far as he was concerned it could be taken as fact. The grounds seemed oddly abandoned with so few people ever walking through the grand home. The night used to filled with the sounds of slaves gathering in their common area around a fire, drunken party guests tripping over their feet as they tried to waltz in the ballroom, livestock calling to one another in the paddocks, pots and pans banging around in the kitchen while dishes were brought in and out of the dining room.

Now?

Peep frogs and alligators. Valafar thought to himself with a huff. The paint on the floorboards were chipping away and the same interior that the house had always known reflected off the chandelier in the foyer.

Same wallpaper, same floor, same rugs, same artwork, same lights, same couch, same table, same vase... Valafar tallied the items off a dull list in his head. He didn't understand the appeal that keeping the house two hundred years in the past held to Abbadon.

Keeping everything the same as when she left won't bring her back. He settled on the romantic cliche of lost-love being the case. It sickened him to watch his friend so hopelessly entangled in such a human emotion, sickened him far more than liquor ever had. Or maybe he thinks it will... Valafar wondered what Abbadon's intentions where with bringing Peyton to the home - he had lived in near solitude for years before finally leaving the area. He didn't think the demon was stupid enough to play this game again, Valafar was quite certain he learned his lesson the first time.

Valafar stepped back into few of the light cast out of the bubbled glass panels as he noticed Peyton's turning the corner. She'd at least be a nice replacement. His eyes tried to make out her curves through the frosted glass with little success. It was an upgrade that would of went without complaint even from him.

Peyton still had her inhaler in hand as she heard someone rapping on the door. It startled her slightly, since Abbadon had assured her no one dared come onto the grounds after the sun had gone down, but she quickly brushed the thought aside and consider Abbadon had forgotten something and decided to leave the car running. He was always certain to lock the door behind him when he left to ease her mind, though he continued to assure her no harm would come.

It was not an easy thing, comfort seeking her in the middle of the night while she happened to be essentially trapped into the wilderness. The constant muggings, stabbings, brutal beatings, and rapists that walked the streets of Chicago at night weren't enough to scare her past carrying a pocket knife and a can of pepper spray, but just throw her into the middle of nowhere. She would be scared shitless without Abbadon by her side.

She reached onto her toes to look through the peephole on the door, still preoccupied that she wasn't the only visitor here. Instead of Abbadon, she saw his much lankier friend and partner, Valafar. She was confused to say the least, as Abbadon had mentioned he too would be at the meeting. Perhaps Abbadon was shabby with all forms of communication, and Valafar had come to pick him up tonight. It wouldn't be the first instance.

Unlocking the door, Peyton offered Valafar a small smile. "Hey! If you're looking for Abbadon, you just missed him. He left about fifteen minutes ago." She chirped, glancing down to close the cap over the mouth piece of her inhaler.

Suddenly, she realized how under dressed she happened to be. It wasn't a self-conscious realization, but rather one that plagued her with guilt. She had stupidly flirted with Valafar in her drunken rage a few nights before, and now she wore only a t-shirt in front of him. The last thing she wanted was for Abbadon to suspect she was cheating on him, and with his friend and business partner no less.

Clearning her throat, Peyton spoke up. "Would you like for me to tell him you stopped by?"

Valafar fought the smile that tugged on his lips as Peyton revealed herself to be less than decent. He couldn't blame Abbadon for being so possessive over a body like that.

"My apologies - I was expecting more clothing." Valafar peeled his eyes away after a lingering glance, forcing them to focus on the banister behind her. It wasn't that he minded looking so much that Abbadon might of.

Was that tonight? Valafar wrinkled his nose in thought, wondering how he always failed to keep the dates of these things correct. "I forgot that meeting was tonight." Valafar sheepishly admitted still averting his attention from Peyton's barley clothed body to far less interesting things that the pattern of the wallpaper.

"I came by for drinks and storytelling but seeing as how you are dressed for neither I suppose I will go to that meeting." He said with an exasperated sigh. Business and finances didn't interest him in the least, young girls and fine liquor did however.

"Me and you will have to grab lunch or something one day, I can fill you in on all the things that Abbadon won't." Valafar remarked as he turned on his heel, making his way back to his car.

Peyton tugged the hem of Abbadon's large t-shirt down a bit after Valafar had pulled his attention away from her and instead to something miniscule behind her. It wasn't lost to her that Abbadon's business partner had taken a particular interest in her, and quite frankly she enjoyed the attention, but it struck that guilty nerve within her again to admit she was being adored by someone other than her lover. Significant other. Wahtever the hell they were.

Her smile turned slightly self-conscious as he mentioned his and Abbadon's meeting had slipped his mind all together. "You forget things and yet Abbadon doesn't do anything of the sort." She muttered, crossing her arms across her chest. Sometimes she considered it to be more of a burden than a good thing. She supposed he would be excellent in long-term relationships, remembering anniversaries, birthdays, etc, but when he never seemed to forget, or forgive, certain things from occuring it became haphazard instead.

"I'd be glad to take you up on that offer. We should have lunch sometime. Abbadon's often busy during the day working in his office, it would be nice to get out of the house and hear more about the history of this place. Your family lineage runs back just as far as his. I find it exhilerating that both your families kept in touch for so long."

She tread lightly on her words, suspicion creeping into the back of her mind as she examined the portrait of the Cival War Era Solace man depicted on the wall next to the doorway Valafar still stood in.

"Anywho, I'll leave you to that meeting. Drop by sometime and we'll schedule lunch." Peyton insisted, giving him a knowing glance before pushing the door closed and locking it once more. Immediately she began in search of more incriminating and historical pieces scattered throughout the house.

"Look who decided to show up." Abbadon leaned back in the creaky leather chair as he spoke. The five other men turned to look at the tall blonde who tried to slip into the meeting unnoticed, none of them amused at the late arrival.

"Did you really expect more?" A muscular man with a military cut asked, barley bothering a glance in Valafar's direction.

"No, you can't expect a lot of anything from him. Where were you?" Abbadon asked while he flipped through a packet of paper that had been handed to him.

"Your house, with Peyton." Valafar replied nonchalantly as he took his seat across from Abbadon. His hands folded together across the smooth wooden table, he looked as proud as a school boy who had just gotten his spelling test back with a big A+ marked on it.

"Why?" Abbadon's eyes narrowed at the smug smile on Valafar's face. Valafar tested his patience like it was a game, but it was a game to him - it was all a game to him. Valafar had nothing more to live for than chaos and women, chaos was easily created and a woman was as disposable as the next. He had the rest of eternity to play his stupid games.

"I just popped in for a visit, but please - don't let me hold this meeting up any longer, go on - spreadsheets, charts, the like - I have a lot of drinking to do when I leave so the earlier I can get started the better." Valafar pushed for a change of subject as he watched the anger etch into Abbadon's expression.

Peyton tossed her inhaler onto the coffee table in the grandiose parlor, cringing lightly as she listened to the loud thud it happened to make on the marbled top. She made a mental note to check and see if she had done any damage before Abbadon rolled up the driveway sometime in the middle of the night. The last thing she wanted was for him to put up with Valafar's shenanigans and then come home to her damaging the centuries old table.

She decided upon searching his office, which she recalled having several bookcases lining the walls, a mini library of sorts. There was plenty of reason to defend her running off into it in search of a way to occupy her mind. If all else failed, she could blame it on Lucinda's unbearable squaking during the storm. Thank god for that bird.

The real motive was the painting Abbadon had become so bent out of shape over a few nights prior. On one hand, she understood the importance of such sacred, irreplaceable relics, but he took it to a strangely emotional and possessive level that she hadn't ever encountered. She sought out who the woman was, if she was indeed Evelyn that Valafar had spoken of, and why it was of such importance that he would risk his relationship with Peyton by being a pathological liar.

She fumbled through the drawers of his desk, careful to pull out a few treats for Lucinda. While she had become sorely bent out of shape over his own lying, this wouldn't necessarily be a lie, but more or so a half truth if he even noticed her presence here. Besides, he had informed her that she was more than welcome to come into the library/office to kee pherself busy while he was away.

Tossing in her treats, a few clusters of feed held together by what she assumed was honey, Peyton began looking through his drawer again. She found the key he had pointed out to her, her alibi as for snooping through his desk drawers. But after probing through his desk carefully, she was disheartened to discover there was no trace of the woman's portrait. Instead, there were several papers, legal documents, brochures, a few old books whose spines barely clung to the contents, notebooks, and several writing utensils.

Ripping off a piece of paper, Peyton threw the notepad back into the desk drawer and began to scribble a picture of Lucinda for Abbadon to find on top of his desk upon his next visit. It was more or less a portrait done in pen, but she figured he would enjoy it even if it had been a cartoon character of his beloved bird.

Several hours passed as she nearly tore apart his library, hunting, looking for some sort of evidence that Abbadon was not who he seemed. She was incredibly careful though, not wanting to cause any damage to the antiques, they were far too precious to her own self, let alone him. If his freak out over her touching a painting was any indication of what she would endure with damaging something beyond repair, she would most certainly handle things with care.

A shorter man who thorough matched the definition of the 'All American Boy' studied the exchange between the two. "Someone a little jealous?" The man asked in a heavy southern accent, pushing the sleeves of a well-loved plaid shirt up his arms revealing the slightest hint of a farmers tan. "She's just a human - no need to be so possessive there's four billion more of them - more than that if we don't pick up the slack." He dismissed Abbadon's concern as he pushed the chair back until he found the balance of leaning against the wall.

"Aw. Isn't that sweet? Abbadon Solace protecting some poor soul." The only woman in the room, Stella, spoke up. She tended not to interest herself in the affairs of the men she had to deal with but the opportunity of watching Abbadon make the same mistakes he had made once before interested her.

"Shut the fuck up!" Abbadon snapped with is teeth lengthening into fangs - he didn't share the amusement that the rest of the room did. Abbadon had always been reserved, not much light had been shed on his life as he preferred to stay out of the spotlight unlike some people - he didn't appreciate his life being put out for the scrutiny of his peers. It bothered him that Valafar had been with Peyton alone, he knew what Valafar was capable of and he knew nothing Peyton could do would stop him.

Tension blanketed the room into a silence. It was well known that Abbadon had the shortest temper of all of them - it was his weak spot really, his temper only stemmed out of compassion which left him far too vulnerable, it was the best place to hit him. Valafar sat with his school boy posture still intact watching the scene unfold, knowing that he had made the right decision not to skip out on tonight.

Stella rose for her chair, long legs closing the space between her and Abbadon in a few strides with her dark brown hair swaying in step with the clicking of her heels on the heartwood floor. "I didn't mean it like that honey." Her voice was so sweet that the apology was almost believable.

"You just need to relax, you're so on edge." Stella's red nails streched to reach behind Abbadon's neck. "You know that a human can't keep up with you - you'd kill her if she tried." She leaned into Abbadon's neck, brushing her lips across the stubble that had begun to form on his jaw.

His breathing quickened as Stella spoke. As much as he knew he should push her away, he couldn't. Stella played on his primal needs, heightening his senses to where he had little control over it anymore.

"What do you think?" Stella purred into his ear before trailing bites and kisses along his neck, making sure to leave a red lipstick mark on the collar of shirt to match the faint ones on his skin.

Abbadon bit his lip as he tried to will his body to push Stella away, finally managing after she lingered a little too long. "No." It sounded like it was answer you'd give with a gun to your head as Abbadon forced himself to choke out the short word.

"You should reconsider." Stella stepped backed respecting the self restraint that Abbadon had managed to muster up. A noble effort She thought, looking him over with a raised eyebrow giving him a second to change his mind. A heavy sigh signaled her surrender as she sunk back down into her seat, tapping her nails along the tabletop in annoyance.

Peyton sighed heavily, shelving the last well worn book back onto the shelf with its many friends. She had given up on her little witch hunt for the night, and decided to pursue it at another time when Abbadon was away on business. It had been several hours of painstaking scrutiny through every square inch of his office and the strangely untouched dust-filled bedroom. Nothing struck her as too unordinary except for the peculiar footprints that were revealed to her next to the antique bed. At this point she had begun to question her sanity.

She pushed herself up off of the floor and rubbed her knees which now ached from sitting in such the same position for several hours as she scoured the entirety of the bottom shelves of novels and random baubles. Instead of finding something incriminating, she found feathers from Lucinda that had crept into the less explored shelving, as well as dust coating the books that ran nearly three hundred years back.

Just as Peyton had decided to return the key to his desk, she stumbled across a few letters that she absentmindedly brushed over hours prior. They were addressed to Abbadon Solace, sent from a Ms.Evelyn. Chewing on her bottom lip, she decided to open the well preserved documents and begin reading the ill fated woman's love letter.

Naturally, it could have been written to Abbadon's grandfather, as she was informed that the name had been passed down for generations, but she felt a strange pang of insecurity creeping up upon her. Thankfully, she hadn't found any letters reciprocating as she continued to fumble through the letters. Had she done so, there was no doubt in her mind she would have gone spiraling out of control upon Abbadon's return home.

Peyton had decided to snuggle up on the couch to wait for Abbadon's return. She was far too preoccupied with being the cliche murder victim who lost her life on a spectacular vacation with her lover to sleep. Countless times she had been reassured, but she never failed to sleep poorly or not at all during the wee hours of the morning without Abbadon in the house somewhere. It wasn't exactly like anyone would hear her blood curdling screams so far from civilization, so she opted to keep herself awake. At least this way she could make a break for it if need be.

No sooner than she considered grabbing a glass of wine to tide over her nerves, as well as the voices nagging at her in the back of her mind, she noticed headlights of what she knew was Abbadon's car. She breathed a sigh of relief and bounded toward the large, solid front door, immediately peering out of the little peep hole that had been drilled into it some number of years ago. A wave of reprieve washed over her as she saw the familiar figure emerge from the well maintained sports car.

Abbadon hastily slammed the door of the car shut, the events of the night had worn on him.
"Fuck." He murmured, rubbing his palm along his neck hoping to rub off the red lipstick stains. The light from the porch beamed out over the stairs and onto the shell rock path that crunched under Abbadon as he stepped towards the house. Peyton's shadow peeked out from the frosted glass panes as she bounced towards the front door. As irritated as he was that he had some explaining to do tonight, it was a relief to see that she was okay.

I'm going to have fun explaining this one. He wondered if Stella had talked to Valafar as they both seemed rather intent of ruining what the relationship he had developed with Peyton. Even more so than what could be expected from either of them. He supposed they both had their motives though however distasteful they may be - but who was he to judge a demon's morality, he was only a different brand of bad. He had desperately hoped that tonight would end of the same note that it had followed, but it was clear any chance of that had vanished.

"Peyton, I know you're going to be upset but whatever you think happened didn't." Abbadon warned through the other side of the door. He was well aware from glances in his rearview mirror that the makeup had stuck well to the rough fabric of his shirt. It was an odd thing to ask your lover to excuse the fact you came home with lipstick smeared over your neck and collar, but what choice did he have but to beg for mercy? He braced for the reaction he knew was coming and halfheartedly wished he was put in front of Lucifer instead of Peyton knowing Peyton's temper.

Peyton's heart got caught in her throat as Abbadon stood unwavering on the opposite side of the door, desperately fumbling for words. Immediately worry struck her, paranoid that he had gotten himself into a brawl with Valafar or someone else while  he was out for the evening. It wouldn't exactly surprise her, as Valafar enjoyed egging her significant other on, as well as their initial meeting involved a very badly battered Abbadon lying in an alleyway.

The most peculiar part of it all was that Abbadon didn't seem the remorseful kind. He and Valafar obviously had some unresolved beef that originated long before Peyton came into the picture, and she wouldn't put it past him to throw in a few punches. She expected him to be rather pleased with himself, smug, that he had been able to put his friend and business associate into his place.

She was entirely unprepared for what her lover was truly apologizing for as he stepped into the well lit living area she had been lounging in for the past hour. He bore a look of disgust, regret, his eyes pleading with her. Again, she was consumed with what had in fact happened until she noticed the bright red area popping off of his collar.

Lipstick.

Peyton paled instantly, becoming a ghostly shade of white as she reached up to flick his collar. "It isn't what it looks like? So, what, you're telling me that isn't bright ass red lipstick from some other woman on both your collar and your fucking neck?" She asked quietly, her voice eerily calm as she stared blankly up at him.

A few unsettling moments passed before her colour returned, only this time her face was bright red courtesy of the wave of emotion that came crashing into her. Her blood had begun to boil the longer he stood silently before her. "Get the fuck away from me." She growled, pushing against his well defined chest with the most forceful shove she could muster up.

Obviously she knew she was no match against him physically, but that wasn't exactly the point here, now was it? "I like what we have, Peyton. I would never sleep with anyone while involved with you, Peyton. I wouldn't be appropriate, nor would I do that to you, Peyton." She shouted, infuriated that the only promises he had ever given her were now flying wildly out the window.

"You're full of shit, is what you are. I should have fucking known. You're just like everyone else. You can't keep your dick in your pants." Peyton continued. "What, is she prettier than me? Is she willing to fuck you more so than I am? Oh wait, let me guess, she's a dirty little whore and you like that in women, right? No, no, don't treat the only person in your fucking life that puts up with you and your bullshit with respect, that's completely stupid!" She shouted as her tangent continued all the way up the staircase, toward her bedroom.

"That's not what I said - I said whatever you think happened didn't." Abbadon let Peyton shove him against the door with a thud, his weight hit the frame hard enough to cause the the chandelier hanging above them to sway.

"She came onto me and I pushed her off. She just a little too close before I did." He put together the sentences knowing that it was pointless because Peyton was not going to listen to any of it. Abbadon reached out for Peyton's hand in between the wooden rails of the banister as she bolted up the stairs understandably upset.

The tone Peyton used as she spat out all the promises Abbadon had given her stung. Promises were a rare thing to pass the demon's lips, and the good kind were an even more uncommon variety.

"Peyton, please, just lis-" The words were cut short by the heavy slam of Peyton's bedroom door. There wasn't much use trying to reason with an angry woman, even Abbadon knew that.

Abbadon's feet drug heavily up the stairs following Peyton's tracks. He stopped outside Peyton's door, swallowing hard before knocking.

"Peyton, I know you're upset. I understand why you're upset - you have a good reason to be." His voice had a calm, steady tone to it but the quick sentences and long pauses gave way to the uneasiness he felt. "But you can't just pack up and go back to Chicago tonight - no flights are going to leave this late." He hoped the only reason he could think of to keep her at the home long enough to explain would pull through. "Before you storm off - please just let me explain what happened. It's not going to fix it but I don't want you to think I ran off to chance some girl. If you still want to leave - I'll book a hotel at the airport and I'll drive you out there tonight."

Peyton had managed to slip on a pair of jeans and hook her bra by the time Abbadon had made his way outside of her door, pathetically pleading for a chance to explain just what happened while he was away at his so called business meeting. Perhaps he didn't even have one, as it had totally slipped Valafar's mind. It very well could have been a cover up for his friend's infidelity.

She stormed over toward the door and threw it open, the knob banging into the wall behind it and likley leaving a mark. Her usually careful and respectful self for all things antique had now vanished as she was blinded by the pain of being cheated on and the rage she now felt, both justifiable emotions under the circumstances.

"Do tell me, Abbadon. If she came onto you and you pushed her away, why are there four marks on your neck, as well as one more on your shirt? I would love to know how she managed to subdue you with her sheer strength." Peyton spat, her tone more biting now than it had been downstairs. Though little to no time had lapsed, her animosity had been fueled at an inhuman rate.

She began retreating back to the suitcase on the floor, shaking her head in disbelief as he still continued to justify his actions. "You know, one kiss? I could get past that. Because mistakes happen, I get it. The fact that your neck is covered in lipstick? You cannot deny you took pleasure in that bitch's actions. Otherwise you really would have pushed her away."

"Thank you for showing me how little I truly mean to you. I must say though, you're an excellent liar. You had me fooled." Peyton murmured. This time her voice shook, revealing just how badly he had wounded her. She threw her sketchbooks and mediums onto the floor, causing a loud crash to engulf the room. At least it was something other than the loud pounding of her blood which was all she could hear at the moment.

Peyton violently wiped at her eyes as a few tears managed to spill over. The last thing she wanted to do was cry in front of Abbadon, be weak before him. She felt as if he would win that way, that he would actually matter if she showed any sort of emotion other than anger. Admitting that he had been able to break her walls down and bring forth the affectionate version that Peyton had kept buried for several years was too much to bear at the moment, but none the less it was the truth.

Abbadon listened to Peyton throw around very reasonable conclusions. Her points were more than valid. She can't possibly think I had sex with her.His brow furrowed as he tried to figure out exactly how far Peyton thought he had gone with Stella.

The pastels and sketchbooks fell from the window seat to the floor, several pages bending out of shape as they were folded over and pastels snapping as they hit the hardwood. Abbadon bit his lip as he saw all of Peyton's work mangled.

"Peyton, I'm going to change. I'll be downstairs in the parlor when you want to talk." He wanted to reach out and hold her, but he knew that wouldn't be welcomed. It was better to remove himself from the situation than just let it continue to escalate he supposed.

He lurked off towards his quarters, carefully ducking under the doorway as he tread up the familiar staircase. His eyes darted across his room, noting the smallest changes that had been made from it's typical order. The bed was unmade from their earlier escapade and Peyton's half dry jeans and underwear were carelessly piled at the foot of the bed. The spot where the bayonette boy had stood was the only place on the mantle that hadn't been covered in a thin layer of dust. Dresser drawers sat not quite close with the hem of shirts hanging out where Peyton had rustled through them in search of a tshirt.

I don't think I'm getting out of this one. Abbadon unhappily mused to himself as his fingers slipped the buttons out of place on his shirt. It was a mindless, repetitive action that he had done every night and morning for hundreds of years. He looked at the fabric in his hands, running his finger across the red mark on the collar trying to rub it off but only succeeding in smudging the color onto his fingers. His hands tightened around the collar until the fabric grew taunt and slowly ripped apart in his hands. He tore at the shirt until little more than a few scraps remained of it.

Destroying the shirt wouldn't fix the problem - he knew it wouldn't, but it provided a good vent for his frustrations. His emerald cast over the strips of purple linen laying on the floor beneath him and he sighed heavily wishing that something so simple as sheer strength could overcome the problem he was facing now.

He bit his lip as he walked towards the bathroom, mulling over the thoughts that passed through his head. It wasn't like he knew he shouldn't of pushed Stella away sooner, but she knew how to play him and he was a little surprised at her method of delivery. Unfortunately, it wasn't like he could rely on any of the people there to give a reliable account of what happened - they would all find the end of his relationship just as entertaining as Valafar.

The gold trimmed mirror and vanity lights revealed the extent of the damage - bright red smudges across his jawline, behind his ear, and down towards his collarbone. Water from the sink splashed off the porcelain basin and onto the gray tile floor as Abbadon wet an ivory cloth and scrubbed at his neck until it was raw and red - trying to erase any hint of Stella from him.

Abbadon carelessly pulled out the first shirt from the half open drawer on his way out his bedroom. It would of amused him at any other time that against all odds, the first thing he pulled from the drawer was a gray tshirt. He slipped the fabric over his head as he trotted down the stairs, longing to glance into Peyton's room but deciding it better not too.

The parlor was oddly bright for it to be such a late hour, but then again he was used to the home being mostly dark as he rarley spent time away from his room and study. It was one of the few rooms in the home that felt like it belonged in southern plantation home - tall ceilings with french windows that swept up the wall - as opposed to a dark, musty castle tucked away in the mountains of Germany.

He studied the coffee table from his seat on the linen colored Victorian couch. Chips and scratches marked the edges and legs, while water rings had sunken onto the surface - Ms. Abbott had begged him not to toss it out, she insisted that it gave the room charm and character. The arm chair to the right of the couch was in better condition, save for a peice of wood along the bottom that had been dinged at somepoint in time and the grooves where Abbadon's hands had reshaped the wood the night before.

Abbadon rose and leaned in for a closer look at the damage he had done. His arm awkwardly bent at an angle to match his hand up to the perfectly shaped mold. He wasn't exactly sure how it had managed to seemingly melt under his hand rather than break but he was relieved that it had.

Peyton sunk to the floor as she watched Abbadon's figure retreat from her presence and instead go off toward that drafty, familiar hallway that lead toward his own room. It did nothing more than cause her distress to see him walking away from her, even though she knew she was a complete and utter mess before him.

It was something she loathed, having people walk away because a situation is too intense or too uncomfortable. Chances were, they put themselves in such a predicament and she was a firm believer that you should own up to your actions, whether they be good or not. It showed responsibility, maturity, and she could at least appreciate the effort of someone dealing with such an unpleasant position.

With that, Peyton realized perhaps Abbadon was doing them both a favour. He wasn't the only one in the luxurious home with anger issues. She too had a violent temper and he had found quite a way to arouse it. It would likely have resulted in a physical altercation between the pair that left irrepairable damage done unto them both.

In a less than brilliant moment, she balled her fist up and hit the floor as hard as she could. A loud pop and immediate swelling caused her to pull her fist against her stomach, clutching it lightly as the pain began to spread down to her fingertips. She grappled with whether or not she should go downstairs and speak to him. It seemed inevitable now that she was in dire need of icing her hand, but she didn't feel particularly civil at the moment.

Finally Peyton forced herself onto her feet and fled to the kitchen in search of an icepack or a bag of frozen vegetables. Her eyes were focused on the floor as she brushed past him, reclining uncomfortably in the leather chair he often took to. Quite frankly she didn't want him to notice, let alone mention, that she had possibly broken her hand in a fit of rage over the adultery he had just committed.

She knew him all too well though, and as soon as she swept by clutching her now damaged hand, he followed her on her heels. "I'm fine. It hurts less than what you did, in case you wanted to know." She said softly, setting the bag of peas over her knuckles, a vacant stare focused on nothing other than the hardwood grain of the flooring underneath both of their feet.

Peyton didn't even bother with trying to hide how humiliated and betrayed she felt at this point. Her voice broke as she was speaking, overwhelmed by his dishonesty and lack of mutual respect. She had considered leaving the place on foot, in an attempt to get away. Leaving behind all of her things behind without a second thought wouldn't be a difficult task at this point.

Abbadon looked at the red, swollen hand that Peyton held against her stomach. "It's broken, or at least fractured." He reached out to inspect it, but stopped his hand and closed his fingers against his palm before he made any contact.

He leaned awkwardly against the granite counter top of the island placed in the middle of the kitchen. It hit barley at his hip, he was too tall for it to be anything to support his frame or really do much more than dig into his skin.

"Her name is Stella." Abbadon tried to pick out what interesting pattern in the floor had caught Peyton's attention as he spoke. "She has some money invested in the same company as Valafar and I and she's had an interest in me for a while but she's not really my type." He picked his head up and looked at Peyton. The light that poured in from the parlor into the otherwise dark kitchen reflected off the tear marks that rounded over her cheeks.

"Valafar came into the meeting late, he said that he had stopped by here to see you." Abbadon continued with a heavy sigh, wishing that Peyton would let him do something to ease her pain. "I worry about you being with him...As I'm sure you've noticed he takes a lot of interest in making sure that I'm uncomfortable and that's exactly what he was doing. Stella stepped up in the middle of all of this and walked over to me - I thought she was just going to take some papers out of my hand like she so often does, and she looked at me for a moment and put her hands at the back of my neck and started kissing me."

Abbadon bit his lip while he studied Peyton who hadn't made a sound or movement. He wondered if it was something that was even worth explaining at this point. "I was just caught off guard and I was a little surprised that she would go at that with several other people standing there watching. When the surprise wore off, I told her to stop and pushed her away. She told me that I should reconsider, I brushed her off and wrapped up the meeting." It wasn't the most believable of stories, but it was a true one. "I felt disgusted when I looked at myself in the rearview mirror, I had all this nasty lipstick smeared over me and my shirt. It's not like I could get it off before I got home though. I'm pretty sure she did it because she knew I'd have to come back to you like that."

He stayed quiet as he waited for a response, a shrug of the shoulders, a nod, anything that would give him some sort of insight as to what Peyton felt.

"You don't need be worried about her - she's jealous of you." Abbadon assured. He hated to see Peyton's insecurity bubble up, it was so unnecessary. She was gorgeous, there wasn't a thing for her to worry about or feel like she should have to cover up. "If you still want to leave, I'll help you get your things in the car, we'll go by an urgent care and they can wrap it up for you before you go to the airport."

Peyton sighed heavily as she listened to Abbadon's retelling of how the evening's events had unfolded at the office. She could find no inconsistencies, but how would she know for certain since she hadn't been there to see how it unveiled?

The parts involving Valafar made the most sense. She had seen for herself how much the lanky blonde enjoyed making Abbadon squirm in front of Peyton nights before. She wouldn't put it past him to do so in another environment as well. Valafar was also a flirt, which caused her to believe Abbadon did indeed worry about her being involved with the other man, especially without Abbadon to supervise the situation.

It irked her though, for him to say that he was worried about her being around another man alone. She had never doubted his loyalty to her while off at business meetings even though she was well aware that he could be a habitual liar. Could she not receive the same courtesy?
Peyton immediately tensed as she listened to Abbadon revisit the scenario with Stella. It made her incredibly nauseaous to picture the two of them together. It was incredibly far fetched that the woman would be so outgoing to publicly flirt in front of several men, let alone in what was supposed to be a professional environment going over stocks and bonds.

She tried swallowing the lump that had built in her throat, but it was of no use. "You were disgusted to see the marks she left behind? Imagine how I feel." She choked out, using her arm to wipe away the tears that had begun spilling over. She didn't give two fucks whether or not she was vulnerable or emotional before him. He deserved to see just how much he wrecked her from his own indiscretion.

Peyton was shocked by the following words that poured from his lips. She scoffed, completely in disbelief that he would even mention jealousy issues. "I don't need to be worried about her? Right.. You let Stella make out with your fucking neck, while involved with me, and I'm the one who doesn't need to worry. You know, for an intelligent person, you are a fucking idiot." She muttered, glaring up at him.

She rolled her eyes at his fickleness before throwing the bag of frozen peas onto the countertop. The fact that he continually mentioned she was free to leave, that he would take her to the airport for a flight back to Chicago was just another stab in her porecelain coloured back.

"You know what makes matters worse? You haven't once said "Peyton, I want you to say." You keep telling me you'll take me to the airport. I really don't matter to you, do I?" Peyton questioned, giving him a disheartened smile.

"You matter and I do want you to stay. I don't want you to feel like I'm forcing you to be here though." Abbadon replied feeling like he was fighting a pointless battle. He reached out hesitantly towards her, wanting to try to comfort her but fearing he would only make the situation worse.

"Peyton, you're the only here that doesn't need to worry. I need to worry that you're going to pack up everything and leave and I'll never see you again. I don't want you to do that. Valafar has to worry about the next time I see him, and Stella has to concern herself over the fact that even had I never met you that there is not one thing she could do to make me interested in her." Abbadon's words piled over themselves in disbelief that Peyton felt like the woman had anything on her. "What happened with Stella is nothing to me - if I wanted another woman I would have one, but I don't. I want you, I want just you - no one else."

He doubted his words would do anything to smooth the wound over. Words were never something he excelled at using in a tense situation no matter how many times he was able to talk himself into a girl's bed. "I care a lot about you Peyton, I don't want to do anything that would make you want to leave. I know tonight was bad, but I can't change that now, I'm not going to put myself in a situation for that to happen again."

The silences in between their exchanges were seemed to drag on excessively slow while the pair suffered under the weight of the words that had been said.

"Will you let me wrap up your hand?" Abbadon questioned, gently lifting her wrist up so he could examine the damage. His time in several armies had bought him a good understanding of common injuries and it would avoid a trip to the hospital, at least for the night.

Peyton chewed on her bottom lip as she repeated over and over in her mind that Abbadon did not and would not succomb to any feelings for Stella. It seemed like an impossible task after he came home covered in her lipstick. In a scenario where Stella flirted with Abbadon and he immediately brought it to Peyton's attention and assured her that the feelings were not mutual, this may have ended with an entirely different result.

She swallowed hard, trying to find the words to explain how she felt, what she wanted, and what she needed at this moment. It was difficult, as she too struggled with communication during intense situations. She found it much easier to throw herself into a pit of anger than rationalize why she was swimming in a pit of despair. Ignorance to her own feelings was much more desireable.

"It matters to me. It may not pose a threat to our relationship in your eyes, but it hurts me. I am so paranoid that you'll run off to a legit business meeting sometime and you'll end up donig her on a desk while I'm here, blissfully unaware. I'm insecure because I know now someone is infatuated with you and doesn't care what means she has to take to obtain what she wants."

Let's face it. Peyton was full of false confidence. She didn't believe she was untouchable, in fact, she had deep rooted trust and self-esteem issues thanks to a sleazy ex boyfriend fiance. She had never fully recovered from the incident of having her best friend and significant other cheating on her within her own apartment. At least in this case she wasn't bound to Abbadon, nor had the affair occured right under her nose.

As Abbadon gingerly picked up her wrist, Peyton winced. She often acted in the heat of the moment, something she had always been warned about growing up by her grandfather. This time she had taken it too far and caused herself a serious injury.

As he asked if he would be allowed to tend to her hand, Peyton felt defeated and nodded silently in reply. She didn't quite feel up to conversing with him, and she shouldn't feel compelled to latch onto him for safety, but the two very different sides battled it out silently within the walls of her mind.

"I can see why you'd think that but it won't happen." Abbadon assured as he ran his fingers over Peyton's arm to try and soothe her. "Besides, she isn't infatuated with me - the only reason she chases me is because I won't chase her. She's used to men kissing her ass to get to her, and I've never cared for her. It doesn't matter anymore though." Abbadon pressed his lips to Peyton's forehead and traced the smooth skin over her cheek bone with his thumb, effectively erasing any hint of tears that might of been left.

"I'm going to try and sell the stock in the company, she's not something I want to deal with anyway and she upsets you, then it's all the more reason to get out of it." He hoped hadn't crossed the line with his kiss but it hurt him to see Peyton so distraught when all he wanted was to protect her.

"C'mon, let's get this wrapped up." Abbadon shifted his weight back onto his feet as he stepped away from the counter and down the narrow aisle towards his study.

He noticed the aged envelopes scattered across his desk, he picked one up studying the familiar handwriting that graced the front. The words had been read thousands of times over, he didn't feel the need to look them over again - at least not at the moment. For the first time he didn't feel anything as he the sentimental notes. His lips pressed into a line as he stacked them together, carefully handling the aged paper as he set them aside.

"Did you draw this?" Abbadon raised an eyebrow as he noticed the ballpoint pen doodle of Lucinda laying next to the pencil holder. The faint hint of a smile formed on his face as he held the sketch up in front of her perch to compare. "It's very...cute." 'Cute' was an odd word for the overtly masculine man to use, but it described the doodle perfectly.

"I suppose she hasn't tried to bite you yet if you're still fond of her?" He spoke absentmindedly as he knelt down to shuffle through the cabinets bellow Lucinda's cage. The hinges creaked with relief as they were opened. He stacked a botany book beside him, then a book on the sinking of a ship in the Mississippi River during the civil war, a long outdated veterinary manual on equine illnesses, and one large heavy book noting the births and deaths of the townspeople from 1831-1851, before he dug out a very industrial first aid kit in mint green container.

"It's not as old as it looks, I promise." The metal container slid easily across the leather insert on the desk as Abbadon stacked the books he had pulled out on top of the ledge where Lucinda sat. He clicked open the tabs and began to sort through the box looking for what he needed.

Peyton silently followed Abbadon towards his study. She had spent several hours in there while he was out handling business, and apparently Stella's advances, searching endlessly for some hidden truth within the web of lies and conspiracy theories that tumbled around within her mind.  She had found nothing particularly incriminating. Until he had arrived home with lipstick on himself and his collar, of course.

As they made their way into the study, she realized she had forgotten to put away the little love notes written to a Mr.Solace several years ago. Paranoia swept over her, wondering if her days of roaming the house and grounds as freely as she pleased were soon to be over. She began to clam up again as he took them into his hands with care, stacked them neatly, and then replaced them into the same drawer she had found them in earlier that night.

The shift from long lost love letters to the goofy doodle of Lucinda Peyton had drawn as a little surprise for Abbadon brought forth a small smile on Peyton's part. The fact that he used the term cute was comical, in her opinion. He was so well versed in using hardy terms or delving into eloquent vocabulary that the word ''cute'' seemed somehow beneath him.

"Lucinda's quite nice. I've fed her out of my hand several times." Peyton admitted, sitting lightly on the corner of his desk while he rummaged through the outdated looking first aid kit. She examined her left hand a bit more in the well lit room, noticing just how mangled she had left her hand thanks to her kick ass punching skills. The floor surely learned its lesson.

She winced as Abbadon began wrapping her hand with the precision of any doctor she had ever seen. The last time she had to have something wrapped was for a sprain she had managed to obtain to her wrist after a car wreck, and her physician then didn't do nearly as good of a job. "Thank you." She murmured, watching him continue to carefully wrap the bandage around her hand.

"You aren't going to work with her anymore, are you? Stella.." Peyton questioned, self-conscious. One of the key contributing factors to her decision to depart with the south and Abbadon or to stick around and attempt to work things out were his decisions pertaining to the other woman, work, and herself.

"Hopefully not. I can't promise I will never run into her again, but it wouldn't be intentionally and I'd do whatever I could to avoid it. I'm not fond of her." Abbadon smoothed the linen wrap over Peyton's hand, eliminating any bunches in it before he fastened it with a butterfly stitch. He hadn't dressed an injury since the civil war, but thankfully he had not forgotten how. "If it doesn't start to feel better in a few days, I'll take you to the doctor but there isn't much they could do for it that I can't."

"She must like you then. She bites me quite often." The parrot had either developed a nasty habit or learned that his hand often contained food as she often clamped down it with her beak. Even the demon couldn't ignore the pain of her beak snapping shut on his finger.

Lucinidia squawked and ruffled her vibrant feathers, jumping to a lower perch as she saw Abbadon's hand pass by the box of treats. "She's very smart." Abbadon chuckled as closed the first aid kit and shook the cardboard box until several yogurt drops fell into his hand and he poured them into her dish. "She's 88, I don't suspect I'll have her much longer but some live to be 100." He mused with a longing sigh, watching Lucinda pick the treats up with her feet and lift them to her beak.

"Did you find anything interesting today?" Abbadon asked as he resumed his seat on the oiled leather ottoman across from her. It had been so long since he had looked through the relics of the home, he was curious as to what interesting things Peyton may of turned up. He wanted to get away from the tension of the evening, not caring what turn the rest of the night took.