#(i simply had a Vision of them meeting on NYE - bc i love sentiment - and astoria immediately being like hmm)

[softersinned-arc]

@balldwin / plotted starter.

Something is going to happen tonight.

She's not sure why she knows, only that she does know. Everything feels slightly off: the plants in the house quiver when she isn't near, as if they're afraid of a coming storm, and the cats have been stalking the halls of the house with obvious anxiety when they're not staring out the windows as if on guard. Something possessed her to renew all of her protective spells this afternoon, to carve new runes into her black pillar candles and light them all; they're still burning, the flames flickering unevenly as she opens the front door and steps outside. Even in her boots and with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and a cup of tea burning between her hands, the winter chill feels profound, and the snow falls silently.

That alone would be enough to put her on edge: the water always sings for her, but tonight, there's no sound to be heard.

"I hate surprises." She says this to herself, mostly because there's no one there to hear her complaining; the cats are keeping their distance from the cold as she kicks the door closed behind her, and even Maeve Roe hovers far enough away that Astoria can barely see her. Something is coming. It's getting closer and closer; it's been getting closer and closer for hours now. Her tarot cards and tea leaves have done nothing to help her sort through what it might be. Her intuition is maddeningly vague. Astoria only knows that it, whatever it is, is getting closer because the itching in her left palm has grown from a light tingle to something almost painful.

She feels the wind shift before she sees the headlights. Slowly, she takes a sip of her tea, wincing when she burns her tongue. It comes closer and closer and closer. Maeve Roe flickers under the sliver of the moon, like a vision fading from view, and Astoria tries not to read too much into it. If she were listening for it, she'd hear the sounds of the nine o'clock train passing a few miles away, its whistle audible even when its rumble can't be felt, but she's not listening for it. She's waiting.

She hardly notices the car even as it pulls up. Instead, she's staring at the shape of the man inside it, trying to catch a glimpse of him before he opens the door. When the door does open she feels another chill, unexpected and deep enough that she swears she feels a vibration in her bones.

The first thing she realizes, as she hears the sound of snow crunching under his shoes when he steps out of the car, is that he is a vampire. The second is that his presence, intimidating though it may be, doesn't feel wrong. Shouldn't it feel wrong?

"Hell of a night to be driving," she calls by way of greeting, and she inclines her head towards the door. She's not sure what possesses her to make the invitation, only that she makes it before she can stop herself: "Well? Are you coming in?"