Vampire Diaries (Sleepover)

“...Mimi.”

That should prove enough of a clarification. The voice is similar enough, even if the helmet did distort it slightly. Helle’s tiredness did not help her sound like the woman Maria had met before either, both the confused young woman and the endearing strong warrior absent at the moment, replaced by but a tired visage of command. At least the vampiric woman restrained from stepping into Helle’s way. The greeting that may have followed might have proven less ideal, possibly venomous. That only left the barrage of questions that, unfortunately, entered one ear and exited the other. If Maria wished to know, then all that remains is to follow. That shouldn’t prove too difficult for the lively Sueki. With each step that Helle took, the way before them would instinctively clear, all knowing far too well that the Maiden’s kindness is absent from her overall presence. That simply encourages the sole fact that Helle actually enjoys Maria’s presence, yet, even such pleasantries could be strained.

It is never a bad thing to see a friend doing well, but Helle would prefer if Maria had left some of her spunk behind. Even if orderly, Maria’s outer appearance spoke “Bad Bitch”, and by being beside Helle… Well, they both could be considered Bad Bitches, yes? Ah, but alas, they would not have to exercise such titles as it stands. Her home was not that far from when Maria had made herself known, so in less than ten minutes, they would both find themselves standing before a small building, nothing spectacular about it that made it stand out beyond the crystalline walls that the whole city shared. Helle would waste little time in fiddling with the door to open it, revealing the dark room within, and without thinking too closely about her actions, stepped aside for Maria to enter. Despite it all, Helle shall remain a perfect host until otherwise is necessary.

Inside, Maria will find nothing. Yes. That is how it should be for one such as Helle. The place is a mess: food left out on the counters, dishes undone, the TV still on, and papers strewn about. That begs the question of how someone as pretty as Helle could live in such a state. The answer is simple. She doesn’t. It has been months since the armored woman had stepped into her home, her duties taking her to America and into her office where she had spent many nights sleeping over half-finished work. Stepping in herself, her helmet would be placed on a counter nearby, the bags under her emerald eyes evident, her barely done hair falling apart as she stepped past Maria and made her weariness known along her couch, crashing down with a mighty thwump that sound like it broke a spring or two within the poor sofa.

It seems she had given up on being a good host as quickly as the door shutting behind her.