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Most dancers, it turned out, kept pretty tight schedules. This wasn't really surprising. Lazarus was careful about how he arranged timeslots, always giving himself time to get things topped off between clients, but that meant that most of the fifteen minutes of downtime went to genuine use -- changing linens, wiping down surfaces, refreshing scented oils, washing his hands -- only a few minutes of his break periods were actually devoted to quaffing the wine that was sitting chilled in the bucket on the corner table.

Delphine's knock, a full ten minutes early, therefore found Lazarus still wiping down his massage table, fresh towels at the ready to be set out when he was done.

No sips of wine before his next guest, then. Pity.

Lazarus drummed up his best professional manners, his friendly masseur persona. "Come on in," he offered toward the door in calm, honeyed tones. "I'm just tidying up for you."

Lazarus chuckled, tossing the towel he was holding over into the laundry bin in the corner. It was important to always be cheerful and friendly to these people. It made them feel comfortable. Holding down this job was absurdly important.

"When your business goes poorly," he pointed out amicably, "my business goes well. I don't like to root against any of you, but you can see where it would be tempting." He gestured to the table, to indicate she could have a seat now that it was clean. "I sort of wondered when you'd have mercy on yourself and turn up, though. An ounce of prevention's worth a pound of cure, honestly. Wouldn't you rather see me than a doctor?" Lazarus punctuated this with a pretty grin.

He turned away to a stack of clear plastic cups and a few pitchers on a small card table. "Water? I've got one with cucumbers in, one with lemons, and one with strawberries."

Lazarus liked serving the flavored water. Clients took it as a nice touch, it cost practically nothing to do, and slicing fruits and veggies in the morning was a nice mindless task that helped to either clear the fog of a morning hangover or loosen up sore muscles, depending on whether or not Stroud had elected to give him the night off. Coffee, hot shower, putting together his things for work, getting dressed: it was a simple routine. Easy.

Easy was about all he could manage, most mornings. Lazarus didn't think Eli had been an early riser, either, except on days he'd probably had those two children of his with him. He still caught himself making pancakes in little silver-dollar sizes by accident, sometimes, or cutting the crusts off of french toast.

He poured the water into a plastic cup and handed it to Delphine. "They do pay me to be here," he assured her with a warm smile. "Why should you feel guilty about making use of a service your company's providing? They're showing they value your career. Coming here when you're having a problem shows you value it too."

He rolled his padded stool over to a space on the floor in front of Delphine, then settled himself on it, rolling over a small table of drawers with lotions and oils in it alongside of himself. Lazarus reached down to cup his palm lightly under Delphine's heel so he could pick her leg up into his lap.

"Tell me a little about your life," he inquired, voice lowered now that he was only sitting a small space apart from her and they were settling into a session. "Anything stressing you out? Aside from ballet, of course," he teased.

It was funny how much the strangest things could hurt him. Funny, when he'd gotten so used to not feeling much of anything that alcohol couldn't drown out. His fingers itched immediately for a drink, and he heard her words echo over and over in his head in hideous refrain: 'There is nothing in life half so stressful as dance.'

This statement was so acutely painful that he nearly wanted to laugh. There is nothing in your life half so stressful as dance, he thought, a moment's utter hatred for Delphine rising in his throat. You hideously spoiled, naive child. You don't have the first ******** clue what stress is like if you think some mid-sized city's ballet company is the most life can ask of you.

It was an ugly, startlingly vehement thought, and he forced himself to tamp it down without outwardly reacting, other than to spend a little longer than he needed to on leaning over to grab hand towels from his cart and unfolding them across his thighs.

He made sure he was still smiling thoughtfully when he looked back over at Delphine. He was being petty, after all. Selfish. It wasn't her fault she had a normal life, and she got to be a person, while he had been broken and reshaped into one of Stroud's perfectly kept possessions.

He didn't wish suffering on other people. He didn't.

"You break horses?" he asked, more than a little surprised. "Isn't that a bit of a career hazard?"

Lazarus daubed a small amount of warming oil between his hands and ran them together before bringing them down to Delphine's foot and lower shin in his lap. His first touches were gentle and smooth, not yet kneading or even probing for spots where the muscles had gone to knot -- just getting a new customer accustomed to a stranger's touch, bringing her circulation up and her skin to a cozy temperature.

"It sounds exciting," he said with a smile. "I just don't want to see your career cut short. I've seen you practicing -- when you're not trying to give yourself a muscle injury," Lazarus teased, "you're really talented."

He told them all they were talented. (He told some of them more than others, because some of them were talented. Delphi was talented.) It was important that he be liked. That the dancers all feel comfortable in his presence.

Lazarus took a slightly firmer hand with his movements, letting the oil settle into her skin. Now his fingers were moving more deliberately, testing out the lay of sinew and muscle underneath his touch -- looking for places where the muscle had gone tight, wasn't pulling the way it was supposed to. A light massage, comfortable and useful for diagnosing problem areas.

"What things do you do to relieve stress?" he asked, making sure he was at friendly and curious ease. Being a massage therapist often had a mental component, as well, and a touch of the Sherlock Holmesian era -- trying to get the client to provide the relevant information they were withholding that was affecting their health.

If she was anything like most dancers, part of the problem would be that she was too much of a workaholic to actually want to have any outlets for her stress.

Lazarus quirked a smile at Delphine. "Procrastinating on finding outlets for your stress will not relieve your stress," he chided gently. "Your mind won't just run in tip-top shape without you putting some effort into it. I mean, they call it mental health for a reason, after all -- your brain will always start to malfunction if you're not giving it the right care and exercise to keep it functioning like it's supposed to. And when it's not doing its job, you wind up with things like this."

He slid his thumb up into a tough knot of muscle, gradually coaxing it toward a state of relaxation. "Have you thought about morning yoga? That might be something you'd like. They do a class out on the pier a couple times a week."

Lazarus chuckled softly. "I'm not wise at all," he deflected. "I just get kickbacks from the yoga people for sending them referrals." He winked to indicate that he was, of course, joking.

"Seriously, though," he said, bending her toes upward, pointing toward her head in a slow stretch. "We're not always good at seeing when we're doing things that aren't helping us out. Sometimes it's easier to see our options from someone else's point of view." He raised his eyebrows inquisitively. "What are some things you ask other people for help with?"