Monday, October 25, 2010

so much for the yankees.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] The cafe closes Sundays at 2:00 p.m. after brunch, and remains closed through lunch on Tuesday. It's the staff's limited version of a weekend. Low lights are on inside, giving the place that warm illumination - that promise - that empty spaces so often have when they are quiet, still, orderly, awaiting use. In the handful of months it has been open, the place has already attracted its own handbills posted in the window - roommate wanted, lost dog, writing group, poet's corner - and there are a pair of political signs in the window, too - one for a young black woman running for city councl, another for a sharp looking white man running for the Illinois State House of Delegates. The postings are enough to give the sense of community, without cluttering up the windows or obscuring the view inside.

The picture windows are spattered with raindrops from the last downpour, the night sky obscured by these fast-moving clouds, the storms that pop up with a front over the prairie, that pour through and then disappear into quick-churning sky. Sidewalks are damp, the storm sewers are choked with runoff, clotted with fallen leaves, trash, the usual urban detritus.

The restaurant's side yard - a handful of picnic tables on a grassy lawn, the umbrellas removed for the season - now houses a half-assembled graveyard, built from floam and plywood. One of the "tombstones" has been pushed into the soft, soaked earth, the rest are stacked between the picnic tables, abandoned when the sky opened, and lightning scissored through the sky. The door to the detached garage - tucked behind the building proper, just visible from the street is lifted open, yellow light cuts out into the dark yard from inside. JB and Jose - his sous chef - are sitting just under the shelter of the open garage, in plastic lawn chairs, beers in hand, watching the rain.

"Yo man - " Jose says, finishing off his beer with a great swing, standing and reaching for JB's hand as he does so. " - it don't look like it's lettin' up no time soon, man. We get it done tomorrow, that's all - " They clasp forearms, the pair silhouetted against the interior lights of the garage, Jose shorter and squatter, the look of a bulldog about him. This time, JB does not object, insist that the damn rain is going to let up, or the Phillies might still pull it out, or the fucking Eagles are worth watching this year.

Instead, he just salutes the other with a tip of the neck of his beer bottle, ironic that, drops it back to the hard plane of his stomach, watches the rain as it streams from the sky, ruining his fucking plans.

[Alexa] Being a Strider, bearing the weather is something that comes with the way of life. Since Gina had gone awol and hasn't returned home, has left Alexa drifting through the city. The weather is getting steadily cooler, and if she's deciding to stay here instead of moving on to warmer pastures, she's going to have to do something about finding an area to stay in. There's the Brotherhood and the Church, as well as little pockets of areas where stow aways and homeless find themselves. None are too pleasant, honestly. Most suck out the spirit and replace it with this awful hopelessness. There's a vast difference between the city's homeless and wanderers like Alexa and she feels it acutely when she's tucked into a back alley and watching the old, with their rotting teeth, warm up around small fires and drinking from bottles.

She's got her back pack on, it's wet but it's the sort that water slides off for the most part, protecting all her worldly possessions within. Her hair is not so lucky, nor is her clothes, which are both wet, making hair darker, curlier, and has the red of the t.shirt deeper, clinging and the front of her thighs wet. It's not as if she's walked in the down pour, having ducked under trees or stayed close to buildings, avoiding the slant of rain, but she's walking in the lighter drizzle of it. This is like a dance, pausing here, while the drumming of rain picks up tempo, and sliding out when it calms, boots tapping through puddles quietly.

Alexa had paused outside of Cafe Lulu, spotting it was closed. She knew it would be. She's read the opening and closing hours many times over. But she had stopped to look at the new posters in the window, checking them over for anything of interest. The weight of her bag shifts on her shoulders, redistributing the weight.

Voices make her step to the side of the building, standing there, looking down into the light at the end of the darkness, past the tombstones that stand, one fallen. She finds herself glancing over a squat man leaving, and the other reclined back like its a sun lounge, shoulders slumped. Alexa wonders what he's thinking about.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] The rest of the Halloween decorations - the purchased lights, the bales of straw meant to be stuffed down into clothes so worn they'd do no one any good keeping the cold out an the heat in - are scattered about the neatly kept garage. Two or three coils of those lights, deep purple, are half-unfurled on a work table that is little more than a piece of wood mounted and clamped to a pair of folding saw horses. Other tools, are visible on pegboards in the back, a scattering of sports equipment as well. Baseball mitts and bat, an old basketball - well loved, oft-used - is rolled to the side of the garage door, just inside.

Rainwater hums through the downspouts, sluices over the awning mounted on the front of he restaurant. There's a narrow concrete sidewalk leading down the side yard - a second full lot, functionally. Over the past few weeks, JB has made progress anchoring the loose posts on the fence, pulling out and replacing the rotten boards. Phase 1 of "we're going to have a terrace, goddamnit, next year."

If they're around next year.

Now, he has the radio on, the low drone of some sports talk station he can hardly stand to listen to, which he listens to nonetheless, and he's watching the rain move, listening to it drum out over the metal roof of the garage, fill the furrows of the yard, the slow-dying grass, with muck. Waiting for the lightning to come again, and split the sky.

Then a figure at the side of the restaurant, a shape against the darkness. He lifts up his hand to shade his eyes, squint against the glare of raindrops, the sharp contrast between the illuminated garage and the dark yard. He's frowning, thoughtful, but his face is cast in shadow and she cannot see that. Just the gesture as he lifts his hand and studies her, trying to pick out details at a distance.

[Alexa] "It's not very sunny at this hour," her voice cuts across the distance, still somehow quiet, accented too since English is not her native language, but she knows it well, "but the sky is putting on a nice light show, tonight." Tilting her head, she looked up towards the sky, back behind her where the street is more opened and not obscured by the rise of buildings around her. Rain falls on her face, making her squint, and she doesn't bother wiping it away. It's not as fresh as the rain that falls in the middle of open plains, polluted here by the city traffic, but it's cold and stings her cheeks a little, drawing the skin paler then summer has it.

Glancing back, she blinked water from her eyelashes and watched him curiously. She's on the verge of asking if she can come in, but holds it back. It's not that bad out, not even when the thunder cracks and the lightning flashes distantly. Alexa likes thunderstorms. They fill the air with this vibrant electricity. It's like the Gods are talking, telling who is still boss. She admires that.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] He breathes out a laugh, one of those subvocal chuckles that comes out darker, vibrating through his chest. The shading hand falls from his brow as he recognizes her voice. "Here I thought the storm gods were raging over the outcome of the NLCS." The neighborhood is transitional at best, but the rain has been steady enough that the street people here have found what shelter they could - abandoned rowhouses, derelict doorframes, awnings, bus stops, bridges, the usual. JB lifts up his bottle of beer in a subtle, secondary toast.

"You want a beer?" he says then, not bothering to scold her for standing out in the rain. Though for a second you'll catch your death is on the tip of this tongue, one of those sayings. He stops himself at the last minute, though, and whatever shadow that pulls across his open featues is obscured by the position, the deep shadow over his tall frame, backlit as he is by the light inside the garage.

[Alexa] "Flooding all the trash out." Maybe she's talking about the game, her hint of mirth certainly indicates it. She doesn't follow any sport, not really, but picks up enough to be able to banter with it. He doesn't need to ask her twice. She makes her way towards where he's sitting in his garage, door opened up as it is.

When she's under the shelter, she sets her bag off to the sides, sliding her arms out of it with small effort and breathes easier without its weight. Her hair is wrung out off to the side, and she wipes her damp palms on the back of her jeans. "Don't mind if I do." Beer was always welcomed. Not so much because it was beer, but because it was a drink shared, and she always liked that sort of thing. Even when luna is fat in the sky, shifting the tides of Rage and moods.

[Rory] She's been by here more times than anyone could know - especially after her little... conversation... with Fire-Claws - though she's never shown her face. The kin confused her, likely as much as she did him - for which she blames herself. It is the way of things.. 9 times of 10, it really is her fault.

It's been raining, storming in fact, and fire-red curls are dripping and clinging to her cheek, her jaw, her neck. It only seems to enhance the color though, as the shimmer of light does to green eyes. She is without her pack tonight, in tattered jeans and a t-shirt under a light jacket. Her shoes are wet, with water darkening denim in a way that suggests someone likes to jump in puddles...

She watches the one man leave, and then Alexa approach just before she has decided to step into the open herself. So she watches, for now, until she proves herself the worst bogeyman ever...

and sneezes.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] The sound of the rain is sharper inside. She can hear that now, the staccato beat of rain on the metal roof. The temperature is fractionally warmer in the garage, but although there's an electric heater pushed away from the wall in the north corner - a column-like thing, with a squat, industrial appearance - it isn't on. The space is big enough for maybe one and a half cars, but it's clearly used as a workshop instead. He has spread remnant rugs over the old oil stains down the center of the concrete pad, and the interior walls are bright with paint, new in the past few months.

He stands up, the plastic feet of the chair scraping against the concrete, and shakes his head, a fan's clear despair. It's warm enough out that he's in short sleeves and worn jeans that hang on his lean hips. The t-shirt is a dark green, the picture of an Eagle underneath a P on the center, not his usual concert tees, fitted at the shoulders and over his broad chest, but loose at the waist, like it's been stretched and pulled, aged by time. His shadow distorts and elongates as he leaves the chair then bends to tug open a mini-fridge, tucked away under one of the work tables lining the walls, picks a beer from the two six-packs socked away inside, and opens it for her with a hiss of escaping carbonation.

"Here," he holds it out, turning with a frown at the sneeze, squinting through the rain and shadows at the dimly backlit figure by front of the restaurant. Shaking his dark head quietly, he crosses the room again. Someone on the radio is ranting about pitching in a distinctive American accent that puts Alexa in mind of NYC - one of those ethnic buroughs, Queens or the Bronx - but which is qualitatively different. Then he starts in about Andy Reid, just as JB reaches over to flick the radio off. "Have a seat." - he tells her, indicating the empty plastic chair.

A glance down at her backpack. Then, quiet, back up to her face. "You on the move?" - this note of query that is interested, but not intrusive.

[Alexa] She gives a sharp glance back at the sound of a sneeze and attributes it to somebody passing by or standing out of the rain, since she hadn't seen anybody standing there just moments ago when she had been there. Must have been a magical thing or she hadn't taken her Matrix pills that morning.

Turning back to John, she takes the beer from him and folds herself into the plastic chair. Wet clothes squeak against the hard plastic until she's comfortable, crossing over the lean length of her legs. Her boot laces are red, dark because of the wet. "Thanks," and she means it.

He's asking her about her bag, wondering if she's on the move again. She's thoughtful before she replies, taking a sip of the beer, savouring the taste that dances across the buds of her tongue. "I'm not sure," she answered honestly, casting her gaze from the shadows of the small area by the shop, back over to the kinfolk, "maybe in a few days. Maybe not for a few weeks." She finds herself smiling slowly at him. "I'm not terribly decisive."

"How have you been?" Interested.

[Rory] She winkles her nose, sneezes again, then wipes her nose with the back of her hand. The noise startled her out of her thoughts, and made her decision for her. She had intended to catch him alone, to talk, and maybe have it go better than it did before, but that was not to be. At least, not yet. Someday, it'll simply have to be.

For now, though, she makes her choice, and steps from the shadows she had hidden in, and makes her way toward the garage that houses her kin and the Strider - the Strider that hadn't seen her as she came from the front, and Rory waited on the side of the Garage. No Matrix, just position. She hesitates a moment, and lifts a hand to wave with that same shy little grin she had last time, ducking her head to peek through her curls.

"Hi."

[Sinclair] It's been 'cold' long enough now in Chicago that Sinclair doesn't spend as much time outside. Her skin is losing the tan it picked up briefly over spring and summer, the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks a little more visible. She wears her hair down, long and straight and wheat-gold. Her pale eyes are lined with black, enough to offset the dark circles under her eyes -- in a cursory glance. Closer inspection of the Galliard makes one think: tired. Without knowing what she is, most might think: coming down with something. After all, 'tis the season. There's a faint, unhealthy paleness to her right now.

The waning half of her moon is coming. Tomorrow, really, though right now the transition is enough to make her stick close to her packmates. Sleep at the Loft, stay further away from the mortals who cannot stand her and the Kinfolk who barely can. Her temper is shorter than usual, and given the reputation she earned when she first came to Chicago, most see it as business-as-usual.

The difference between then and now is the amount of effort she expends on self-control. One can almost see it in how she walks, with steady, purposeful steps alongside her quite-a-bit-taller Alpha. It's hard to miss the athletic grace of the blonde, perhaps more pronounced than Lukas's because she is not the -- bluntly put -- brick wall of muscle that he's become.

In a longsleeved thermal shirt (black) and jeans that should probably have been retired awhile ago (blue) and dingy sneakers (magenta), with her hair covering her ears and her neck, little about her makes the inhabitants of this area -- what few might be out in the rain -- raise their eyebrows. It isn't the metal or the ink that disturbs people, though. It isn't how casually and comfortably she walks alongside the swarthy man who makes the hairs on the backs of their neck stand on end.

It's the way she looks at them, if she looks in their direction, like she's considering whether or not they're the weakest of the herd. Whether it's worth running them down and clenching her teeth on their necks, shaking them like rag dolls. As though she's telling them with those glances not to forget that their presence at the watering hole is permitted only because right now, the lion isn't hungry.

"Maybe next year," she's saying to Lukas, like she's said this something like twenty times in the last hour.

[Wyrmbreaker] The storm god might not be raging over the outcome of the NLCS, but there's every possibility they're thundering over the outcome of the ALCS. He's the patron of the Unbroken pack, after all, that cadre of Shadow Lords and Silver Fangs largely out of New York City (and one Glass Walker out of Kansas), and their Alpha, at least, has been howling about the Yankees since Friday. Literally, at one point: going into the Umbra atop 520 North Kingsbury and pouring his heart full of woe out into the cold clear autumn.

He's not howling right now. But he's still rather morose, trudging with his coat collar up and his head bare to the rain, hands in his pockets.

"See, I knew it was a bad sign when we lost against the Sox on the last day of the season," he says, possibly for the tenth time since Oct. 22nd. Possibly for the fiftieth. "Didn't I say that? I totally said it. I knew it. We opened against the Sox this season, and we lost. We never quite shook that off. I figured if we could close on a win, that'd be a good omen, but if we lost, then that's that. A sign. And look: it was. Fucking Texas. Texas, Sinclair, what the hell."

Maybe next year, Sinclair says. It's the twenty-second time, actually, and he responds the same way as he had the twenty-one times before it: with a great, heaving sigh.

"Yeah. Next year." Lukas raises his head. Cafe Lulu. "Want to get a drink?"

[Sinclair] Make that a hundred times since Friday. Sinclair's doing good at this point not to be snapping oh for fuck's sake get OVER IT ALREADY at Wyrmbreaker, who she calls -rhya though they're both Fosterns.

Maybe she's too cold. Sinclair's got a thick wool peacoat about a size too big on over her thermal. It's navy blue, nothing special, but she wishes about now that it had a hood. Her hair is more noticably wet than Lukas's, the drops of rain turning it brass-colored, then dark.

"Yes," she says evenly, calmly, "you said that." about eight thousand fucking times.

Maybe next year, she says, when he wails about Texas. She can't argue with that. It's Texas. So: what the fuck. It had to be fate. Ill fate. A curse, maybe. There are probably gypsies and witch doctors in Texas.

She keeps all that to herself. Puts her hands deeper into her pockets. "It's closed," she says, looking over at the cafe. And then at Alexa, Rory, JB. Her head tips to the side, eyes focusing more for a moment on the redhaired metis. Her nostrils flare slightly when her gaze flicks to JB. She straightens her head a touch. "We could get out of the rain, though," she says, though neither of them seem particularly bothered by it.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] His dark eyes touch her face as she muses over her plans. A few days, a few weeks. The light in here is bright enough to be obscuring, necessary for whatever work he squeezes in out here at odd hours. There is a sort of stillness about him as she speculates, this dark line that separates an ordinary life from the strange, shiftless world of the Garou. He doesn't say anything, though, doesn't comment on her plans, or lack thereof. He's an open book, but there's just stillness, and then a brief, wry look - "Let us know if you go, would you?" Quiet, that.

There's warm, yellow light in the windows of the second story of the old yellow house onto which the brick dining room has been built out, the living apartments above. Then, " - yeah," is his first answer to how have you been. In response, he gestures at the half-built graveyard, the loops of purple lights coiled on the worktable, the decorations un-decorated. "Supposed to be a block party Thursday night. Safe trick or treat, and I promised Lucy we'd have a graveyard by then. Here's hoping the rain lets up - " that's when he turns, sees Rory, her shy smile superimporsed over her wall of range, resolving out of the rain.

Hi she says, and the kinfolk's jaw goes hard, his dark eyes still. His free hand flexes, open and closed, but these are the only signs of tension. "Hi," he says, looking he directly in the eye, even now, his expression more closed with it. The beer in is bottle is almost gone. JB tips the bottle up, looks at it mournfully, then reaches, stretching, to set it aside.

Standing, he asks both of them, " - you want something to eat? Glancing from one to the other, "I'll open up. Go around front and I'll let you in. Looks like there are other customers, too." Then he's standing, hustling them out toward the front door. He goes in the back, through the kitchens. In less than a minute, the lights that illuminate the stylized coffee mug from the cafe's previous incarnation are on, the dining room lights, the lights behind the counter, making the rain glow. Thirty seconds later, the rangy man - no chef's jacket tonight, just the Eagle's t-shirt and worn jeans - is opening the front door, flicking on the OPEN sign, letting in whoever wants to eat.

[Alexa] She had offered a small smile, nodding when he asked her to let him know - presumably so that he is not left wondering if she's dead when she stops coming for beer at random intervals. Rory arrives, her Rage strong against the meekness of her appearance, and Alexa reacts to the rage more then she does the illusion of the physical features, by being a little more alert, defensive.

They're ushered into the cafe, to head around the front. By the time John opens up the door, has the lights on to indicate it's open, Alexa has left with her beer and her bag, heading back out into the rain, in the opposite direction to where the others approach.

[Rory] He looks at her and his mouth goes hard. She tips her head slightly, curiously. Their last meeting did not go so well, an though she is quite used to ire being directed at her... he confuses her. She offended him, and she still isn't sure how, or why, only sure that somehow she must start anew, and make it good.

He asks if they want something to eat, and her brow furrows... then, with a glance up at the rain, and a hopeful smile that's achingly innocent in the face of all that rage....

"Cocoa?"

And then he's shooing them around front, and with a duck of her head, she obeys and goes around to wait at the front of the door. Where she finds Sinclair and Lukas.

If she was aware of the regard of the Gallaird, she makes no indication of it, simply offering them both the same shy smile she has the others.

"Hi." Simple is sometimes best.

[Wyrmbreaker] "Maybe they'll -- "

The OPEN sign flicks on. Lights come on inside. There's John Brendan: not exactly the sort of fellow you'd expect to be running a place called Cafe Lulu. Then again, Lukas isn't entirely sure who he'd expect to run Cafe Lulu. Or Brasserie Jo. Or, for that matter, any of the trendy little eateries he seems to frequent.

"See?" Lukas says, outside: as though he'd caused the restaurant to open by force of will. And, seeing Rory, "Hey, Rory. Long time. Wasn't sure if you'd left town."

He pulls the front door of the restaurant open. And, since they were hardly the sort to want or appreciate chivalry -- precedes them into the cafe. He holds the door after himself, though.

[Sinclair] One would have to be blind to miss the tension floating around, but Sinclair seems curious more than put off. People seem tense and it doesn't seem to be because of her. It's quite novel.

She catches the door and walks in after Lukas, giving Rory an upward nod. It is, despite how casual the gesture is, respectful. "Hey."

Then, turning towards the owner -- or manager, or whatever, she's making assumptions here because he apparently has the authority to open this place whenever he damn well pleases -- she gives a flick of a wave. "Thanks, man."

[John Brendan Cavanagh] And then there's John Brendan, tall and rangy, broad-shouldered and fit, with a huge tribal piece dark crawling up his right arm, from the wrist - where he wears a broad silicon message bracelet, and a handful of neon silly bandz - all the way up past his elbow, disappearing beneath the seeves of his fitted Eagles tee. Another tattoo is briefly visible inside his left forearm, an array of chef's knives inked in blackwork. His jeans are held together by holes, and held up by a brown belt with a broad buckle that is not quite country in origin.

There's a register by the door, a bakery display case softly illuminated, and empty now. Warm colors and wood tones dominate the space. "Counter seating," he tells them, with a gesture toward the long counter/bar that dominates one wall, curving back from the register toward the kitchen, where bright lights cut through portholes worked in theswinging metal doors. " - and a limited late night menu." He has an easy grin, and he turns it on when the strangers walk in, past him, holding the door open himself.

To Rory, when she follows, " - you know them?" It's quiet, he's following the pair with a glance, looking back down at th shy creature whose shyness belies what she is. And he cannot keep that band of tension out of his jaw.

"

[John Brendan Cavanagh] (IGNORE THE STRAY " )

[Wyrmbreaker] [no. *takes it in, shelters it, keeps as pet "!*]

[Sinclair] [*can't ignore it! runs after, picks up, takes to a " shelter--- HAHAHAHHA]

[Rory] She blinks as Lukas suggests she may have left, and then simply shakes her head, damp curls clinging along the line of her jaw. She offers a shy smile, and a returned not for Sinclair as she steps inside.

When JB asks his question, she nods, slightly. For a moment, she hesitates before giving introductions - though they all know of her...affliction. She takes a breath, and then, softly, "Lukas. Fostern Mull Foon Elder." There's one. She doesn't notice her mistake, though she is certain she's making them. "Sinclair. Fostern."

Then, to the Unbroken. "JB. Mine." Her kin, she means, though there is likely no doubt. And somehow, though she claims him as hers, there's the innate expectation that they know she is not claiming a mate. At all. Ever. Just a ward.

[Wyrmbreaker] They don't look like a couple, the two fierce strangers that file out of the rain and into Cafe Lulu. They don't stand close enough; they don't have that certain air, that exclusion-of-all-else, that couples have. They're familiar with each other, though. Close friends, maybe. Siblings. Half-siblings, maybe, given that all they have in common is the blue of their eyes.

And even that -- not quite the same. The male's eyes are pale, clear as a hawk's. The female's eyes are opaque, richly hued.

They sit at the counter. Rory makes introductions while Lukas is looking about, shrugging out of his wool coat and folding it aside. Somehow, with the coat off, he seems paradoxically larger; as though freed from the deliberately subtle cut of the coat. His shoulders are vast, his back a solid wedge.

"I'm a Shadow Lord," he completes the introduction. "She's a Glass Walker. We're packmates. Is this place new? I don't remember seeing it before."

[John Brendan Cavanagh] JB's behind the counter when Rory begins the introductions. He's familiar there, pulling out a trio of menus from a stack by the cash register, searching out a trio of place settings from the depleted supply back there. He hasn't turned on all the interior lights, so the rest of the restaurant is in quiet shadow.

Mine, Rory says, and JB immediately corrects her, "Fianna. John Brendan Cavanagh," he meets Wyrmbreaker's eyes, then Sinclair's as Lukas finishes the introductions. There's tension in him with their presence, tension he cannot and does not bother to hide, but otherwise his manner doesn't change much. Maybe a bit more formal. Maybe a hint less relaxed.

"Grand opening was the beginning of September," he tells Lukas, then grins, not as easy, not as wide as he would under normal circumstances. " - so yeah," pride there, he has his wide hands planted on the edge ofthe bar. " - we're new. You guys want a drink? We've just got a beer and wine license, but if you want something harder, I can grab it while I'm getting her cocoa."

[Rory] He corrects her, and she ducks her head again, hiding behind her curls as she takes a seat at the counter. She doesn't pick up the menu he sets before her, merely watches him through her lashes as she chews absently on her bottom lip.

Then he says he's getting her cocoa, and that little smile returns, shy and thrilled all at once. It is, after all, the little things.

[Sinclair] There's no need for Sinclair to add her tribe herself as Lukas does, explaining their relationship just as Rory explained their species. Shrugging out of her coat and taking a seat at the bar, Sinclair perks slightly when she gets a menu. His quick correction of Rory's introduction of him as mine doesn't get a raised eyebrow. And he doesn't get the eye contact he's willing to give when he hands her menu over, because Sinclair isn't looking at him. Not directly.

She flips open the menu and looks it over. "So how limited is this late-night menu?" she asks thoughtfully, perhaps a trifle warily.

[Wyrmbreaker] "Congratulations. It looks like a great place. I'll pass the word on for you. And I'll..." Lukas snags the drinks list off its holder, flipping it back and forth before deciding, "...get a double of Royal Lochnagar. Neat. And ... " now he's skimming the menu, clear eyes flying down the page, then lighting up suddenly. "Gyros! If that's on your late-night menu, that is."

And he snaps the menu shut and passes it back over the bar.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] Casting a - wary - glance at Rory as she chews on her lip, and studies him from underneath her lashes, JB looks back at Sinclair as she glances over the menu. Hands braced on the bar-countertop, he has that aura of patience that comes from a long life in the restaurant industry. Long hours of boredom followed by the violent frenzy of a rush on the line, and so on. He's comfortable in the space, at home even without the staff usually here to explain the dishes and so on. And literally at home, with the apartment above the restaurant.

He glances up once at the ceiling. "The late night menu's what I can throw together from the walk-in. We've got the lamb, though. Let me see if there's pita left - "

So saying, he leaves them waiting and disappears into the back, returning in a handful of minutes with Rory's cocoa and Wyrmbreaker's Scotch, neat, sliding them over the bar, first the cocoa, then the Scotch.

[Rory] His glance is wary, and her's is still filled with curiosity, with concern, and not a little confusion. His is a story she has not heard - may never hear. In contrast though, when the cocoa arrives, her smile is that of pure joy in the simple things, the little things, the fact that there's whip topping curled and floating in the hot chocolate. She runs a finger through the whip topping, and plops it between her lips with a little sound of delight at the back of her throat.

She doesn't ask for anything specific from the menu she doesn't read, content with the hot cup cradled between her fingers.

[Sinclair] "Oh my god, Royal Lochnagar! No way! You never drink that," Sinclair mouths off, still looking over her menu. She flaps it down and looks at JB for a moment. "Don't overserve him. He's still mourning the Yankees and may end up crying on the bar that they're cursed or something."

She goes back to reading while the owner-chef-dude-guy goes back to get the Scotch and the cocoa. She hasn't ordered yet. She's indecisive tonight. Or so it seems, until she drops the menu and lets it fold shut again. "I'll have a gyro, too, and if there's no pita I will just have meat. And whatever loose-leaf-fancy-pot iced tea you have that is A, caffeinated and B, not a bitch to make." She beams tightly, a toothy and over-the-top grin that snaps away a second later.

[Wyrmbreaker] There's a little hiccup in the middle of Sinclair's never, because that's when Wyrmbreaker kicks her under the counter. Subtly, too. He's a Shadow Lord, after all. His face doesn't even change.

"Don't be ridiculous," he says. "Yankees fans don't weep. Sox fans do. Wait. You're not a Sox fan, are you, JB? And, yes. If you don't have pitas I'll just have lamb. And rice, maybe. And hummus."

A tumbler of Scotch comes sliding smoothly down the bar. Lukas palms it with a quiet, solid thwack, slides it between his hands once, and then takes a sip. Passes it to Sinclair.

"Just in case you want to drink a grown-up drink for once," he quips.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] "Sorry - " JB says, smoothly when he's returned with the drinks, given Rory the hot chocolate that she delights over, and with a still, faintly solemn face, taking the menus one by one from Rory, Lukas, Sinclair. " - can't serve Yankees fans, here. Can't stand the American League, anyway. Designated fucking hitters - " he scoffs, " - the hell are the pitchers afraid of? Joe Blanton hit a home fucking run - " and with that, and the Eagle's tee, and the Mike Schmidt jersey mounted on the mirror behind the bar, it's clear that he is not a Sox fan.

Philadelphia, native son.

Back to Rory, then, a look, measured. " - you want a gyro or something else to eat?"

[Rory] She starts, and peeks up at him, caught licking another fingerfull of whipped cream. She swallows, and then lifts a shoulder into a little shrug. "Anything easy."

She honestly has no idea what he serves here, other than the divine mac and cheese she had last time.

[Sinclair] "OW!" she yells, at the kick under the table. Her reaction isn't subtle. Her kick back isn't either. "You bastard," she snaps, and it sounds for a second like there's real venom in it. Sounds that way, perhaps, to anyone but Lukas himself. He knows what Sinclair looks like, flecks of blood on her face and matting her hair, a black axe in each hand, snarling at him. And he knows that's just exercise. He knows this is just play.

But then it's back to making fun of him. Yankees fan and all. Without looking at Lukas she reaches over and waves a hand in his face, batting at his nose, when he mocks her drink choices. "Hush, you. Tea is very grown-up."

[John Brendan Cavanagh] (gah. guys. thank you for playing but I just looked at the time. ZOMG. need sleeeeep. I'm'a post Mr. JB out. :)

Anything easy - Rory says, the kinsman gives her another look, still closed, dark eyes following the movement of her hand as she licks away the whipped cream from her finger. Then she's peeking up at him from behind a curtain of curls, this monster underneath whose rage he can feel beating against his skin. He swallows against this rising - sensation in the back of his throat, this physical unease with that disconnect. "Sure," he returns, forcing a smile. "Gyros it is. All around."

"Long Island Iced Tea is grown up," JB tells Sinclair. "Loose leaf fancy pot tea is pretty frou-frou. Either frou-frou or late modern southern grandmother." Wry. " - your choice."

Then he return to the kitchen, emerging maybe ten minutes later with the gyros, a bowl of freshly-fried potato chips that they can pass about among themselves, and a loose-leaf frou-frou iced tea for Sinclair. He serves them, then excuses himself to go upstairs, to check on his daughter Lucy, tuck her in. He'll be back down later, insist that dinner was on the houe, drinking a beer as they finish their meals..

[John Brendan Cavanagh] (thank you for the scene!)

[Wyrmbreaker] There's a moment, when the menu is taken out of his hands and he's informed that he will not be served here, that something animal and vicious in Lukas flares to the surface. It's there in his eyes like a lightning-stroke. There in the air around him, which tenses suddenly and thickens,

and dissipates again. He lifts his scotch for a mild swallow, and then he reminds himself of where he is, who he is, who John Brendan is, what humanity is. What a joke is. And then he smiles, and the very air around him relaxes.

"Bah. Sour grapes from the oft-defeated," he says. "We'll talk when the Phillies make it to their twenty-seventh World Series."

[Rory] She blinks in confusion at JBs reactions to her, but gratefully takes the offer food with a soft murmured thanks. She tips her head, slightly, and then digs in happily to the gyro.

Only when he slips upstairs to tuck in his daughter does she sigh. "I gon't det him."

[John Brendan Cavanagh] That moment - in that moment - the kinsman goes absolutely still. He watches Wyrmbreaker with a solid wariness, his body tense, unmoving. Waiting for the moment to dissipate, or a blow to land. That tribal tattoo on his right forearm moves, some voluntary spasm of the muscles, and his molars grind together, the half-smirking grin that accompanies such sports-fan-related trash talk frozen on his mouth.

Then the air relaxes. Another Yankees fan, and JB would start in about buying championships, the usual complaints turned over, tossed back at him. Instead, he just shakes his head, feeling that sourness in the back of his throat from the stress hormones spiking his blood. "Quality over quantity." - is all he says efore he disappears.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] (and now for poofing for reals! night y'all. :) )

[Sinclair] [night!]

[Sinclair] "Oh! Oh he's mouthy!" Sinclair says, of JB's agreement with Lukas. He calls her drink frou-frou. "Look, buddy..." she starts, and it sounds -- as her behavior with Lukas earlier looked vicious -- genuinely threatening. So she stops. And she doesn't go on. Not even to tease. Not even to play. She presses her tongue against one of her incisors and quiets.

She does get the tea, though. Which she enjoys, thank you very much, grown-up or not. "You are so cocky," she mutters to him, shaking her head.

Altogether, they've made their poor host more than a little uncomfortable. Natural reactions. Sinclair's more aware now of how primitively dangerous she feels, now matter how much Rory and Lukas's rage eclipses her own. She watches JB only briefly after he disappears then returns, and gives her food.

"Thanks," she says, again without meeting his eyes, and tucks into her gyro. Rory sighs and Sinclair's eyes flick over to him, one eyebrow raising. "What's there to get?"

[Wyrmbreaker] A gentler wolf might apologize for frightening Rory's kin, but Wyrmbreaker is not quite that. He doesn't lash out like a truly brutal wolf might. Like a weaker wolf might. He controls himself, controls his primitive reaction, his primal urge to guard his meal, and he registers in his mind that the kinsman was not afraid to meet his eyes and to make a pretense at continuing the trash-talking. That's a sort of strength, a willpower that Lukas can respect.

His gyro arrives. Sinclair calls him cocky, and he takes a big bite and snorts a laugh. Then Rory sighs over his kinsman, and the two wolves of the Unbroken may as well mirror each other with their blue eyes, single eyebrows going up.

What's there to get? Sinclair wants to know. Wyrmbreaker is arguably blunter: "Getting him isn't really your concern. He's kin. You're metis. If I'm not mistaken about Fianna attitudes about such things, your tribe would want you to stay as far from him as possible."

[Rory] She starts to formulate an answer for Sinclair, but then Wyrmbreaker speaks, and it is her turn for brows to shoot up to her hairline. She looks at the food on her plate, on the hot cocoa that she was enjoying, and then something... something... snaps.

It's subtle, but noticeable. Her jaw tightens, her hands do briefly, and then she slowly pushes the plate away, and stands. Her brows furrow as she works to formulate the words that she will mess up anyway, despite the care with which she speaks - softly, but with a confidence that has slowly grown over time, yet is still a fragile, fragile thing.

"Assumptions, rhya, are dangerous. I am the only Fianna heft lere. He is my kin, ry mesponsibility. By 'get', I meant understand. Waller smords are easier at times for me. Your assumptions are disrespectful - to me, but more so to ky Min."

Here, her eyes raise and she meets Lukas' gaze with determination, fully expecting to be punished for this outburst, but knowing it needs to be said, be heard. For her, even more so than them.

"I am mule. I am also the caretaker of the Ficago Chianna. I nill wot sully that with accusations and assumptions. YOU nill wot either." a beat. "-rhya.

[Sinclair] When Rory stands, Sinclair doesn't leap over and knock the metis to the ground. She does, however, lean back from where she was about to tuck into her gryo, her back straightening and her eyes turning to the Fiann. She doesn't say a word. She stares at the metis, though, her pale eyes unblinking.

[Wyrmbreaker] "Rory," Wyrmbreaker begins to speak before the Fianna is quite finished: as soon as he's finished chewing his biteful of gyro, "if you don't show me the respect for your elder the Litany tells you to, then I won't feel obligated to show you the respect for my lesser that the Litany tells me to. Put simply: if you keep spitting rhya at me while you lecture me like some errant cub, I'll put your face through this counter."

His eyes flick up to the redhead at last, and they are icy.

"I have made myself clear, I hope."

There's no pause for confirmation. He goes on, "As for your kin. I have neither accused nor assumed. I'm speaking based on what I saw tonight, on what I know of your tribe, and on what I saw the night you came to me and whined and moped because you couldn't share Ray Ostermann's bed anymore. There's no assumption involved here, Rory. You have demonstrated a taste for kin. That is fact. Your tribe hates metis; sees them as blemishes and sins; keeps them far from their purebred kin. That is also fact. If you somehow get involved with J.B., it won't go well for you. So if I were you, I'd do what I had to to keep your kin safe and no more.

"Naturally, what happens between John Brendan and yourself is ultimately your tribe's concern. What I said was meant as a piece of well-meaning advice. Take it or leave it. Ultimately, all I want from you is strong claws and a level head in combat."

[Wyrmbreaker] [erg! delete second 'ultimately'.]

[Rory] There's a flare of rage - whitehot and searing under her skin. In the end, what she says is simply this:

"Sorry do tisappoint."

She doesn't clarify on what point, and simply turns and heads to the door.

[Sinclair] "He didn't say he was disappointed in you," Sinclair says to Rory's back, if only because that's the only part of Rory given to them now. "He said you were disrespectful -- which you were. He didn't make an assumption or accuse you of anything -- he was giving you some advice based on past experience with you and the shy smiles and heart-heavy sighs and girlish glances at ...um... that guy all night. Which, frankly, I picked up on, too."

The authority in her tone falters for a bit there, because she can't remember JB's name. It picks up again easily enough.

"Wyrmbreaker's your Elder by rank and by his role on the auspice council. But you know by his track record with his own kin that he knows where the lines of guardianship are. You know very well by his own behavior that he isn't going to go sticking his nose into your tribe's business, harrying you like he gives a good god-damn what you do with your own tribe's kinfolk."

A beat. "So obviously, what he's saying is the truth: it was just well-meaning advice, regardless of delivery, because -- I'm going to go out on a limb here -- you're a good warrior and he'd like you to not shoot yourself in the foot mooning over someone you can't and shouldn't have."

[Wyrmbreaker] [sorry! for some reason i was waiting on lessa.]

[Rory] She starts to reply, her brow furrowed, and then shakes her head briefly, her curls bouncing. She opens her mouth again, and all that results is a brief huff of...

..laughter.

At first, disbelieving, then falling into true, honest to Gaia amusement.

"You know nothing of re, meally." The laughter continues, and the sound follows her out the door, and into the shadows, where - despite the gleam of those bright red curls, she disappears, as if the shadows her her home.

She is, after all, a Bogeyman.

[Rory] (Have to sleep. 5am comes way too effin early. g'night!)

[Sinclair] Rory huffs -- literally -- out the door. The laughter gets Sinclair's back up. It's hard not to be riled by that. It's hard not to want to lunge out the door after her, drag her back, and bloody JB's beautiful cafe floor trying to drill the repeatedly missed point into Rory's hyper-colored head.

It's hard. But a lot of things are hard. And you do them anyway.

Sinclair watches her go, and exhales without parting her lips. She turns slowly around and looks at Lukas for a moment. He knows every line of tension in her body right now. The way the moon turns towards her darker phase, the way that weighs on Sinclair. He knows how much effort she puts into self-control these days, as though some switch got flipped and she not longer shrugs every potential consequence of her actions off. She watches how she looks at people, and checks how she makes them feel, more closely.

She's maturing. She's a Fostern. He can chalk it up to that.

"When you asked me to join your pack," she starts, and it calls back to the way she was talking to Katherine earlier this month in the pool room of the loft, "I remember you saying that it was partly because you needed some spontaneity brought in. Less plan-plan-plan. Something to shake it up a bit. You needed to think outside the box.

"We don't have a Ragabash," Sinclair goes on, turning towards her gyro to tear off some lamb, "and because Kate's a crazy-ass Fang Philodox and you're a near-Adren Shadow Lord, you both need -- no offense -- someone to question you and call you out on occasion. And while it isn't my duty or even my right to do so by auspice, it's my duty and right as your sister to help you. Plus, I'm a damn sight more useful than ninety percent of the fucking bitchitude-whiny No Moons I've seen at this sept."

She chews, swallows, and looks at him again. "Anyway. I've held back sometimes because you're my Alpha, but I'm realizing that I'm not doing you any favors. You're my Alpha, and you know you have my utter loyalty. You know I won't hesitate on the battlefield. You know I love you. You know we're united. You know I'm not going to undermine you in front of non-pack. So there's no reason for me to shut up when I disagree with you.

"I wish you'd let Rory answer when I asked her what there was to get," Sinclair says, some of the formality and seriousness of her tone draining away. It's still a serious discussion. It's still important enough that she prefaced it. "Like I said to her, I picked up on her eyelash-fluttering bullshit just as much as you did, and we both know how wrist-to-forehead she was over Ray. But the thing is, she isn't our packmate. She isn't our friend. Even based on past behavior, we don't know her that well."

Sinclair sips tea from her straw thoughtfully. "She brought the kinsman up, not us. For all we know it was because she was looking for wiser ears. For all we know she was going to answer and tell us what her experience with him has been so far, why he was so tense, why she was acting the way she was with him. For all we know, that could have led to a productive conversation where the exact same advice you gave her would have been heard more clearly and maybe even welcomed."

Her eyes pin him for a moment now. They're gentle. Odd, how gentle her eyes can be, when everything else about her screams of predatory hunger, dominance, viciousness. "You weren't wrong," she says. "At least, I don't think you were. But I do think that the way you addressed it made it sound like you really were suspicious of her, and thought you knew what was going on already. You didn't ask her -- a Fiann -- if she wanted your -- a Shadow Lord's -- advice about her dealings with her Kin, and I think you know exactly how well most Garou take unsolicited advice in that area, metis or not.

"The point is," Sinclair finishes, "while Rory just acted like a petulant little brat and that's her own insecurities and bullshit rearing their ugly heads, I think you need to acknowledge the part you played in starting that little conflict, and recognize how it might have been avoided -- or at least met with more information."

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas doesn't speak during that final exchange. He's silent, listening, but hardly looking at Rory now. Eating. Drinking. Finishing his late-night meal. He glances up at her grand exit, but otherwise doesn't comment. Or react.

When Sinclair speaks, though, Lukas's eyes go to her. Fasten and fix. Truth be told, Sinclair takes a while getting to the point. Prefaces it with statements, reassurances, that Lukas might laugh at if he didn't understand how necessary they can be. How necessary they might be even here, between the two of them -- simply because the moon is very nearly full still. Because he's an Ahroun on the verge of Adren. Because he is Shadow Lord, and the last time someone spoke to him with something he considered disrespect

-- all of thirty seconds ago --

he calmly promised to put their head through a bartop if it happened again.

So: Sinclair tells him why she's speaking up. Why she didn't speak up earlier. What he can expect from her. And what she thinks of what just happened. And Lukas listens, eyes steady and keen, attention fully hers.

When she's done, there's so little response that an outsider would wonder if he heard her at all. Just a moment's thought, and then a nod, and then this, quietly:

"Okay."

She's not an outsider. She knows he heard her. She knows if he didn't understand, he would ask for clarification. If he didn't agree, he would say so. If he thought she was talking out of her ass, he'd say that, too. So the fact that he says nothing but that could only mean --

"Point taken. I'll be more careful of that in the future." There's a pause, and then this, sincere: "Thank you, Sinclair."

[Sinclair] Sinclair has no fucking clue that upstairs there's a sleeping child. When she throws herself at Lukas he'd better get ready for her arms flying around his neck and for the loud, overblown "I LUB YOU, BIG BRUDDER!" she yells in his ear, squishing her face against his and rubbing it until his cheekbones are sore or until he retaliates by hugging her til her ribs ache. There's no hesitation for the fact that maybe she shouldn't be yelling.

She quite calmly goes back to eating. There's no prolonged discussion, nor need for it. She tried to translate Lukas-to-Rory earlier and it didn't help. She has no business right now addressing with Rory her own Issues, nor any real faith after tonight that it would anything but a waste of breath. So she focused on the one that matters to her.

There's a part of him that's in her mind, as powerful and strong and alive as the part of her mind where Katherine is. She senses without needing to read it that he understands. That he doesn't disagree. That she's not full of shit (or worse, of herself). That he listened. That he'll remember.

So she hugs him, bellows in his ear, and goes back to her dinner.


Later, JB comes back down and Rory's gone. Sinclair and Lukas, no slouches when it comes to eating, have left money on the counter. By the time they get outside the rain has turned into a full-blown thunderstorm. Sinclair suggests they step over, shift, and run through the rain howling to Perun until their paths diverge.

So: they do. She goes towards the Brotherhood. He turns a little further west, so someone else, some other blonde, can commiserate about the Yankees' loss a little more investedly than Sinclair can.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

wasted promise.

[Tsi'la Yanisan] Damn that drunken old man for getting her on an ice cream kick. Started with dinner and ice cream... now she's leaning more on ice cream than her tea house visits.

Next thing you know she'll be drinking plum wine and getting a karaoke machine.

She steps out of the ice cream parlor with a double scoop of something scrumptious in a bowl, and taking her sweet time doing it. She still has the leg brace on, so hurrying in any sense isn't much of an option anyways. At least it lets her wear pants. Skirts and dresses were just getting too sketchy to wear lately. But either way... she doesn't look much like she fits in. Native american girl in chinatown... wearing nice slacks and blouse with a leg brace.

She smiles and waves back to the clerk behind the counter before she moves out into foot traffic, getting her a few glares at her lack of moving with the flow of it. Settling into her own relaxed pace.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] As Tsi'la is coming out of the ice cream parlor, a man -- a rather tall, imposing man, blackhaired and broadshouldered -- is going in. His eyes flick to her twice, a quick subtle doubletake. Perhaps she only notices because of their color: a blue so pale they're nearly colorless. Nearly clear.

Perhaps she also notices because the air around him seems to crackle with unease. He's well- and conservatively dressed, not the sort of man a lone woman would dread seeing alone on a street late at night, but the sensation is something of the same. Unsafe. Dangerous. Predator.

She can see him looking at her again over his shoulder as he goes in. The door swings shut, then. He's inside for a few moments...

...and then emerges again, ice cream sundae in its little paper cup. Bit cold for ice cream, but seems like Tsi'la isn't the only one with a sweet tooth. His strides are long, covering ground quickly. He catches up to her.

"I don't think we've met before," he says. Maybe she's readying the pepper spray by now.

[Tsi'la Yanisan] The man gets a polite smile, despite the crackle of air around him, and a subtle tilt of her head as she watches curiously. She steps back out of the flow of foot traffic once he passes on into the parlor, and she enjoys her ice cream.

Her eyes glance back to him when she feels the gaze, and then turn off towards Ling's, then back to him. Debating on whether or not to stay or go. But before she has time to decide for sure, he's stepping back out and speaking to her. She blinks back over to him, brief look of deer caught in the headlights look crossing her face before that warm, polite smile finds it's way back. She shakes her head no to him. "No... We have not sir."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] There's a great deal of height difference between Tsi'la and the stranger. He's well over six feet, a monolith in his dark wool peacoat. It's a little under fifty degrees tonight. He's wearing thin leather gloves ... and eating his sundae. Which is orange-and-vanilla, with sprinkles on top.

Not quite serial killer fare.

"I'm Lukáš," he says. There isn't a trace of accent in his voice, but the name is not English, and it comes off his tongue easily enough that he has to be a native speaker. Russian, perhaps. Polish. Something eastern-european to match that bone structure: the broad brow, wide sharp cheekbones. "I'm a colleague of Bai Chou's." He sticks the little plastic spoon in the middle of a mound of ice cream and offers his hand to shake.

[Tsi'la Yanisan] Jackets. With this chill in the air, that's likely a pretty good idea. She has one of those. Not a heavy one, but one certainly enough to keep the chill of the air at bay. As far as serial killer fare goes? Well... this girl could probably make the Snuggle Bear look comparable to Manson. There's not a damn shred of anything remotely close to intimidating about her, even if he didn't have that extra bit of genetics that show things in a slightly different light to know there's advantage on his side.

She takes the hand with a gentle whisper of a touch and shakes it, maintaining that friendly smile, with just a touch of reservation to it. At least, until he mentions Bai. That seems to help her relax a little, and she nods softly before withdrawing her hand. Not too long, and not too short of a shake. Just enough to call it sociable greetings. "Pleasure to meet you Lukas. I am Tsi'la" Her accent is thickly native, but her english is fluent and clear enough. Her eyes go towards the shop, then back to Lukas. "I am... help around the shop I guess you could say." She chuckles a bit and shrugs.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas follows her eyes to the shop, then back. "Bai owns this place?" It's more confirmation than question. The black-haired man -- wolf -- takes a few steps closer, shading a patch of glass with a hand to peer in. "What does he sell?"

[Tsi'la Yanisan] "Eye candy, really. For tourists. Mostly junk items, but there's a few nice trinkets and antiques in there. It was his grandfather's shop from what the locals tell me." She looks at the shop again, stepping back to let him peer in while she takes another bite of her ice cream. "Though he usually leaves the running of it to the other girl that works here. I fill in hours here and there, but mostly I chase after him and Wahya to make sure they're taking care of themselves."

[Mila Davis] There likely wasn't a good reason she was in Chinatown tonight.. she.. just was. Maybe it was a hankering for wontons (the good cream cheese filled kind) or.. maybe she just liked really long walks. Needless to say, Mila was in particularly ethnic neighborhood of Chicago.. walking down the street.

Her hands were firmly planted in the pocket of her black hooded sweatshirt. The hood wasn't up, and her dark hair was left down - which caused it to blow in the wind a bit messily. Simply enough, she wore a pair of sneakers and jeans. She was an attractive young woman - but her slightly sloppy clothes hid it well (well.. that and the inkling of danger and rage that seeped off of her).

Two familiar figures walking/standing near by catch her interest. She crosses the street to say hello.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Sounds like him, making a quick buck off tourists looking for authentic Oriental goods." Lukas laughs quietly, drops his hand, straightens again. "That's right, Wahya's back. Are they running as a pack now?"

-- and, catching sight of Mila, the Ahroun lifts a hand in a hello. "Have you met Mila?" he asks Tsi'la. "Cousin of mine, you could say."

[Tsi'la Yanisan] Her eyes drift to the form moving their way, and her eyes light up. She waves the spoon at Mila, and looks back to Lukas. "Pack? No... they pretty much go their own separate ways for the most part. Except when I get myself into mischief and it takes both of them to figure out what I've done this time." She wrinkles her nose, shaking her head.

Her eyes go back to Mila again, and she smiles. "Hello again Mila. It's been awhile, how are you?"

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Huh." It's a low sound, more a grunt than anything else. "Well, next time you see them, tell them I suggest they pack with each other. They can keep an eye on each other.

"I rarely see any of the Uktena farther north, too. You should drop by the Brotherhood sometime."

[Mila Davis] "Cousin." She regards Lukas with a smile and a polite nod. Apparently she was going with the cousin angle this evening. It seemed to fit well enough.

"Jeela.." a beat. "A pleasure to see you again. I see you've managed to give your keeper the shake long enough to get ice cream?"

[Tsi'la Yanisan] She wiggles her nose a bit at the mention of Broho's. "I've... been down there a few times. But I don't want to cause more troubles between the Get and Wahya, so I usually just keep to myself and try to stay out of trouble. It's been working, for the most part."

She looks to Mila and laughs softly. "Well that wasn't too hard. He's been off and on, stays in the stock room and disappears. He hasn't spoken to me in a couple of weeks now, and Bai is much more lenient on me for who I can and can't consort with." She tilts her head, blinking a few times. "No guitar tonight?"

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Mila," he returns as the Galliard approaches. "Heard your pack's grown. That's always good."

Then, brow furrowing, "What do the Get have against Wahya?"

[Mila Davis] "Na.. not tonight. I don't drag it around everywhere with me.." She shrugged some. It likely would get heavy if she brought it everywhere.

Bai? A brow rose slightly - but she didn't comment. As she recalled it.. Bai didn't like her too much last time she was in the market for some nice oriental rip off items.

Then, to Lukas. "It has - working out quite nicely so far. We still have our eye on possibly one or two more.. though sadly to say - the only one female curse of Dark Sky appears to be continuing.." She quirked a small grin.

[Tsi'la Yanisan] "His appetizer choices." She blinks a few times, taking another bite of ice cream. "I... think that's what it was about? Mister Reprieve didn't start it though... Wahya was being quite rude. I think he was showing off, really, I'd never seen him act that way before. But... somewhere in the mess it turned into a challenge. Wahya got mad at me for having so many people here... and hasn't spoken to me since so I don't know how any of it turned out." She frowns, shaking her head. "Was a shame, too. I really liked Cygney, she was sweet. But after that we weren't allowed to be friends."

She smiles over at Mila. "Shame... You have a lovely voice. Maybe I'll take Lukas's suggestion and come to Broho's again soon if I know when you'll be playing? I'll bring Cordelia, make it a girls night"

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "It wasn't one of theirs that Wahya devoured, and besides, he's paid his penance. I'd still be wary around him, but that's different from outright shunning him. That said," ironic, "it's rarely a good idea to get in a pissing contest with the Fenrir. They take that sort of thing quite seriously."

There's a quiet, then. Tsi'la mentions girl's night out; Mila of expanding her pack. Lukas's eyes are lowered for a moment, frowning at his slowly melting ice cream sundae, before he looks at Tsi'la again.

"I don't know if anyone's told you," he says quietly, "but Cigney died. I don't know the details of it. It was the Wyrm."


[alas folks, i gotta sleep real soon!]

[Mila Davis] "I just.. kinda show up whenever. If they want me to play downstairs I will - otherwise, I just kinda take over the common area upstairs.." A small shrug. "Give me a night you guys want to go out - and I'll see what I can do to work it out."

Mila sighed quietly at the mention of Cigney's death. She thought she'd made a real breakthrough with the Get by befriending Cigney.. and even offering to let her accompany her sometimes. But, alas - the wyrm cut that thread of good will off before it got off the ground.

{I have to sleep soon too}

[Tsi'la Yanisan] There's a nod to his comments on the Get and their ways, and an understanding smile. "Wahya has come a long way, and he has been trying. It is not anyone's place to make him pay for that now except those directly involved."

But then she freezes, her eyes going wide. No, she hadn't heard. There's some paling, brows knitting together. She nods to Mila, distractedly, then shakes her head slowly and looks back to Lukas.

Her face completely crumbles. "I... I'm sorry to hear that...." What else is there to say? She liked Cigney. They couldn't be friends anymore, not after that day, but she didn't care any less. Her face tightens. "I should go. It... Thank you for telling me Lukas. If.. you see any of them... Mister Reprieve perhaps. Tell him I'm so very sorry." Her eyes shift over to Mila "I will see when I can get Cordelia, and leave a message for you"

(( ^_^ np guys. Perfect out right there. Jeela's totally bout to break down and cry lol))

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] A lot of promise was lost in Cigney. Future heirs; present friendships. Lukas never knew the woman, but he sees the effect her death has. The ever-widening ripples of grief left behind.

"I'm sorry too," he says, soft, "for your loss."

Tsi'la departs, holding back tears. Lukas draws a breath, stirs his sundae half-heartedly, then looks at Mila. "Give you a ride back north?" he offers.

Whether or not she accepts -- he departs from Chinatown soon thereafter.

[Mila Davis] Mila accepted - it'd be rude not to.. plus, she didn't need to be down here any longer. She had things to attend to. Important things. Or not.

[Mila Davis] {Night all!}

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] [thanks for the scene, guys! night!]

Monday, October 18, 2010

renewal of vows.

[Danicka] Last year this time Danicka only vaguely remembers. She was exhausted. The trip to New York City had ended with the two of them walking a razor wire between finally having each other and losing each other entirely. Mere days later they were dragged underground and there was silver around Lukas's throat, there was that tall, hooded thing with the rings of knifelike teeth in its mouth, there was Danicka telling him she wasn't ready, not now, not anytime soon, but she wanted his children. She'd welcome them.

There really wasn't time in the middle of all that to stop and recognize a day that's been a part of her upbringing, a cornerstone of how her father grounded her in his culture from childhood. Danicka learned Russian because her mother spoke it, because her mother demanded it, but it wasn't the casual, at-home tongue that Czech was. She knows she's a quarter Polish and she appreciates the food and the vodka and makes raunchy jokes about her own heritage along with the rest of them, but her life at home was Czech. Special candies at Easter, presents on Christmas Eve and visiting with family and friends on Christmas Day, and Všechno nejlepší k svátku!

When she was a child, handmade toys from her father, a card from her brother, a kiss on the head from her mother. When she was older, a little box of candies or chocolates, a kiss on the cheek from her brother. Other Czech kids from her father's work with immigrants or a few at school calling it out to her as she passed. A young Fianna boy who liked her sent her flowers once on her name day, but that was before he took her virginity, and long before she miscarried his child.

There are nights when Lukas spars with Sinclair, or confers with Katherine, or fights Wyrmlings near the Brotherhood, or so on and so forth, when once upon a time he would have gone to his little room and his narrow bed to sleep. He would take a room at the Loft and crash there. But nowadays it's easy to feel the weight of Danicka's key hanging from its ring and think

she doesn't live so far. His pack is bonded close and tight and they live in his thoughts even if he's not sleeping in the next room. Look at Kate and Sinclair, teasing each other like sisters. The Brotherhood is safe tonight, those who live there are protecting it. And so he goes looking for her, tracking down his mate to her high-up den in the sky or all the way out to their warm place in Stickney, and on Sunday night he finds her in her bed at Kingsbury Plaza, smiling at him when he comes in and setting her book aside and wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down over her and breathing him in, smiling against his cheek, whispering

m&+367;j lodní d&+367;stojník,

like it's a hello.


Lukas wakes there on Monday morning, on 'his' side of 'her' bed. Kandovany is not allowed to sleep in here. The under-sink cabinets in the second bathroom have been repurposed, actually, one door taken off and replaced with a fabric curtain. The cat's litter box is there, out of sight. Her soft pillow is between the side of the couch and the windows, where she can curl up and sleep or sit and stare at the world below. She is not permitted in the study at all. When Danicka goes to sleep, she's kicked out of the bedroom. So when Lukas wakes, he's alone with his mate, alone with the rainbow cast on the carpet from the prism in her window, alone with the zen-like quiet of this room, now lacking the bookshelves and desk it once held. It is minimalist and light-colored and peaceful.

And Danicka is in one of those little t-shirts she has -- this one is black, the design on the front proclaiming that Green is the new Purple, and he gets that joke now, having seen Outland -- and her panties, which have little cherries all over them and are trimmed in red lace. It isn't exactly an ensemble she wore thinking he was coming over. But then, now that he's here so much more often, there's some quiet pleasure in that. That he's welcomed here, wanted here, and he is seeing her and her apartment as they are, not as the rest of the world would be introduced to them. She's nuzzled up against his side, one leg draped over one of his, her foot nestled between his calves, her face against his bare chest.

Something about his stirring wakes her, too, but she keeps her eyes closed at first. She breathes in deeply, stretching her entire body out taut next to him, a low growl of satisfaction stifled in her throat. When she relents, her eyes open blearily and she smiles up at him.

"Všechno nejlepší k svátku," she murmurs sleepily, then gives a halfhearted, thin, pitiful-sounding cough into her fist. "I don't think I can go to class today. I'm sick."

Her slender arms wrap back around him, pulling herself closer to his body once more. "I'll have to stay here with you."

[Lukas] Sick, she says, and accentuates it with a pitiful little cough.

If Lukas were in another form, she'd see his ears prick up and his nose twitch. Even like this, she can see the sudden alertness in his eyes: mate not well? mate sick? i fix? before it occurs to him that -- no. She's not really sick. It's pretend.

He relaxes then, eyelids drooping half-shut. It's still early, and he's just so lazy. She pulls herself closer to his body, as though they were adrift in some ocean and he were some sort of flotation device, some gnarl of driftwood, some raft, something.

"Mmm," he says. It's too early for words. He nuzzles her instead, rubbing his nose and cheek and jaw roughly against her forehead, her temple, her cheekbone. "Mmmph."

He opens his arms, then: stretches around her, hard, his body tensing under her arms. Not a quiet subtle little stretch, either. Lukas flexes his arms outward, then up -- bangs his knuckles on the headboard -- stretches his legs, wiggles his toes. Strains and grunts and growls and sighs, and when he's all done,

relaxes, boneless with pleasure, drawing and releasing a deep breath before wrapping his arms around his mate and tumbling with her under the covers, over-under, until somehow they've switched places and she's in the larger, warmer hollow left by his body and he's in hers.

Facing her now. Eyes open, smiling. He cups her cheek. Rather aware of morning-breath, he kisses her forehead. "Hi," he says. "I can't believe you remember these things."

[Danicka] Sometimes Danicka wonders if Lukas had these reactions, these kneejerk worries for her well-being, when they were first together and he was so cold, working so hard to pretend that he didn't care. She remembers noticing the way his head snapped towards Sam when the Modi backhanded her in the Brotherhood, even if the last thing on her mind at that moment was looking deeper into his motivations and emotions. But nowadays she wonders if he always felt these things and just repressed them as hard and tight as he controls his rage.

In any case, she would have to barely know him, not know him at all, to miss the way he perks at that little, fake cough. She would have to be blind not to notice that even if his thinking mind knows it's just pretend, instinct rides to the fore. Or at least, it feels like she would have to be blind. Maybe, Danicka thinks, she just doesn't miss it because Lukas doesn't hide it. Doesn't have to.

He's an animal. And she knows it.

Her hand scritches softly against his chest, fingers curling and uncurling, stroking aimlessly on his skin, through the soft hairs scattered across his body. She breathes him in as he settles once more, closing her eyes and moving easily with the nudging as he nuzzles her. She holds onto him even as he stretches out hard and athletic, just like she did, tips of his fingers to tips of his toes, arching his spine, arching his feet. She smiles against his skin, laughs into it, and holds him tighter when he relaxes.

A little yelp leaves her when he starts tumbling them around, tangling them in the sheets and comforter. Lukas can feel her legs move towards him as though to wrap around his body and hold on, has her slim arms around his neck for a moment, and then she's under him, then beside him, gold hair spread over her pillowcase. His pillowcase. There's a faint depression in the bed from his greater weight, and it's warm from his sleep. She's smiling at him, and her eyes are twinkling from it.

She gives a faint huff of laughter as he kisses her forehead, and nuzzles against his cheek. It's the human parts of them that are aware of things like morning breath. It's the animal sides that know how to kiss without kissing, how to speak without talking. Like this.

"It's easy," she insists lazily, wriggling down under the covers a bit more. "Every Lukáš has the same name day, but not every Lukáš has the same birthday." Her toes work their way over to him, tucking under his calf. She wiggles them, as though to tickle him. "Also, if you have your calendars properly synced and alerts set up then there's this pretty chime the day before telling me not to forget. That also helps."

Danicka leans over, kissing his cheek. "I would remember anyway. I thought today we could go to a pumpkin patch." She grins. "When we're done being lazy." And she leans over to him, opening her mouth and setting her teeth in his bicep, gnawing gently.

[Lukas] They've never really discussed that single, tumultuous night. The kolaches. The misunderstanding that Mrena understood as some sort of dreadful conspiracy. The closed-door discussion with Sam, which was privately torturous for Lukas, though he hid it so well. The utterly inappropriate, unnecessary joke the Modi cracked upon emerging that finally snapped Lukas's tolerance, sent him for a late-night snack.

What Danicka wanted to talk about. What truths finally emerged. Sam's knuckles flying across her cheek, then, and that singular flash of Lukas's eyes to his brother.

They don't talk about it; there's no point. What's done is done, and there's little reason to dissect it. For her to tell him, I came to see you, you blind fool. I made those kolaches for you, and I came to see you. For him to tell her, I defended you when Mrena was sure you were there to bring us down. I had to bite back the urge to smash Sam through the nearest wall when he hurt you like that.

They're Shadow Lords. Words don't matter. Actions do.


It's hard for Lukas to even think of those early days now, sometimes. How hard he was; how cold; how brutally he and all his pack snubbed her when all she wanted, all she ever wanted

was him.


That's not what he's thinking about, though. He's thinking about pumpkin patches, reminder chimes on his iPhone -- yes, that's a good idea, he'll do that for her nameday and her birthday -- and he's thinking about how he loves the way she touches him, gnaws on him, moves with him like what happened two, three months ago on the street never happened at all, and nothing ever changed, when he knows it did happen. He knows things did change.

There's a faint shadow on his brow when she looks at him again. It doesn't affect his smile, but it puts a touch of sadness in his eyes. He puts his hand on her face and he kisses her after all, gently.

"Thank you," he says softly.

[Danicka] Don't tell me not to be grateful, she'd told him, when he ached because she shouldn't have to be thankful for what they have, she shouldn't have a life so peppered with the awareness of and inevitability of loss that just being happy for awhile was something she knew she had to treasure.

Right now, lying with him in bed and watching that shadow of sorrow and memory flicker through his crystalline eyes, Danicka closes her lips gently against the urge to tell him no, don't say thank you, don't be grateful to me for this.

'This' being what they have. 'This' being name days, birthdays, mornings in bed, a silly trip to a pumpkin patch where Lukas and she will most certainly not be going on any sort of hayride because the mules or horses or whatnot would freak. 'This' being her love, and her comfort with him, even if they both know that sometimes -- not always, but sometimes -- it's going to be hard.

'This', which is wounded (but not damaged), changed (but not broken).

But what Danicka realizes she really wants to wash away from his expression isn't the gratitude, isn't the smile. It's the sadness in his eyes, the way that thank you is tinged with grief. She closes her eyes when he kisses her, her lips warm on his just for a moment, and when they part she opens them again. She's smiling gently, her brows drawn slightly together. Danicka puts her hand on his cheek as he pulls back from her face.

"You're welcome," she says quietly, and the shadow dissipates slowly from her brow, her thumb stroking across his cheek. She lifts her head, kissing him lightly one more time, and lays back down. "If you knead the dough I'll make kolá&+269;e for breakfast," she says with a smile.

[Lukas] The corner of his mouth tilts up when she promises him kolá&+269;e. Well; promises they'll make it together, which in truth is better in his mind than her making it, him eating it. "Okay," he says quietly, happily; so easily pleased sometimes. He doesn't move, though. He stays where he is, arms wrapped around her -- wrapping tighter, if anything. A moment later he adds, whispering, "Ten more minutes, okay?"

And he closes his eyes. And he lays his brow to hers, and rests.


Ten minutes don't quite go by. Two or three do; five or six, even. Then his eyes open a little, pale blue barely glimpsed behind a weaving of black eyelashes. He nuzzles her face gently, as though asking without words for a little more attention.

"I'm sorry," he says, "that when you brought me kolá&+269;e that night -- the second time -- I snapped at you for laughing." A small pause. Then, "I love it when you laugh. I love seeing you happy."

[Danicka] Never, not once, has he wanted her to serve him. Not to wash his feet, not to make his meals, not even at the beginning did he want to use her like a little fuckdoll, his because of her breeding, because he was a Shadow Lord and she was even remotely willing. Lukas has never lacked in gratitude when Danicka has made him dinner or given him gifts, done something especially for him --

except a long, long time ago, when he didn't even realize it was for him

-- but he has never expected her to be the sort of kinswoman she was raised to be. Able to get bloodstains out of clothing, mend a tear, buy new clothes and keep a home and cook and survive and submit. Bear his children. Bear him.

Danicka laughs softly, kissing him again (again, again, again). She nods. "Okay," because she's 'sick', after all, she's playing hooky with her boyfriend and so ten more minutes, well. What's ten more minutes? She nuzzles his cheek, tucking her head down, curling up with him to drowse for a little longer.

They don't really sleep, though. They laze, they tangle. Her feet rub gently against his, her body warm and pliant next to him. She drapes her arm over his waist at one point, stroking his back. He nuzzles her with gentle, quiet insistence, and her eyes open slowly to him, her lips curling in one corner into a fond smile.

And he says he's sorry. She doesn't cut him off, kiss him to make him stop, tell him baby, stop being so sad. She stays right where she is, stroking his broad bare back with her fingernails, looking into his eyes from perhaps only a few inches away. "Baby..." she starts, and shakes her head slightly. "I just thought you looked so cute, peeking under the lid like that. You thought I was laughing at you. Mocking you." She readjusts her head on the pillow. "You didn't know me."

There's a beat. "You were also a lot more immature." Which doesn't sound like a judgement, so much as an acknowledgement: he was almost like a teenager, tangled up in thinking that the girl he liked didn't and wouldn't ever like him back, and howling inside because of it.

Danicka leans forward, rolling over, and pushes against him. She couldn't physically move him if she used every drop of her strength, but she doesn't seem to expect him to resist. She knows, in fact, he'll understand her body language. He'll roll onto his back in a way he never would have when all this first started, in a way he would have resisted just because it might look like submission, and to a Kin, unthinkable. And she'll crawl on top of him, large as he is and slender as she is, and she'll fold her arms on her chest

just like she's doing

and rest her chin against her forearms and look lazily at him, feeling his heartbeat through her palms. "Don't be stuck in the past today," she whispers finally, gently. "Okay?"

[Lukas] She's right, of course. He doesn't resist; doesn't insist on not rolling over for her because she's a kin, because he's Garou, unthinkable.

Lukas goes easily to his back. She's not trying to dominate him, anyway. That's never really been part of their interaction, except perhaps, and occasionally, in the bedroom. In bed. In the way they make love, which is somehow at once playful and intense and athletic and primal.

Not here, though. Not now, as he rolls on his back and she rolls atop; as he stretches again, flexing beneath her, before he folds his hands easily behind his head. They settle. Lukas smiles up at his mate as she rests on his chest. Like a cat, he thinks to himself, and then -- because she tells him not to be stuck in the past today -- does not think overlong of the time he called her that. A cat, no more faithful than a cat in heat.

"Okay," he whispers back. And then his smile quirks a little wider; he lifts his head and rubs noses with her, playfully; kisses her quickly but unshyly.

"You need to tell me something you like," he says. "So I can make it for you or do it for you or something on special days."

[Danicka] Danicka laughs quietly atop him at that nuzzle, the kiss, the fact that he is lazy and playful and open today -- even if some of what comes from that openness in him is sadness.

They never used to be open. So they never used to be all that playful. Danicka used to be so much more fragile than she is now, and so they never used to be all that athletic. Even now that isn't really her style, not most of the time.

That intensity, though. That primitive way they connect. That's always been there, even before they would allow themselves to set their teeth in one another, even before they could admit that they wanted to mate, that they were mating.

She tips her head slightly though, at what he says. "I'm not that hard," she says fondly, reaching up a hand to play gently with his hair. "I like strawberry kolá&+269;e the best," she tells him, "but I'm not really into sweets."

Of course she's not. Look at her. Look at how slender she was when he met her, how slim she still is. Danicka doesn't burn a thousand calories in an eyeblink by shifting shape; Danicka, to keep herself healthy and fit, actually has to eat thoughtfully. Danicka, because she grew up in a household where sweets were for special occasions and not everyday consumption, simply doesn't crave them much. She's thinking through it, though.

What he can do. What he can do for her, how he can make her happy. And that, in a way, is a gift, too.

Her fingertips twirl in a lock of his hair. "I like clothes," she says with a touch of wryness in her smile. He's seen her closet. Closets, plural. "And lingerie and shoes. I like going to the zoo and the aquarium and museums and galleries," but he knows all this, too, he's done these things with her, he's seen how when she's at these places she has a sort of quiet contemplation about her that is reminiscent of all that time he spent not knowing, not being able to tell at all, what she was thinking.

"I like books," Danicka says softly, her smile growing tender, warmer. Because he knows this, too: the way she reacted when he so much as offered to send her the books from his childhood and youth, how she cried and he thought she was upset but she didn't know how to explain how much it meant to her. Because he knows how books were a special thing she had to deprive herself of lest they be taken away again, and how she doesn't have to fear that anymore. Yet how the number of texts on her shelves still doesn't grow too greatly or quickly, as though it still isn't the first thing she thinks of buying for herself.

And there is, perhaps, part of the crux: there is nothing Lukas can give her she could not get for herself. She can make her own kolá&+269;e if she wants it, she can hire a goddamn chef if she likes. His mate lives very, very differently, but she's as wealthy as some of the Silver Fangs in the city. Maybe she doesn't live like they do because that is where her money came from: she knows the opulence her financial status can afford, she sees how it's used, and it reminds her of a breed of folk she generally despises.

"I like you," she whispers, wrapping her arms around him, sliding her hands under him, coming down close to him to lay her head on him with a smile. "I like spending time with you."

Which they have more, now. Never enough, maybe. In any case, probably the only thing she can't buy for herself on her birthday, should she want it.

[Lukas] In truth, he knows most of what she tells him. That she likes strawberry best -- because the first time he made kolace (or tried) she asked for some strawberry ones alongside his candied orange pastries. That she likes books because she told him, and showed him, and wept when he gave her those books that even now live in her study, and her bedroom.

That she likes clothes because she has two closets full of them. That she likes him, because he's here. Because they spend nights together now. Not always, but sometimes. More than before. Often.

And because she slides her hands under him, wraps him in her arms. And lays her head on him. And smiles. And tells him.

Lukas wraps his arms around his mate, too. They lie together a while, the male nuzzling the female gently. Then with a indrawn breath he sits up, shifts her on him until she's straddling his lap, the comforters falling down behind her.

"Okay," he says, sounding decisive. "Let's go knead dough and bake kolá&+269;e."

[Danicka] "Ack," is the first -- and not very ack-sounding -- thing Danicka says as he sits up, inhaling like he does. The comforters fall off her shoulders and she quickly gathers them back up around her body, locking her arms around his neck again. "No," she grumps suddenly, putting her face to his neck, "I changed my mind. We're staying in bed."

Perhaps the most ridiculous aspect of this oppositional behavior is how now she starts trying to push him back down. Again. "Nnngh," she says, pressing to his chest. "Nngh!"

[Lukas] It's a little bit absurd. Danicka is acting like a child; is playing at acting like a child. Anyone else, and Lukas would be annoyed, even disgusted. Anyone else, and Danicka would never show this face.

It's not anyone else. It's them. And when she pushes on him -- solid, brick-wall-like Lukas -- he laughs quietly and lies back down. "Okay, okay," he concedes. "We'll stay in bed."

And he folds his hands behind his head again. And smiles up at her. And leans up to catch her lips for a quick, fond kiss. "Happy Lukáš Day," he says, absurd himself.

[Danicka] No one else would ever see her like this, playful about her changes of whim and changes of mind. Childish in her resistance. Cuddly. She barrels him down to the bed, burrowing against him under the thick comforter, settling down quickly again to his chest. She smiles at him when he kisses her, absurd and absurdly happy, but she wasn't kidding.

Once upon a time Danicka woke before dawn as a matter of course. Nine years of governing Yelizaveta, waking before sunrise to prepare herself and prepare for dealing with the day and the girl. Nine years of waking when she was wanted, needed, called for, expected, roused before she was ready. Nine years had her waking up at five or six in the morning at the latest day after day. It lasted for awhile. She learned to be lazy. She learned to sleep in.

Then she started college, and learned to wake up early again so she could get ready for the day, get ready for class, rush down to the University of Chicago with a travel mug of coffee a miniature travel toothbrush and toothpaste set in her bag for later and making sure she had her ID so she could gt a snack later and the cord for her laptop and so on.

Danicka wakes without an alarm. She has an easily set internal clock, which woke her this morning. It's possible the decision to skip all her classes and spend the day with Lukas was a spontaneous one. In fact, given how drowsy she was when he came in last night, it's likely that there was no planning or consideration aforethought. Wake with the daylight. Look at his face, barely stirring because he felt her breathing change. Decide: I'm not going anywhere.

Not now, either. She settles down on his chest and rests. Closes her eyes, nuzzles his chest, and before he knows it she's asleep again, breathing steadily on his chest.


Somewhere during this morning nap she slides off of him and curls up at his side again, arm and leg over him, sharing his pillow, resting her head on his shoulder or his arm. Danicka sleeps lazily, and rather deeply. She's warm when she sleeps, though nowhere near the furnace-like temperatures Lukas reaches. It's an hour or two before she wakes again, stretches out again, yawns broad and relaxes with satisfaction. Another person, a year or more ago, anyone but him, anywhere but here and now, and she wouldn't do this. She wouldn't have any of this.

She smiles as she climbs back over him, nuzzling him hello, telling him good morning again, kissing his jaw. She laughs softly and shifts her body against his under the covers, murmuring

I like it sometimes when we wake up and you've got morning wood. It makes me wanna fuck.

There's a grin on her face as she says it, rolling her hips slightly against him. It's playful. It's sort of lazy and loose and careless, and that's the kind of love they make. His hand rucking up her shirt and reaching under her panties to open up over her ass, pulling her closer, turning those lazy rolls of her hips into something more deliberate, more rhythmic. Turning those soft laughs into gasps, til his hands are wandering and Danicka's quiet exclamations hit a slightly higher pitch, a more needful sound.

His hands on her breasts through her shirt, their mouths tangling, forgetting to care about morning breath, Lukas muttering to her to

get this off while he's tugging at the cotton, not clear whether he means her cherry-covered panties or her WoW-inspired t-shirt, just... get it off. Get naked.

They tussle in bed for awhile, Danicka squirming out of her clothes and trying to rub up against her boyfriend at the same time, sucking on his earlobe while he reaches between her legs, groaning when he finds her, as though the touch he gives her is granting him as much pleasure as it is her. That's how they fuck before breakfast, rolling around in bed with the sunlight streaming in through the windows and the prism.

His hands spread over her arching back when she takes him inside, her hands pressed to his chest to hold herself up while she sinks down on him. Her breast in his mouth, wet from suckling, nipple hardened from the flicks of his tongue, filling his palm when she starts to ride him slow and heavy and eager.

The yelp she lets out, followed by laughter, followed by a moan, when Lukas flips her over, putting her back on the bed, coming over her again and thrusting harder into her, his arms locked so he can look down at her, at all of her, at his cock moving into her.

The way their mouths brush each other in haphazard attempts at kisses as they start to fuck more vigorously, faster now. The panting, whimpering whisper when he's closer, his chest to hers,

I'm gonna come. Baby, don't stop, I'm gonna come, I'm gonna -- fuck -- fucking come, don't stop --!

And the way that devolves into the last, molten kiss he seals onto her mouth as his orgasm chases hers down, as he fills her in the last clenching, rolling pulses of her pleasure. The way they collapse afterward, his face to her shoulder, sweat on his back, her eyes closing as she tries to put herself back together again. The way he rolls to his side and keeps her close, keeps his arm around her and his leg over hers, their brows touching.

That's the way they make love this morning.


They shower together. She's still using that herbal-smelling stuff; he brought his own shampoo ages ago but they've never opened it up because she still uses the same stuff and it's not too girly. There's a bottle of body wash in her shower now, too, and a poof-loofah-sponge thing -- Lukas brought them, or one day she noticed that his use of her bar soap never seemed quite as automatic as hers, or the fact that the bars she's using now smell faintly of lavender which is kinda girly.

Danicka laughs when he reaches around her and 'helps' 'wash' her chest, insisting that she missed a spot, she's not clean. And neither of them seemed to expect it, and neither of them seemed unsatisfied

but she looks over her shoulder at him with a wry smirk and asks if he's saying she's dirty, and lightning flashes in his eyes well before he answers, well before she starts to bend forward to put her arms against the tiled wall, long before he leans over her and mutters in her ear, a long time before they're fucking again, faster this time, rougher, her cries and his groans a little louder.


So of course Kandovany is not pleased when the foodgiver finally emerges and feeds her. She pretends to be disinterested in the food, which makes Danicka's brow wrinkle, which makes her look upset, and normally she's very stern with the cat, but she coaxes her to come eat, don't be absurd. Kandovany gets a treat from her fingertips. Danicka picks her up, rubs her face against the cat's neck and shoulder, and lets her down again to eat.

They make kolache as though they have nowhere to be, noplace to go. Lukas knows how to knead, not too long because he's so much stronger than Danicka is, knows how to pay attention to the dough now to tell when it's had enough, when it's ready to rise. It takes a long time to make kolache. They make coffee and Danicka eats yogurt and Lukas makes a grilled turkey and swiss sandwich because Danicka's out of ham and cheddar. They make strawberry filling, candied orange filling, bake the kolache.

It's at this point that Danicka is on her computer, the pastries baking and her coffee finished, looking up directions to the pumpkin patch which closes in two hours and it takes forty-five minutes to get there we gotta go.

Lukas makes sure the kolache don't burn. Danicka does her hair and her makeup and dons a pair of rather fabulous boots and is urging him out the door while he's shoving a kolache in his mouth and his feet into his shoes and grabbing two more on the way out and two for Danicka because in his mind one surely won't be enough for her.

She saves the second in the car for later. He eats his birthday treat in the car while she drives. Danicka explains that she really just needs him there so she can get the biggest pumpkin there and will probably need him to carry it, so.


They stay away from the mules and horses. They visit the barn-turned-marketplace and Danicka buys kettle corn to carry around. It isn't just a hayride and patch: there's a cornfield maze where they steal kisses as though they're ten years younger. A contest where you try to guess the weight of various pumpkins. A kid passes by and says this one's not as good as the one a county over where they have a catapult. Lukas's eyes gleam, as though the hosts of ancient-born ancestors in his blood are all growing nostalgic for old battles at once. Danicka laughs.

They get caramel apples. And two big pumpkins. And a smaller one, because Danicka thinks it's cute. There's a bit of hay in her hair. And in his, more visible because of the contrast to his coloring. He carries the big pumpkins, stacked atop each other, and she cradles the little one on the way back to the car.

He drives, this time, supposedly so that she can eat her second kolache. But she ate kettle corn and an apple and a few bites of fudge at one of the booths so she doesn't. She carries it back upstairs with her wrapped in a napkin and does eventually eat it, while Lukas goes at the pumpkins with a heavy knife. No special tools for all this: carving knives, a metal ladle, a bowl for the seeds and the goop. The way she might have when she was younger. The candles are little scented ones from her bathroom linen closet.

The carvings aren't perfect. Or particularly artistic. A scary pumpkin. An angry pumpkin. A very small pumpkin with an upside-down smiley face. For awhile after all is said and done Danicka goes out to the balcony with Lukas and sits on his lap, curled up to look at the product of all their work. It's getting dark, proof of autumn's entrance into the world: it is still relatively early.

Danicka doesn't repeat when she told him earlier, doesn't wish him a happy name day again. Truth be told the kolache were really the only treat, her staying home from school. Normally it warrants no particularly large celebration: just a small notice, an acknowledgement, an expression of affection and friendship and so forth. Today wasn't, in the end, about Lukas's name day.

They have never gone for the most obvious rituals. Danicka has that in her life, celebrates solstices and equinoxes with pagans, has her own way of praying. It's personal. It's private, in a way, separate even from her relationship with Lukas. Perhaps that's because he can go fullbodied into the spirit world, step through the gauntlet and be one with that side of life in a way she never can be, and he can never really share that with her. She doesn't want him to try, and pretend that they aren't truly different. Nor does she try to share with him the paltry attempts at reaching past the boundaries between flesh and spirit that humans have, that she has. She has ritual in her life: it just doesn't apply to her relationship with Lukas.

No engagement rings. No wedding bells. No bridal showers, no honeymoon. Nothing like any of that for them. Their sacred moments are more subtle, the way she once told him that making kolache could be prayer, that making love could be worship.

The way that lazing in bed and cooking breakfast in the same kitchen and going to a pumpkin patch and curling up on the porch at nightfall and saying not a word, not a single word

can be a sort of renewal of unspoken vows that may take a lifetime to keep.
 
Copyright Lukáš Wyrmbreaker 2010.
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