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.